Last night I wended my way over the curvy hill road – checking for the sheep that graze and amble across the road from one field to another. I decided to go visit Rosella and her great kids – they live in a medieval grotto next to a waterfall and antique water fountain. The road scares the pajeeeezuz out of me – holes, animals and curves on cliffs. But visiting the Iacovella house is worth the risks. I’m thinking a quick game of scopa and a cup of caffè. That was not in the cards – it was time for city lights.
Who needs Times Square!
I jumped into the car with Rosella and the kids for a “solo cinque minute” visit to Casalduni. Rosella’s husband, Pasquale, is running for Sindaco (mayor) and silly me thought we were bopping into the village to pick up campaign stuff. My first clue was all of the cars parked along the road into Casalduni. My second clue was the kids opening the windows and sticking their heads out to see something. Whoa! That something was this brilliantly lit street leading to the small villages central square. Tonight was the first night of the festa for Santa Rita!
Of course, when I got back I had to google Saint Rita to find out who she was and what her deal was. She is the patron saint of Casalduni and the patron saint of impossible causes.
She was married to a brute. He died, her kids died and she devoted herself to God. Also for years after putting on a crown of thorns, she suffered with a terrible gash in her head. Even carrying all that pain she committed herself to doing good works.
Every Italian village has a patron saint and it looks like that saint’s day – for Rita it’s May 22 – is a good excuse to bring some music, art and history to the village. Last night the entertainment was Gruppo Folklorico Sannio Antico – (https://www.facebook.com/pages/GRUPPO-FOLKLORICO-SANNIO-ANTICO/220253154670895) . These all volunteer dancers told the story of Casalduni through music and movement. Supplying the music was Il Gruppo Fontanavecchia. In the hills, old fountains – a source of water and life – seem to be a recurring theme. One movement piece showed women washing their clothes, gossiping and filling jugs at the fountain – while the men flirted. Ah a typical Italian scene.
This is the village’s ancient fountain and water source. The water comes from the mountain.
Casalduni is an interesting village. It only has about 1500 residents but covers a great swath of land. The village historic center has tons of empty properties. I’m guessing families immigrated and just deserted their medieval row houses. The place is charming and would make an easily accessible artists colony or pied a terrè in Italy. It saddens me to see these historic villages just slowly empty.
Last night, the enthusiasm and energy of the “cittadini”made it a terrific night on the town. My theory is that people need the arts to survive and if the arts are not close by they will create their own artistic feast. I grew up in New Jersey, NY’s step-sister. Our town, Hillsborough Township, was and still is an artistic waste land. There is the occasional art show and band in the park but mostly if you want action you can visit one of the hundreds of jock filled fields – soccer, baseball, and well I don’t know what the other jock fields are for but they are there. Since Hillsborough is so close to New York, Philadelphia and Princeton, we leave town for our art fix. Here in the hills of Italy, people don’t have a lot of cash, there is limited public transportation and everyone has the soul of a Da Vinci. They make art! Dance companies are formed. Theatrical “spectacollos” are staged. Live music is found in piazzas and every child doodles on a sketch pad. Folks here create the art they crave and a saint’s day is a great opportunity to share it. Since Saint Rita’s day is May 22, we will go back tonight to see what artistic feast we can munch on.
Dancers waiting to take the stage, join the audience.
Gruppo Folklorico Sannio Antico wishes –
Con le nostre danze e canti, auguriamo a tutti una serata piacevole e che sia portatrice di pace e serenita.” Noi devoti di Santa Rita chiediamo la sua protezione.
With our dances and songs, we wish that every person enjoys the evening. Also, may this event bring serenity and peace and may Santa Rita protect everyone with many blessings.
Me, I’m just happy to see the city lights.
The night may be over but the lights and St. Rita will follow us home.
Fava beans are sprouting in everyone’s gardens! Yea, these protein filled little fellows make a yummy dinner. Last year, when the fava beans kept gracing my doorway, it was the first time that I had ever seen a fresh one. Well, maybe I did when nonna was alive and had the garden the size of a campo di calcio (soccer field) – but I don’t remember.
Pods are really green giants!
Seriously, this is a question that merits exploration. How many bags of fava beans are there in Pontelandolfo? When people pop in after pranza for caffè they usually bring something to share – like what ever is growing in the garden or was baked that morning. Now me, I like the “what was baked” this morning – no fuss, no muss, just yummy delight. My neighbor, Zia Vittoria, has an incredible garden. It is chock full of every vegetable you could possibly imagine – including fava beans.
Bursting with protein the pods just wait to be picked, gifted and gifted again.
Yet, as other women pop in to visit Zia Vittoria, so do giant bags of fava beans. H’mm when women visited these women they too brought fava beans. One day it hit me. What if there was really only a finite number of bags of fava beans and in any given span of two days the same 15 bags got re-gifted from house to house.
The bags stop here! Well, when a bag appears on my door step I don’t re-gift it. I say “guess whose coming to dinner.” Last year Mr. Fava came often. The top picture is of my first bag of this season. I pulled out the colander, a knife and a bag for the compost pile. The sky was blue and I cheerily began popping beans out of the pod.
Eat local and touch your food first.
So there I am shelling beans and wondering how I was going to cook them when my nipote (Italian for any kid in your family that you are related to and older than) popped by, reached into the bag, ripped open the pod and tossed the beans in his mouth. RAW! Who knew! I was forced to try it – I mean I’ll taste just about anything. The bean was sweetly good and obviously picked this morning. I discovered that the day they are picked they are deleeeeesh as a salad – tossed with tuna or just a few slices of onion or whatever you can imagine. That is also an abundantly easy lunch or dinner.
If you can find the “zipper” these are pretty easy to open. Or stick the tip of the knife in the top and give it a slice. Then pop the beans into a bucket – just like a carnival.
I kept at the de-podding for a while. My brain taking journeys back to the early seventies when with my long hair braided, I shelled beans, baked bread, grew sprouts and didn’t inhale. It seems to me that it used to be fun. This ain’t fun but it is worthwhile.
How many more are there? And why do so many giant beans yield one little bean dish?
One of the things I remembered while I was mindlessly popping beans, was an article in the New York Times that I read last year. A snotty assed food writer had gone to Rome. ordered fava beans in a restaurant and was appalled that they weren’t peeled! I had no idea what the hell Miss little anal retentive was talking about. In all the homes I’ve visited for pranza, all the fava bean stew, soup, frittata I’ve eaten, no one peeled off the outer shell. I was taught to par- boil the beans before creating the dish. Apparently, after this par-boiling part you can take off the outer shell. Hell lady, I just spent an hour popping pods and now you want me to spend two hours popping par-boiled beans?
It looks like a nursery of wee ones nestled on a flannel bed.
I caved and decided to try it. After boiling the beans and dumping them in the ever faithful colander, I burnt my fingers trying to pop them out of their little shells. What? Wait till they cool? What a thought! Ten minutes is the maximum of waiting time I give anything. I popped a few and tasted them. Damn, it did make a taste difference. They tasted sweeter and less meaty than they do with the shells on. I looked at the bowl of about a pazillion beans and I looked at Jack. He gave me the “are you crazy” look – no one here takes the shells off. When in Rome……
Without skinning the par-boiled beans, I made a simple recipe. First I sautéd a couple of large onions in local olive oil, toss in cubes of pancetta and let that all get caramelized and crispy. I always buy un etto of cubed pancetta – 100 grams – so that is probably what I used. H’mm, from all the veggie tops and pieces I had languishing around, I made vegetable broth yesterday. I tossed some broth in the pan, added the beans, a dollop of red wine – this is Italy – and let it simmer. That and crusty bread made a perfect “cena.”
Hemingway had Soppy Joe’s Bar in Key West. F. Scott Fitzgerald had the Ritz Bar in Paris. Dylan Thomas had the White Horse Inn in Manhattan’s West Village, I have Bar Elimar in Pontelandolfo, Italy.
Some folks work at Staryucks. I prefer the joint that makes the 90 cent real cappuccino.
Hey, reality check – I know I am not in the same league as those major writing players but I am willing to learn from them. The first lesson – find a home away from home that will jump start your creative juices. Or in my case, provide me with a tribe. Some folks can work alone – I need the constant buzz of other folks around me. They don’t even have to talk to me – just be there.
Sure I could sit at my desk, stare out the window at incredible mountains and maybe even pretend to write while I wallow in self pity and loneliness. Or I could walk down the mountain to Bar Elimar – today I drove- have an incredible cappuccino, whip out my Macbook Air or iPad mini, stare at cool stuff and write about the people places and things I see. A win win.
The first thing I see is the cool art Marilina has drawn on my cappuccino foam. Yes, that is blood orange juice.
Some days, when my 6th decade body is dragging, I swear I steal an infusion of energy from the bar’s owners, Marilina Mazzamauro and Elio Di Muraglia. This duo works from dawn until 4:30 the next morning. Granted they do take shifts and it is a wee bit slower life in the winter but come warm nights the place is jumping. ( Did you figure out that Bar Elimar is the cute combining of the couple’s names?)
Most mornings, Marilina makes me that double, taking care to paint a flower, treble clef or fluid design in chocolate on the top of the steaming milky foam. That art as part of my daily life is all I need to get inspired to slap my fingers on the keys.
The treble clef is my favorite. Music in the morning!Marilina Mazzamauro, the artiste of cappuccino. Notice her writer’s T-shirt! I just did!
Bar Elimar is about four years old and a fixture of piazza life. Located on Piazza Roma in Pontelandolfo (BN) it is often filled with pensioners shouting and slapping down cards in frenetic games. Hey – didn’t I write about them? Yikes, I do steal stories from the bar.
Outside on warm days, the comfortable whicker couches, umbrellas and tables attract all from tweens to adults.
What I like about the place, besides the morning coffee art, is that everyone feels welcome and the place is spotless. I always feel secure enough to leave my MacBook Air on the table inside and go to the bathroom – ain’t no one going to steal my stuff with Marilina behind the counter. Some days, my new friend Rocco – he’s about 8 years old – will plop next to me and pummel me with questions. He also likes playing with my iPad – h’mm maybe that’s the attraction. It is that feeling of inclusion – being part of the community that really resonates with me.
An afternoon visit by my nephew Nick Losardo – the $.80 prosecco was mine.
Bar Elimar has music often during the summer. Marilina, how can you work until 4 a m and open at 7:30? Children and adults – including this crazy American – sit around, order a drink or thee under the moon and sway to the music. My question is after they pay the bands, rent the tables, rent the stage and hire the waitstaff do they make any money. Some times I think that the good life of the village,is more important to the village merchants than the bottom line. Could that be true?
Since I started back to my writers room, all the projects that I played with while in New Jersey have been percolating in my brain and my keyboard. The work may not make me a star but writing for a few hours at Bar Elimar sure makes me feel like one.
Men to the right of me. Men to the left of me. Men in sports jackets. Men in open collar shirts. Men in jeans and work shoes. Men!
In my decadent youth being the only woman in a bar full of men would have been an incredible challenge. Who would I key in on and get to buy me a Dewar’s on the rocks? Who would be smart enough to captivate me with conversation? Who would….
Yoo, hoo – I’m looking at you! Damn, in the day the old magic eyes could reel them in.
Ah, youth – wasted on the young. One Sunday, I was the only woman in the Bar Elimar. I’m guessing other women were at the mass I had gotten up too late to head to. The bar was packed with men – inside and out. There was one lone table – in the sun – left so I plopped myself down and ordered the breakfast of champions.
What a way to start a Sunday!
As I sipped my cappucino, my mind flashed back to the 70’s – whoa – hold on lady you are now very close to 70. Take a breath. I whipped out my iPad, did that pretend reading thing while I scoped out the scene. H’mmm what would I have to do to get one of these guys to come over to my table? H’mmm would the killer stare work or would it be the smile & nod routine?
Then it hit me. Even if my foxy friend Mary were here to act as wing man – we tag-teamed in bars in our rakish youth – no one would look at me. I could be a size 2 and naked and no one would look at me. They are all staring at their cards! Card games and other games of chance are an intense fact of life in my little village. Cards are a passion.
Yoo hoo – My boob just popped out of my shirt!!!
Men sit for hours in the bars playing cards – Scopa, Briscola and other games that I didn’t recognize but there was lots of tossing of cards and shouting. Last summer, Alessio, one of my favorite young men and his cute older brother Gabriele, decided to teach me to play Scopa. After all they and their buddies, mimicking the older guys, sit sipping soda and playing Scopa in the piazza. Surely, this old American cousin could learn.
According to the Dante Alighieri Society of Washington –
Scopa is the most popular card game in Italy . It requires the ability to count and add up to the number 40.
Boom, that took me right of the running. I can’t add up to 40 in English and now I have to do it in Italian?
Gabriele holds Alessio back from leaping across the table at me because I forgot how much il re was worth.
After numerous lessons and lots of laughing – all pointed at me – Alessio and Gabrielle finally taught me enough to actually play with me. But our games paled compared to the men in the bars. There wasn’t any tossing of hands in the air, slapping the cards with the force of death, loud groans and arguments. No one got up and left abruptly at our table. (Unless it was to get a snack.)
Art is everywhere – even in a Napoletane deck of cards.
During the focused card games in the bars, I never saw money change hands – gambling is illegal I think – but in my heart of hearts I knew that passionate play had to lead to some prize. Maybe it’s simply beer or if you’re lucky…..
Have you ever been surrounded by people and yet still felt so lonely that your heart chakra ached? That is how I felt this morning. I am in sunny Ecuador, met a super italo-ecuadoriana, am staying with great friends but feel a gaping hole in my heart. At first I thought I was home sick – I never get home sick. Than I thought it was because my zia in Flagtown had a stroke yesterday and I am a continent away. Shazaam – it hit me -I was feeling lonely because I didn’t have a sense of community here. No “tribe” to connect with. All that depressive thinking made me hunger for comfort – comfort food – bread like I can only find at Diglio Panificio in Pontelandolfo! Diglio’s not only kept us in thick crusty bread but also was one of my connections to the community – it was a place I didn’t feel like a stranger or alone.
Some mornings I would walk down the hill just to buy a round of bread and if the Panificio wasn’t busy, I would talk to the owner, Nicola Diglio. My Italian isn’t the best but we would talk about the village, economy, USA, whatever. Nicola never made fun of my attempts to pronounce the pastries or how long it took me to decide which pizza slices to bring home in the morning for our night time snacks. That bakery was one of the anchors of the community for me.
Some Wednesdays after strolling through the market, my cousin Carmella and I would take a shopping break by going to Diglio’s for a cappuccino, a little nosh and a lot of laughter. Carmella is a bright star in my universe and of course she introduced me to this pasticceria.
Cousins/Sisters having a laugh.
According to their brochure, Diglio opened its doors in 1983 with a commitment to use recipes handed down form generation to generation. When you visit Italy, you can find the shop at 2, Via Eglido Gentile, 82027 Pontelandolfo (BN). It truly is a pasticceria artigiana – when you watch the video you’ll agree with me.
While selecting pictures for the video I saw one of the Diglio’s little sandwiches on scrumptious rolls and got a little misty. Zap – flash back to my dad’s first cousin, Giuseppina, insisting we stop at Diglio’s so she could buy the sandwiches before l’avventura. Jack and I take Giussipina and her sister Paulina on road trip adventures. They pick the place to go – it’s always a shrine – there are tons in our area. Since we never saw a shrine and loved listening to the two of them chatter and laugh at us, we would go to shrines – with bags of Diglio yummy mini sandwiches.
Giuseppina, Paulina & Jack 2013 adventure
Then I flashed back to 1995. when I first knocked on Giussipina’s door, pointed at my family tree and said in pidgin Italian “tu sei il cugino di mio padre?”. That timid knock resulted in finding my extended family and celebrating with what – pastries from Diglio.
1995 Giuseppina & Paulina – note the pastries.
Whenever I bought pastries I would marvel at the way they are presented – perched on a golden cardboard tray and gingerly wrapped in pretty paper. The presentation always made any day that you bought a pastry feel like a special day. Some days I just need a special day and a sfogliatella prettily wrapped can be just the medicine it takes to turn the grey sky into blue.
One bite is better than a happy pill.
This past June was the first time I had Il Rusticacio – a small bread puff made with cheese, egg and salame. When I bit into one I swear I felt my grandmother hugging me. People have been eating – what we call artigianale – dough filled things for generations. The connection I feel in Pontelandolfo to my family is intense and eating food made with ancient recipes makes the connection even tighter. Is that my grandmother pinching my cheeks?
One day I went into the shop and Nicola’s son, Antonio, who is a super creative part of the artistic bakery team was behind the counter. The door opened and his daughter came in from school – she looked at me, I looked at her and recognition twinkled in both our eyes. She said “Good Morning – How are You?” The secret phrase I told the kids in the public school that I worked with to say to me whenever they saw me. Boom – an even bigger connection to the bakery.
Community – that is what I need in order to feel secure, happy and healthy. When I am in Pontelandolfo – we go back May 1st – walking into Diglio Panificio yields more than just a loaf of bread. Enjoy the video!
Remember those one ring circuses that scurried into small home towns across America? The one elephant, two-horse shows that still bedazzled us with its newness. The traveling small tent show may have died in America but thanks to families like the Frimers it is alive and well in Italy.
My interest and excitement was piqued when the signs appeared on the main intersections of Pontelandolfo. Signs that showed a scantily clad damsel fighting off the sharpened teeth of a great piranha – or was it a catfish?
That must be one huge fish tank.
“In less than a week,” the signs taunted, the incredible Frimer Acquatic Show would be setting up shop in Ex Campo Calcetto. Not wanting to forget the where and when, I snapped a photo of the signs.
Are there different names on each poster?
Friday, from deep within the kitchen of our all stone house I heard a voice so loud I dropped the tomatoes. I raced out side. Speakers topping an old blue van – the new circus parade – were encouraging us all to experience the wonders of the circus tomorrow. OK, I didn’t understand a word of what they said, but I bet they were touting the wonders of the circus. Finally, it was Saturday – the day the circus was setting up its tent. After stopping at my favorite salumeria for the best mortadella in the world, I found the most incredible gift under my windshield wiper. Two discount coupons for that night’s performance! It was fate. Jack and I could see the world’s greatest Frimer Acquatic Show for only 7 euro each!. I could barely contain myself. The performance was at 9:15 PM. It was 4:00 PM. How could I wait five hours????
Only 7 euro – about $9 for live entertainment.
We got into the village at 8:30 – I wanted a good seat and went to the Campo di Calcio – no tents? Cripes, did I read it wrong? Where is the circus? We walked back to a local bar and noticed people heading towards the piazza behind the the village center – the what I thought was a parking lot that holds the recycling bins. We started to follow them – I heard music – circus music! We were getting closer. Like Conestoga wagons of the wild west, blue tractor-trailer sized trucks had encircled the piazza. A line had formed in front of the ticket counter – people were clutching the same coupons I had. The ticket booth was in a truck and about 6 feet off the ground. Folks were standing on tippy toe to hand their coupons and money to the overly made up but pretty young ticket taker girl. She suddenly stopped taking money. No! Were they sold out? No, she was out of change and no one had any. We waited about 5 minutes for a navy blue suited burly roustabout to appear with some change that he pirated from the closest bar. Whew, we were getting closer. I paid and then we looked for the entrance. The tent! I see the tent! Jack pointed out that the tent we used for picnics was only slightly smaller. I scoffed at him – this is the world’s greatest circo acquatico. When we enter the space I am sure the grandeur of the circus will unravel itself before us. The burly blond ticket taker ripped our tickets and we walked down the path to the tent. It was small! I counted about 100 K-Mart style old white plastic chairs set up in 3/4 round – for you non theatre folks that means that the performance space had chairs on three sides of it. The performance space was pretty small but look there is a large yellow curtain behind it.
Could the piranha be behind the curtain?
I bet that lifts up and we see the tanks of water. People slowly filed in. The first night audience was small – about forty of us. Jack and I were probably the oldest, but we have young hearts! There were two men in their fifties or 60’s at the light and sound boards. They looked vaguely familiar – like the dads of the ticket seller and burly blonde ticket taker guy. The music changed, the lights dimmed and the ringmaster appeared. He welcomed us all and a clown – who kind of looked like the ticket taker and light board guy – came out and started an old vaudeville shtick – it doesn’t matter which one. Just know you have seen the Marx Brothers do it – it involves kicks in the butt. All laughed and the music changed to great entrance rumblings.
Rings and things fly in the air.
Suddenly, dressed all in black and juggling madly, a handsome young man appeared. Wait, he looks familiar – it was the ringmaster! He juggled clubs, balls, tennis rackets, rings – the usual and when he dropped them all applauded and laughed. He raced off to the applause of tiny hands.
The clown skirted in with a baby carriage – the baby cried – he picked up the baby. He showed us the baby. The baby squirted water on all of us – including my new white pocket-book. Well it was Il Circo Acquatico. H’mm he kind of looks like the ringmaster/juggler guy too.
Next a chef appeared with a stack of plates – wait he looks familiar. Ahh, the burly blonde guy who took the tickets. Plates, rods, balance – you’ve seen that schtick before too. Nary a plate broke, all were spinning madly and the audience cheered.
Burly ticket taker guy is also the balancing plate guy.
A platform was wheeled out and a sexy lady with the usual boobs on a plate outfit appeared. She bent into a back bend and walked up the platform steps on her hands. Wait – she looks familiar? Ahhh the girl in full make-up who sold the tickets! She was a modified contortionist – think yoga and gymnastics with a little double jointed tossed in for good measure. It hit me. Everyone looks alike! They must be a traveling circus family.
Sexy ticket taker and contortionist gal.
What could top a contortionist! The bored five year old member of this talented circus family that’s what. She came out with silver hula hoops and whirled them on her waist, feet and arms. Since she couldn’t be seen above the ring wall, we all stood to watch this tiny tot perform. I figure she is probably on the payroll for tax purposes and needs to do something entertaining. Or the family insists that all earn their keep.
Soon the juggler/ringmaster was back dressed as a magician assisted by ticket taker/contortionist lady. How did she escape from that sack after being locked in a black box? How did he get from the audience into the sack? Whoa! Cheers went up.
Damn, more water from Il Circo d’Acqua – this time the clown tried to clean the audience and sprayed us all. Ugggg
During intermission most everyone exited to go and lood at the tank of piranha and something else that I couldn’t translate. Maybe the contortionist/ticket taker/ magician assistant girl climbed in the tank? We missed that.
Take filled with creepy fish has its own truck.
We decided to watch the show happening by the popcorn and candy corn vendor – who was obviously the mom, sister or aunt of the performers. Hoping to be discovered by the fathers/uncles who were in charge of sound and lights I entertained the kids around me with my silly faces and freeze game. Well, I thought it was entertaining.
Burly ticket/dish guy is also the hot fire guy.
Suddenly the lights dimmed and the music was foreboding. With muscles bursting, burly ticket taker/ twirling plate guy appeared juggling fire! Soon the fire was in his mouth and racing up his arms. He burned up the audience with pyrotechnic surprises. He actually stroked his arms with lit wands – we could see the charcoal black swaths cut over his biceps. The women went ugggg, the kids went “can’t wait to get home and try that mom”.
Indian Jones music floated through the tent. Roustabouts – the burly fire eating guy and clown guy – dragged out big mysterious black boxes. The frame of a coffin was set center stage. Clown guy returned dressed all in black. He became the animal trainer guy and slowly opened a box. Shouts of fear went up as he took out a four bazillion foot white snake. Screams from all as he walked closer and closer to the audience! The magician/juggler/ringmaster guy pulled out a huge unhappy iguana. They kept pulling out creepy crawly things and bringing them into the audience so all could see these fierce creatures. Adults pulled back. Small children reached up to touch them. I gotta tell ya, snakes for a finale – now that is something I have never seen.
Did I mention the snakes were enormous?
This revealing of a different snakes and having them dance, hiss and crawl went on for about fifteen minutes. Ticket lady/contortionist/magician’s assistant girl came out sexily dressed and stepped into the coffin. She laid frozen still as all of the snakes were plopped on her and slithered all over her. I must admit, I got a little turned on from this – don’t tell my husband. But no – I don’t want to try it.
H’mm slithering serpents! A devilish good time.
The crowed cheered, the lights came up and the incredible cast of four bowed for all. Ooops, I forgot the little girl – cast of five. Their versatility is what makes them incredible. Everyone doubled and tripled so that the show could go on.
This is a theatrical family that is doing what it loves to do in small towns across Italy. Frankly, I am a little jealous. Wafting nostalgic over my children’s theatre touring days, I wondered if I was too old and feeble to buy a van and tour a one woman show…
Nonna's Mulberry Tree 