Cielo Chiaro Special: Zuppa di Pomodoro e’ Fagioli

We had some wonderful tomatoes waiting for us when we moved in to Cielo Chiaro, courtesy of Andrew and Marianne (our landlords/Italian caretakers/pretend English Aunt and Uncle). Nat’s been snacking on them, and sandwiching with them a bit, but we still had a number of plump red toms last night at a point in their existence that begged for them to be eaten. Our original idea was a chili-ish number, to ward off the rainy night, but the end result (we didn’t have any chili powder, see, or cumin) ended up being different, but better than we imagined--a rich, tomato and bean soup with paprika’s jump providing the umph and a little Swiss grated on top to tie it all together. Nat was the real genius behind it, as my main contribution was the idea to serve it over a thick slice of bread from the Dolce Forno bakery in Mercatale (which is up the road from us a couple KMs):

Zuppa di Pomodoro e’ Fagioli

Ingredients:1 Tablespoon butter
1 medium onion, chopped
3 large tomatoes (the big round ones)
2 cups veggie stock
2-1/2 teaspoons paprika
1/2 teaspoon dried garlic (could use fresh, but we had this in the cabinet)
Salt and freshly ground pepper, to taste
1 can cannellini beans, drained
1 can red beans (at least that’s American equivalent), drained
2 to 4 medium thick slices of bread (can serve up to 4)
Grated Swiss cheese

Directions:
1. Add the butter to a stockpot over medium-high heat. When it’s just past bubbling, add the onions. Saute them, stirring regularly, until their golden brown.

2. Add the tomatoes to the pot, stir, and add the stock. Reduce the heat to a medium-low-ish, and let simmer for 15 minutes, stirring occasionally.

3. Add the spices, stir, and let simmer for 15 more minutes, stirring occasionally again (there are lots of occasions here).

4. Add the beans to the pot, stir, and let simmer for five minutes or until the beans are heated through. Add more salt and pepper to taste.

5. Add a slice of bread each to a bowl for however many people you’re serving (it should serve up to four). Ladle a large helping of soup over each slice and into each bowl. Top each with grated Swiss cheese.

Dr. Strange Does Italy: Dr. Strange Ponders Pomedoro

Okay, I alluded to this earlier, but I have a large dollop of the comic book geek residing deep within me.  Not that I swallowed a comic book geek, but that I am one, partially, though I stepped away from the rack for many years. When I was a kid, my pops used to take me to McPherson Kansas’ Dunkin Doughnuts almost every Saturday, where we’d get doughnuts and then he’d give me a quarter, or thirty-five cents (whatever a comic cost at the time), and I’d go pick out an Incredible Hulk, Defenders, Dr. Strange, or others from the comic shop next door while he drank his coffee. This started a comic book buying regularity that lasted all the way up to graduate school in Kalamazoo, MI--where the comic shop stunk (and not just with the smell of unwashed nerds) and where I stopped buying comics. Until I started working with pal Philip at Amazon. Philip (check out his blog about his cute-as-a-button daughter Yuki, too) has his fair share of comics and buys more every week, and he’s awesome besides, and he goes to Seattle Comic Cons, and convinced me to go. I figured if someone as rad as he is bought comics, maybe I should pick up some more, and this has kept me going to “cons” with him and buying old comics that came out when I was a kid, as well as buying collections of old comics, and (here is where the real geekiness shines) reading one or two comic blogs.

Really, there was one comic blog in particular, Neilalien, that helped spur on my comic geek resurgence in addition to Philip. Enigmatically named, Neilalien himself writes with just the right amount of comic-geekiness, general intelligence, jolliness, and punk-rockiness for my taste. He’s also a Dr. Strange expert/fanatic, and since I dug the Dr. when young, his was the ideal blog to get me reading comics again, especially Dr. Strange  (the original run of Stan Lee and Steve Ditko Dr. Strange stories way back when in, in my mind, is one of the pinnacles of comic graphic storytelling: personalized, stylized, and atmospherically charged art with a story that rings heroic to me). My comic buying since becoming re-addicted hasn’t been too out of hand (except that time I bought about 2000 at a charity auction. But hey, it was for charity). It has been voluminous enough that Nat has noticed though--which turned out not to be a bad thing, cause it led her to buy me a set of Defenders (the Defenders being the world’s finest “non-team” consisting of Dr. Strange, the Hulk, the Sub-Marnier, and the Valkyrie, among others here and there) “mini-mates.” These are little action figures and awfully adorable.

Where is this leading? Well, when packing to come to Italy, I slipped the set of little figures into a suitcase, not sure if I was doing it to bring some Seattle color along or to remind myself of my comic collection at home, but along they came. Then, the other day, I was arranging them on the dresser and decided to take some pics with the Dr. Strange figurine. Not sure where the urge came from--probably I thought it’d look cool-y silly, which is something photos need more of--but the first few pics I really dug, and so now I’ve decided to do a series. I both think they look neat, and have noticed that by putting the Dr. in a pic next to a larger object, it makes me consider the other object more closely instead of just passing them by, as well as reminding me that each object has at least a smidge of magic contained within it. This is both with everyday things, like the brick well passed on my morning walk, and with more fleeting objects, like a bowl of pasta. What I don’t plan on doing is getting all essay’d up with each picture. I’ll just put up the picture and a title (under the D.S.D.I. header—that being “Dr. Strange Does Italy”), and then let them stand alone. For the first one, here’s the good Dr. with an Italian staple, the tomato:

Cielo Chiaro Vistas, Part 1

Cielo Chiaro means, in Italian, clear skies, and we’ve had mostly clear skies so far while being here. This has afforded us the chance to take a number of pictures of the house and the surroundings, none of which do it justice. And it’s not just that we’re poor photographers (though I’m no Melissa Punch). The way the house is built, it’s divided, sharing a wall with another separate address. This seems to be a regular occurrence in Italy (we’ve had this happen in past Amici spots we’ve stayed at), not just in towns an cities, which might seem obvious, but also in the country, such as we’re in now. But even though we share a wall, I haven’t yet heard anything via the wall from our neighbors (I think most of the shared-ness is against our bathroom and the “cantina” below it--the “cantina” here being not a mess hall/dining area, but a storage area that’s almost underground, like a below-the-house storage area. An area that would, by the by, make a good set for a horror movie). Because of this sharing, it’s hard to get a feel for our “house,” Cielo Chiaro and show it completely in manner that fits its graceful and understated design. But I’m going to give it a shot anyway, and give some of the views around it (I’ll do it in multiple posts, like a slow unveiling. Because there is no need to rush things).  Let’s start with the driveway, where you can see both our leased Peugeot and the iron gates, which make me feel slightly regal each time I drive through them (I’d probably feel that way even more if I didn’t have a problem opening them each time. I know there’s a trick to unsticking the latch, but it’s one I haven’t gleamed yet):

From the driveway, you can either walk up the stairs and in the front door, or walk around the front corner of the house, which will take you either to the big fenced in dog yard (pics of that in a second post), down the lane to the little house (which is almost ready for visitors) and the extended yard, or around the house to the spooky cantina (one of the ornamentations the house had that I enjoy, both for their solidity and their rustic feel are the wooden-slatted shutters on view in this pic):

Walking inside, you pass through the hall, and then on your right through the common room/dining room (which I’m skipping for now), and then in its left corner go into the “master” bedroom. It’s the master bedroom cause it’s the one we sleep in (and we rule), because it’s the one bedroom with one bigger bed instead of two smaller ones, because the bed has a mosquito netting (and mosquitos go for the masters), and most of all because it has a balcony. It’s not a giant balcony, but big enough for two (or two dogs and a person or two), has a wrought railing, and two tall, elegant, doors with two of the above-mentioned shutters on the outside. Here’s the view looking through the bedroom:

and here’s the view when standing on the balcony in the middle of morning, when there’s still a hint of fog on the hills and the sun is beginning to take control of the day:

Of course, it’d be enjoyable to stand on the balcony from dawn until dusk to watch the Umbrian day unfold like a green blanket, but it seems the dogs are barking, so I’ll walk back inside (if anyone notices that the master bedroom is a little less than masterfully clean, remember, we’re still unpacking. Or just messy):

Cielo Chiaro Special: Penne e’ Noce

Though we plan on visiting many local restaurants (including Nestor’s pizzeria, which I already mentioned), we also want to take advantage of the scrumptious local produce, cheese, olive oil, and other products and make meals at home (not to mention enjoy the Italian shopping experience, and follow some semblance of a budget). I may not blog it up about every single morsel made at home—for example, I had an out-of-sight sandwich for lunch today, with radicchio, mozzarella fresca, these amazingly sharp little gerkins, and mayo (Italian mayonnaise is richer and yellower, if you wondered), but I didn’t feel the need to photograph it. However, I did feel the need to photo up and write out our first substantial meal made here at Cielo Chiaro, which was penne with walnuts. It was a great explosion of textures, with the al dente pasta and the crunch of the walnuts bouncing off each other, accented by rich local olive oil, freshly sautéed onions, and some just-grated wonderful Parmigiano Reggiano. Not only did Nat whip it together with aplomb, she also husked and cracked the walnuts after picking them up around the walnut tree in our yard. Here’s the end result, with the recipe below:

Penne e Noce

Ingredients:
500 grams Penne pasta (or 17-ish ounces)
Butter (approximately a Tablespoon or two)
Olive oil (also approximately a Tablespoon or two--see Note)
1 small onion, chopped
1 to 1-1/2 cups walnuts, roughly chopped
1/2 cup grated Parmigiano Reggiano

Directions:1. Begin cooking the pasta according to package directions.

2. Add the butter and olive oil to a medium-sized sauté pan over medium-high heat. When the butter has melted and bubbled, add the onion. Sauté, stirring regularly, until the onion is a golden color, 5 to 7 minutes (there should be a bit of an excess of oil and butter that the onion is wading in). Remove it from the heat.

3. When the pasta is done, drain it, and then toss with the onion/oil/butter mixture and the walnuts.

4. Spoon pasta into bowls and top with the cheese and with pepper (black or red as you enjoy) and salt if needed.

A Note: As mentioned, you want a little excess oil and butter as they, once infused by the onion, create a lovely coating for the pasta and mingle nicely with the walnuts.

Nestor’s Pizzeria Fridays: 4 Formaggio & Radicchio

One of the reasons we originally fell in love with this particular area (there are many, many others, scenic and gastronomic and artistic and more) was due to a pizzeria we visited the last night of our original vacation here with Seattle pals Jeremy and Megan. It was and is called Pizzeria Nestor’s, or Nestor’s Pizzeria, and we sat outside (it was summer) and had what I believe is some of the finest, if not the finest, pizzas in the world. But the delicious pizzas weren’t the sole reason for loving Nestor’s so much: the family that owns it is also incredibly nice, friendly, and welcoming (even to Americans who stumble around the Italian language like they were afraid of it). Because of this combination, we’ve stopped into Nestor’s at least once, and sometimes twice, each time we’ve returned to the area. When moving here, having relatively close access to Nestor’s (if not living on its roof) was a main desirable—we wanted to be able to go at least once a week. We ended up 20 minutes away (or less, depending on who is driving and how badly they need to use the loo), which means we may not go every week, but plan on stopping in fairly regularly. And on Fridays, because that seems the right day, as Nestor’s is both pizzeria and birreria: a pizza and beer joint, which is a rarity here. I probably won’t post on the Fridays we visit, but will entitle all the Nestor’s posts the same, so you can follow our pizza adventures easily.

Our first stop there happened our first Friday here (the day after we arrived, or last Friday). I had, after much deliberation, a pizza I’d never tried before, the 4 Formaggio & Radicchio. And as I’d expected, it was delish, with cheese oozing all over the place--but not making the crust soggy--and lovingly bitter sparks of radicchio announcing themselves every other bite (and excuse the slightly blurry pic--I was shaking from excitement):

Nat had the Venezina, which was another new one for us, and also a masterpiece of choice ingredients (in her case, onion and parsley), crisp crust, and cheese. Knowing how to balance out the ingredients, so they each get to shine instead of amalgamating into one tasteless mess, is one reason real Italian pizza is so good:

Oh, I almost forgot (and I certainly don’t want to forget—there’s no need for getting any appetizers mad at me), we started with Bruschetta Verde, which again had that balance of taste and texture mentioned above: here it was salty pecorino, tart roket, toasted bread, and olive oil:

Salute Nestor’s!

The Mamelukes May Love

Warning: there will be poems on this blog. I picked up a sweet little volume called The Penguin Book of Italian Verse (from 1958) at the Friends of the Seattle Library Booksale (which happens two times a year, two of the most wonderful times of the year). I didn’t even really open it, just grabbed it. It was so pretty, and such a handy size (fits right in a pocket), that I knew it would be a fantastic companion for moving to Italy. Only when I came home did I realize that all the poems were only presented in Italian. There are prose descriptions of each, but the poems themselves—only Italian. So, I plan on trying to translate some and post them here. Even though my Italian is limited, my dictionary is robust. The following isn’t from that book (as I haven’t yet had time to do any translating), but is another Italian translation I already did, for the book I edited that recently came out, called In Their Cups: Poems About Drinking Places, Drinks, and Drinkers. I thought this poem would be a good one to set the tone. It fits into that somewhat argumentative/declarative mode that was popular way back when, which a lot of older drinking poems follow up on, coming out swinging for their drink of choice (this before poets started becoming introspective boors. I kid, I kid. There’s not one boorish poet, alive or dead, in In Their Cups)

The Mamelukes may love

The Mamelukes may love
their Nile waters, the Spanish
may swear by the raging
Tagus river, but I will not
be sucked in to sipping this weak wetness.
And if ever one of my friends
dips a single finger into these deeps,
I’ll strangle them with my own hands.
Let the quacks and quaking go pluck
lean lettuces, herbs, and chicory
to mix with water and rid
them of evil thoughts.
My friends and I skip
the spigots of plain water, even
banish watered Limoncello
from our parties. Sweet ladies,
for a moment, do not drink,
but run your  fingers like garlands
through my hair. I won’t crave your
sugary egg punch, or golden
sorbets, a thousand fragranced waters,
because these indolent drinks are only
for your sweet lips. Wine, wine
is for those desire euphoria,
to forget their fears. But be not shy about it--
I tip my glasses crazily, happily,
at least six times a year.

----Francesco Redi (translation by me)

The Journey Is Half the Fun*

So, we’ve made it to Italy, and Cielo Chiaro. We actually made it a couple days ago, but have been settling in, as well as tracking down the cafes (or bars--in Italy, much the same, if not completely the same) that have Wi Fi and don’t mind us taking advantage of it. But, naturally, to make it to Italy we had to travel here by van, airplane, and car, as for some reason traveling by instantaneous matter transformation or some such hasn’t been invented yet. Scientists, get to work already.

First, we woke up at 6:30 am. Then, after packing things up (luggage, dog crates), we took the somewhat short van drive to the SeaTac, facilitated by my helpful sister Holly, who rented the van for us, then drove with us and took the van back after dropping the dogs and then us off (we hope she took it back. Though, for all we know, she may have taken the van to Mexico to look for really good Margaritas. Our cell phone access hasn’t been fantastic yet). Here’s Sookie in the van, with no idea what’s in store for her:

Our number one stop was we to drop the dogs off at Lufthansa cargo, and meet our handler Lee. He was a bit country, but had his papers in order, which was good. We were too stressed by this time to take his picture, sadly. While we waited, the dogs got to walk around the lovely Lufthansa parking lot about five times (which had as many cigarette butts as a Judas Priest concert. I suppose cargo handlers smoke a lot to pass the time between manic pet owners showing up). After the walking, the paper checking, and hotdog persuading (for the dogs) we got them in the crates, and then had to leave them, which was incredibly sad--Sookie was crying, and Rory was just shaking in his crate looking as melancholy as only a dog can look, droopy-eyed and droopy-jowled. And they still didn’t know they had to spend about 11 more hours in the crates. Poor puppies. Then we loaded ourselves in at the regular gate, walked around the airport worrying about the dogs, and finally boarded.

We flew Lufthansa, as you’d expect since the dogs flew Lufthansa cargo. In general, European airlines are quite a bit more comfortable than their American counterparts (not to be anti-American or anything), with amenities a-poppin’, and a full line up of movies and TV (I watched Karate Kid, Prince of Persia, Monk, 30 Rock, and Glee), decent to nearly good food (which is a ton more filling than no food I must say), and nice seats. Lufthansa, sadly, isn’t quite as comfy as British Air (my other international airline of choice), and they don’t provide you with little toothbrushes, or eye masks. But, they did give us wine with dinner, and--even better--brandy after dinner. As I was chewing my nails about the dogs the whole flight, the brandy came in handy:

Then we got to Germany. Me, I’m three-quarters German, so don’t take any of my German ranting the wrong way. I love me some Germans, and have been amazed at the efficiency of the Frankfort airport before. This time, not so much. Once we took the like twenty minute bus ride from our plane to the terminal, it seemed no-one could tell us where to find the dogs. We picked up our luggage without a hitch (all 10,000 pounds of it), but when asking where to find the dogs, it became maddening. The Lufthansa cargo people must have a grudge with the Lufthansa airline folks (due to a company soccer match or a beer drinking competition gone wrong), cause the airlines folks didn’t have a number for cargo, or any real idea how to get there, or any desire to help us get there—and I looked crazy enough you’d have thought they would want to get rid of me quickly. Finally, we received a vague “go to Tor 25” pronouncement in a hushed whisper from one guy dressed as a janitor but wearing a Rolex. We also had to get our car, though, before the car people split, so we had to split. Nat took a cab (with a cabbie who milked her for most of our existing Euros) to Tor 25, and I took a shuttle to get the car at the Holiday Inn Express. We said our goodbyes, knowing we’d never see other again. In this life, at least.

However, the Peugeot lease gentleman at the Holiday Inn Express (in a basement room—I thought I was getting kidnapped when walking down the hall), calmed me with the cool German-ness I’d expected from the beginning, put me in our rental car, and gave me a super easy to follow map back to the airport. Whew. Of course, when I drove up to Tor 25 (anyone who can navigate the Franfurt airport without sleeping for as many hours as me deserves a medal. Or a drink.) they looked at me as if I was a terrorist. And when I exasperatedly said “dogs” to one of the gunmen (or the gate guard—it’s all a bit hazy), they waved me off, mumbling “Tor 26, Tor 26.” During all this, by the way, all I could think of was the short-lived DC 70s adventure/barbarian/long-haired-guy-in-animal-skin-underpants comic Tor (mentioning this for pals Philip and Markie B, who may be the only ones geeky enough to get the reference).

When I get to Tor 26, the fun really starts. Nat’s pacing outside, insane-like, thinking she’d never see me again. Once I assure her I’m not a ghost, she starts to tell me about German bureaucracy and how it relates to dogs. I always thought the American government had a death-grip as the red tape champion, but wow, the Germans make us look like pikers when it comes to paperwork. At Tor 26, we had to go back and forth between two offices on the same floor at least 10 times, waiting in line each time, paying Euros each time, getting stamps each time, cursing each time under our breath, trying to reason without screaming with obviously underpaid and pissy folks each time, and never once seeing the dogs. This went on for at least 40 minutes after I’d gotten there (longer for Nat before I showed), and then they sent us to another building about 10 minutes away, with an electronic badge to get through the revolving gates. Just one badge though, so only Nat could go while I waited by the gates as the most un-smiling people in the world walked through this way and that, glaring at me (again—as if I was a terrorist. Which maybe I looked like by then?). After she got back through the gates (about 20 minutes—where she had to plead for our “fighting” dogs with a woman who probably owned a pack of killer German Shepherds) we had to go back to the hellish Tor 26, wait in line at the one of the offices again, then go to (honestly) a third office to get more stamps, and where, after being asked if they bite, Nat had to put on a full body suit (no joke), and then finally . . . got to get the dogs.

The pups had been let out of their crates into a horse stable, so they got to stretch and drink a sip or two of water, but dang, they were happy to see us. And by “us” I mean the sun, the sky, the scraggly tufts of grass in the parking lot, the lamb lung we smuggled in our carry-ons, and then Nat and I. In that order. After that, it was just a matter of playing a game of Tetris with the car, trying to fit luggage, crates, and us in while three creepy Germans just stared at us from three cars away. Thanks for the help, Germans. But we were on the road by 1 (our flight was in at 9:15, by the way. A mere three hours and forty-five minutes to get the dogs. And yet some people use the phrase “German efficiency” without laughing). Then we had a short stop to get gas, and to get some sandwiches that didn’t look great but tasted divine:

After that, it was a rapid seven hour drive to Milan through the German countryside, the Swiss mountains, and the Italian motorways. Things I learned along the way: Germany has a lot of road construction, and a lot of rest stops. Many of the rest stops don’t even have restrooms, but do have a lot of tree-y areas for dogs to run around in:

The regularity of these rest stops makes me think Germany also has a lot of gentlemen on the down low (if you know what I mean). Cause the one we stopped at was assignation central—truckers, look for kilometer 146. Other things I learned: the Swiss don’t want to see your passport, dog papers, or anything when you come into Switzerland, but do want you to buy a 40 Euro toll pass. The final thing I learned was that the waiter (I wish I would have gotten his name) at the Holiday Inn Milan-Assago (the finest dog-friendly hotel on the highway) restaurant is a champ. They have a buffet thingy going there, and he was shutting it down by the time I showed up salivating, but he still let me load up, didn’t look askance when I said I was a vegetarian, and let me take everything back up to our room so we could chill with the dogs. So, our first meal in Italy:

The next day, we cruised through Italy, and made it without a hitch (though with a wrong turn or two). And now here we are:

*Whoever said this first obviously never left their house.