Poor, Sad Olives

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olive trees

Speedy and I were pretty happy this spring as we watched the olive trees blossoming – it looked to be a good year for olives, something we haven’t enjoyed for the last four or five years.  Then came the summer that wasn’t. Uncharacteristically cool and wet, the hot dry days we expect in July and August never materialized. For the first time since we’ve lived here I did not have to water the gardens at all.

The olives didn’t like it. The first problem is an annual problem, but one that has never been as bad as this year: the Mediterannean fruit fly.

Photo by Jack Kelly Clark

This little stinker, only about 1/4″ long, has an ovipositer that allows her to deposit her eggs in ripening olives. The maggots that hatch dine on the meat inside the olive until they are ready to burrow out, leaving behind a black and mushy mess. We’ve always had some fruit with the tell-tale dots that show an egg has been laid. This year we’ve had ample evidence that the larvae flourished. Why they were more successful this year than other years I don’t know; I think I’ll blame climate change.

Two other problems, certainly climate related, are a kind of rusty growth on the fruit that is called either anthracnose or soft nose. I don’t know enough about either of these conditions to know which has affected our olives; I just know that either one leaves the fruit completely damaged and useless.

Fruit showing both the rusty disease and puncture wounds from egg-laying

Usually at this time of year, if we are having a good year, we are dragging out nets, olive rakes and sheets for our own particular style of harvest. (You can read about our harvest by pressing here and here.) This year there is no point.

Many of the olives have turned dark prematurely and have fallen off the trees on their own. There’s no telling what quality of oil might lie within the few hardy individuals that are still clinging to the trees. We’re not going to invest the not inconsiderable time and effort to find out.

Ours are not the only trees thus affected. We have heard from friends that no-one in our part of Italy has an olive harvest this year. This is a pity for those of us with trees, but it’s a misery for the people who have the business of pressing olives. They will have few customers this year. Fortunately for olive-oil lovers, we have also heard that the crop in the south is excellent this year. With luck they will pick up the slack for those of us in the north.

One thing that never seems to die is hope – and I just know that next year will be the best year ever for olives.

Poster courtesy of Santa Clara Design

Cows Come Home… Again!

Tags

Antique tractors, Cowherding, Cows, Fera 'd San Bartrame', Oropa, Tractors

Those who are faithful readers of this blog know there are few things that give us more pleasure than a day spent with the cows (read about last years outing here). Last weekend we enjoyed just such a day, made even better by being with dear friends.

The Santuario di Oropa sits high in the pre-Alps of Piemonte (region of Biella) at an altitude of some 1,100 meters (3,610 + feet). Its long history dates back in lore to the 4th century AD. In fact the first mention of simple churches in Oropa, dedicated to the Saints Mary and Bartholomew, occurred in the 13th century. (San Bartrame’ is Piemontese dialect for St. Bartholmew.) The present series of buildings were begun in the first years of the 17th century, with work continuing to this day. The most recent basilica was consecrated in 1960.  Our friends told us there is a saying in Piemonte to describe something that is never finished – ‘it’s another Oropa.’ There is a good, brief history of the Sanctuary, which is an important pilgrim destination here (in English).

However, it was not as pilgrims that we visited the sacred site – it was as cow fanciers, in particular to get to know the Pezzata Rossa di Oropa, one of sixteen minor cattle breeds recognized by the Italian Ministry of Agriculture. The standard for the breed calls for a ‘red’ coat with white spots. In fact, there have been breeding changes over the years and, in addition to the standard, there are now all white Pezzate and black and white Pezzate.

During the summer months the cows live with their herders on the high fields of the pre-Alps; it is too cold for them to remain there through the winter, and the Festa we attended was held to celebrate their return to civilization. The herds are brought down a very narrow road and driven into a large field where they are tied by chains to a flimsy wire fence.

That’s not a cane in the young woman’s hand, that’s the rather delicate shepherd’s crook that all the herders carry. Every now and then when a cow goes in the wrong direction she receives a little whack on the fanny with the crook along with a shout telling her what to do. Getting the cows to approach the fences in the field sometimes took a bit of effort. The crook was freely employed, as was simple strength.

There was a delightful amount of confusion while the herds were being organized – some of the cows simply did not want to stand still in a row and would try to wander off.

As in Scotland, dogs are central to controlling the herds, though the dogs at Oropa were very different than the border collies we have seen demonstrating herding techniques (sheep! geese!!). We asked one of the herders what the breed is and the succinct answer was, ‘bastardi.’ They certainly were bright and attentive to their work, though sometimes they looked a little goofy.

Each herd wears its own identifying collar for the occasion. The old collars are made of wood, new ones of leather, and many are ornately decorated.

Most of the cows were cows, but there was the occasional bull. This one was pretty randy, but he was wearing a home-made prophylactic device. Inelegant, perhaps, but effective

Cows weren’t the only beasts being brought down from the hills. There was a fine collection of sheep, interspersed with goats, that were put in a field across the road from the cows. I should mention that almost every single animal was wearing a bell – what with the shouting of the herders, the clanging of the bells and the bellowing and bleating of the animals there was a fine cacophony.

Having been to Egypt in the last post here I couldn’t help but think that this pair was from that ancient land – such fine profiles.

You may be wondering why the cows were all tied up in that big field. The reason is that each herd was judged, and a prize awarded to the herd deemed to be in the best condition after a summer spent up on the mountain. I’m ashamed to say I was thinking about lunch and missed the prize presentation, but I did get to the stand in time to catch a glimpse of the winners. It seemed to be a rather low-key part of the event.

There was ample opportunity for the many photographers present to take pictures of cows – and you can’t tell me the cows weren’t posing.

Did someone mention lunch?? It wouldn’t be an Italian festa without a good meal. The featured specialty was polenta cuncia, one of the world’s great comfort foods (you can find a recipe for it here). Basically it is a fairly finely ground corn meal cooked with either water or stock with the local cheese, toma, stirred in at the end. It is rich, hearty and extremely satisfying. The Oropa iteration was dressed with a couple of tablespoons of melted butter, a fine improvement. It took three ladies to serve the polenta – one to glop it in a bowl, one to add the butter, and one to stick in a spoon and hand it to the hungry pilgrim, along with a napkin.

It was fabulous, and after a morning of chasing cows and sheep it was most welcome, especially washed down with the earthy local red wine.

For me one of the best parts of an event like this is looking at the people. The cowherds were extremely kind in letting me take their pictures. These are men whose families have probably lived in Piemonte for centuries.

There was a lot more going on during the festa – a large array of vendors had local (and some not so local) crafts for sale; there was an excellent exhibit of tractors, old and new; there was a photo exhibit in a tram car that for decades carried sick people from Biella to Oropa for blessings and cures; in the church there was a display of preseppe (creche scenes) from all around the world (my favorite: the one from a nearby village made from marzipan); there was music. If you would like to see some pictures of these things, in addition to more pictures of the animals, please click here (for a slide show click the icon in the upper right that looks like a couple of small rectangles).

The weather was glorious, one of the few sunny days Oropa enjoys each year; it was warm, the crowd was happy, and the animals seemed to be too. It was just so much fun – and exhausting – for everyone.

THE END

Porchetta

Tags

Comitato Fuochi, Festa di San Maurizio

San Maurizio’s wonderful Comitato Fuochi put on a weekend-long shindig a couple of weeks ago, their Summer Festival. This doughty group of volunteers was first formed in 1903. In the early days the Committee divided our frazione into three districts.   In the 1940’s the three districts became two, and in the 1980’s the two became one; since 2006 the group has been particularly active. Working with the town of Rapallo they helped organize the construction of the soccer field where they now hold their events. In the intervening years they have added several permanent and temporary structures so events can be held in all weather.

The main purpose of the group is to have a Festa in honor of our frazione’s patron saint, San Maurizio each September. One of the highlights of the annual Festa Patronale is the fireworks display; this, of course, costs money, and part of the reason for the other four annual Festas (Carnivale, Spring, Summer, Chestnuts) is to raise money for the main event.

The weekend festa is comprised of food and entertainment. Being old farts we didn’t make it down to the soccer field to enjoy the entertainment.

In fact, sadly the Friday night show was rained out. We did, however, stop in for lunch on Sunday, not knowing what we would find on the menu. To our delight we found trofie al pesto (a traditional Ligurian pasta), totani (small fried squid) and porchetta, seen above, amongst other things.

Wikipedia describes porchetta as “a savoury, fatty, and moist boneless pork roast of Italian culinary tradition. The body of the pig is gutted, deboned, arranged carefully with layers of stuffing, meat, fat, and skin, then rolled, spitted, and roasted, traditionally over wood. Porchetta is usually heavily salted in addition to being stuffed with garlic, rosemary, fennel, or other herbs, often wild. Porchetta has been selected by the Italian Ministero delle Politiche Agricole, Alimentari e Forestali as a prodotto agroalimentare tradizionale (“traditional agricultural-alimentary product”, one of a list of traditional Italian foods held to have cultural relevance).” The dish originated in central Italy, but is now popular throughout the country. You can frequently find it at weekly markets at a special truck, and it turns up often at festas like ours as well. This particular porchetta came from Tuscany, from Montepulciano to be exact. And it was delicious, according to Speedy (I ate the totani, which was also really, really good).

I asked Speedy to write down the story of his introduction to porchetta to share with you. This is what he said, “I first learned about Porchetta and its charms back in the 1970’s when I was flying cargo from New York to Rome.  Without flight attendants and the access to First Class fare which was available to crews on passenger flights, the guys and I would arrive in Rome famished–and with the usual thirst that follows long flights.  One day I asked one of the agents meeting the flight where was the best place to stop to take care of this problem on the way to the crew hotel in central Rome.  He suggested telling the taxi driver to take the Via del Mare where we would find one of those open-sided trucks that are, in fact, full kitchens that serve the food out on paper from a high counter that runs the length of the vehicle–this is the Italian version of a Truck Stop.  And, the ground in front would, in fact, be crawling with huffing trucks.  Anyway, we would get slabs of steaming porchetta on thick slices of crusty, chewy bread and a small glass of frascati for about a dollar.  For a couple more glasses of frascati one had to put out another quarter or so.” It is a very happy memory for him!

Image courtesy of Charcouterie Ltd.

A porchetta-like dish is not hard to make at home. You can find many recipes on the internet, for example this one from Epicurious or this one from Bon Appetit. My own favorite, natch, is Speedy’s own recipe for rolled, stuffed pork roast, which is very porchetta-like. But for the true porchetta experience you have to come to Italy and visit one of the many stands or festas where it is served. I recommend the ones at San Maurizio. You won’t find a harder-working group of volunteers any where and the food is always great. Here are a few more photos of our visit to the tent and there are more over here if you are interested.

One of my favorite poems from the book Unleashed: Poems by Writers’ Dogs (1999) is this one by a yellow lab, whose writer companion I don’t remember. The poem goes something like this:

Ya gonna eat that?
Ya gonna eat that?
Ya gonna eat that?
I’ll eat that!

I love how they keep the porchetta swaddled up in a sheet – keeps the flies off.

These girls are run off their feet when things get busy, but they never mess up an order.

Making Mozarella

Tags

Cheese, Cheese-making, Mozzarella

Cheese.  It’s one of the things I miss the very most about Italy when we are not there. Cheese has always been one of my major food groups (others: vegetables, fruit, rice-bread-potatoes, and chocolate; I believe that adds up to the requisite five). We are spoiled in Italy – the Italian Cheese book put out by Slow Food (edited by Rubino, Sardo and Surrusca) describes 293 different kinds of cheese. Granted some of these are kissin’ cousins: add a little smoke to fresh mozzarella and you have smoked mozzarella, two different cheeses but close relatives. Still, you can eat a different cheese every day in Italy and not run out for almost a full year.

Speaking of mozzarella, it is the comfort food of the cheese world.  Soft, not really bland but not challenging, it goes with everything. On its own with a bit of oil, salt and basil it is the perfect first course. Mix it into pasta, make a sandwich, put cubes of it in your salads, make pizza – there’s little that is not improved by the addition of fresh mozzarella.

Photo courtesy of Woodstock Water Buffalo Company

Sad to say it is almost impossible to find it here in the States (unless you live near Quebec). And when you do find it, it is generally shrink-wrapped with a token amount of liquid, not swimming in the briny water it prefers. Store-bought mozzarella here is of dubious age and provenance, not like Italy where we know it has come from very nearby, unless it is mozarella di bufala – then it is made from the milk of water buffalos (see the winsome face above) from ‘the south’ – Campania, Lazio, Apulia or Molise.

Map courtesy of understandingitaly.com

What to do about this sad lack in our lives? You already know the answer – we decided to make our own. Thanks to Emma Christensen’s delightful website thekitchn we discovered that mozzarella is not only easy to make, it’s FUN to make. Basically all you need is a gallon of milk, some citric acid and rennet (readily available online) and about an hour.

The hardest part of the exercise for Speedy and me was getting the temperatures right; but evidently we didn’t do too bad a job. In the photo above you see the milk, to which has been added the citric acid and rennet, coming up to temperature. Curds and whey are already forming – this so so much fun!

Once the curds had clumped up we separated them from the whey (Emma suggests using whey for bread-making, soups, smoothies and so forth) and… microwaved them! I know – we were really surprised too, but it turns out to work very well. We had to bring the cheese up to an interior temperature of 135 F in order for it to become elastic.

After that it was a simple matter of adding salt and ‘kneading’ to make the cheese elastic and glossy.

Our finished ‘balls!’ I’m not sure why ours flattened out so much. Perhaps we left too much whey in, or perhaps we didn’t knead enough – or too little – or perhaps we were off on our temperatures (a new instant thermometer is on the shopping list). In any event, they taste just fine. Maybe not quite as good as what we buy in Liguria… but maybe so.*

Now… what to do with 3 quarts of whey. If only we had a pig…

*Honesty compels me to admit our cheese was a bit strange.  The balls didn’t hold their shape; instead they flattened out into large discs.  The texture of the cheese was denser than we expected, though the flavor was just fine, sweet and rich.  Bottom line: we need to do this again!

A week later and a second try: better, but still not *perfect*.

Stalking the Wild Octopus

Tags

Octopus, Octopus facts, Octopus fishing

Yesterday Angela and I toddled down to her beach to enjoy some unexpectedly fine sunshine and to dangle our feet in the rather chilly sea. As we chatted about this and that we watched a couple of men fishing for octopus.

The gear they used was real DIY material. A thick piece of cardboard, about the size of a shirt cardboard, around which was wrapped a good bit of nylon filament. Their method was to throw the baited line out as far as they could, and then reel it in, ever hopeful that they would find an octopus firmly attached to the bait. We watched for an hour or so, but none of the resident octopi obliged, and our friends left disappointedly empty-handed.

Here is Paolo, pulling in his line.  You would think he’d end up with a hopeless snarl of nylon, but he never did.

And this is Giuseppe, showing off the bait: a chicken’s foot!  Evidently it is irresistible to an octopus.

Paolo spent some time giving Giuseppe instruction in the finer points of octopus fishing as they prepared to try their luck in a different spot:

There is a beautiful fountain across the street from the castello which, happily for me, was in operation the day we met Paolo and Giuseppe.  It was dry for much of the summer, but whatever the problem was, it seems to have been fixed, as you can see:

Thanks to IFLS I learned that today is World Octopus Day. This poster will tell you more than you ever wanted to know about octopuses (click on it it see it larger). What it fails to mention is how absolutely delicious octopus is, especially when served in the Ligurian style with boiled potatoes.

Poster credit: National Aquarium, Baltimore

Photo credit: Giallo Zaffarano

Happy World Octopus Day everyone!

Tandoor Pizza, and more!

Tags

Focaccia making, Pizza making

Clever Speedy dreamed of making pizza in his new tandoor oven, since the temperatures get so high. But how to do it? He found a square piece of slate on the property and cut it into a circle that just fit into the top of the oven. Then he fashioned an aluminium cradle for it that hangs over the top of the clay cooking chamber, but allows for the cover to fit on well.

He rolled out the dough; we dressed it with tomato sauce, fresh mozzarella, grated hot pepper cheese, onions and wurstel; then popped it in the tandoor:

While the pizza was cooking, we rolled out more dough to make a stracchino focaccia:

Pizza’s done!

As the lid of the tandoor doesn’t reflect down a lot of heat we put the pizza under the regular oven’s broiler for a couple of moments to finish off the top. Then one of us dressed her side with ruccola and we sat down to eat while the focaccia cooked.

No sense in wasting a good hot fire, so we shaped up some rolls for sandwich making. Out came the focaccia and in went the rolls:

And while those rolls are cooking, we might as well cook up a few sausages on vertical skewers under the stone (see above). For some, a meal is not complete without meat.

A side salad complemented the various courses. It was a delicious meal, fraught with jumping up and down to take one thing out and put the next thing in – great fun and very satisfying.

Autumn

Tags

Pizza, Wood-fired pizza ovens

The cold winds blow, the rain lashes the pavements, umbrellas blow inside out and look like scary black tulips.  What to eat, what to eat?

Pizza!

Our neighbor very likely delivered this wood, which will soon be fueling a pizza oven. He works like a demon cutting and splitting wood, and then delivers it to pizzerie all over town. As you probably know the big domed ovens carry an outer ring of firewood which brings the temperature very high.  That’s why you can, here anyway, order a pizza and be eating it twelve minutes later.

Ligurian pizza has an almost paper-thin crust, so it’s an easy matter to eat a whole one oneself.  The only hard part is deciding what to have on top – so many choices, and each as yummy as the others. At this time of year a lot of them feature fresh mushrooms.  My last pizza was called ‘Inferno:’ fresh mozzarella, gorgonzola, tomato, and, supposedly, hot peppers.  I didn’t taste a shred of heat – but it was a fabulous pizza nonetheless.  Alas I was without a camera, so I can’t show you how beautiful it was.

Speedy and I are leaving shortly for the U.S. of A., so Expatriate will be even more dormant than usual for the next little while.  But I’m looking forward to posting again soon from the wild world of coyotes, gila monsters, hummingbirds, the Arizona Cardinals and golf nuts.

Crackers!

Tags

Crick-Crocks, Italian crackers, Italian Lingue, Lingue, Making crackers at home

No, we’re not crackers, at least not yet.  But we do love to eat them with our late afternoon snack with salami (Speedy) and  cheese (Fern).

Not long ago we discovered at our local bakery an absolutely delicious, crispy cracker which they call ‘krick-krock’ and which are known throughout Italy as lingue (tongues) for obvious reasons:

Say ‘Ahhhhhh!’  The problem is they are rather expensive, at least when one eats them in the quantities that we like to.  What to do?  It didn’t take Speedy long to break the code on how they’re made.  Does it take a bit of work?  Well, yes.  Are they easier to produce with four hands than two?  Yes, but not at all impossible with only two, Speedy can attest to that.  I guarantee they are worth the effort – you’ll never want another Trisket or Saltine after you eaten these crackers (I just can’t call them ‘Speedy’s tongues’ – it sounds troubling).

Here’s the recipe Speedy developed.

First, make a starter (called a ‘biga) by dissolving

1/3 tsp yeast in

1/2 cup warm water

to this add

enough white flour to make a slurry (think library paste)

Let the starter age anywhere from 2 hours to 24 hours – it lives to serve you.

When you’re ready to make the dough dissolve

1/2 tsp yeast in

1 Cup warm water (or, better yet,  1/2 Cup warm water, 1/2 Cup beer)

when the yeast is dissolved stir in
your biga
2 tsp salt
1/4 Cup olive oil
1/3 Cup whole wheat flour
1/3 Cup corn meal
enough White Flour to make a stiff dough (2-3 Cups)

Cover and let rise in a warmish spot for 2-3 hours.

Pre-heat oven to 500. (!)

Knead into the risen dough
2/3 Cup crumbled rye bran

Break off a knob about the size of two extra large eggs, and roll out on a well-floured board to desired thickness (1/8  inch isn’t so bad) in the shape of a long thin tongue.

Transfer the tongue to an oiled baking sheet, brush with olive oil and salt to taste (we use a lot of salt because we love our crackers salty) and put on the top rack of the oven.

Keep an eye on them!  When they just start to take a little color pull the pan out and use tongs to flip the tongues over (no need to oil or salt the other side).

Pop them back in and keep a watchful eye.  When the top again begins to brown pull them off the baking sheet with tongs and place them on the bottom rack of the oven to dry out a bit, finish cooking and get crispy.  Keep an eye on them, this step doesn’t take very long.  You can be rolling out and baking the next lot while the first ones are on the bottom rack.

When they’re done put them on a rack to cool.  They keep very well in a plastic container for as long as you can keep from gobbling them up (we use an ancient Tupperware cake saver).  Just break them into the size you want and enjoy.

I know it sounds like a fair amount of work, but the results are very much worth it; you won’t be sorry.  Even if they get a little over-done on the bottom rack they are still delicious.

Buon Appetito, and please pass the beer!

First It Was the Apricots, Now It’s the Plums

Tags

Plum jam, Plums, yellow plum

The property we live on came with a bunch of olive trees and some (to us) mystery trees that turned out to be plums of the teeny variety. I’ve had a very hard time figuring out just what type of plums these are (other than very small) – maybe one of you can help?

BEFORE!

I never gave much thought to plums other than the fact that they came in blue/purple and yellow/green. It turns out there are a great many varieties, from small to large, from early ripening to late. And like so many things in the botanical world, they have wonderful common names: Dennistons’ Superb Plum (it’s ‘reliable’); wouldn’t it be great to be superb and reliable at the same time?  There is the usual smattering of place-name names, mostly British: Warwickshire, Shropshire. My favorite, I guess, is the Blue Tit Plum (‘popular’ (I bet!) and ‘reliable’).*

But losing oneself in the world of plummy nomenclature doesn’t get one any closer to identifying one’s own plums. I never did sort out what we have, other than that they are some sort of very small, early, yellow plum.

AFTER!

In the end it doesn’t matter what they’re called. It’s enough for us to know they make delicious jam.

*Names of plums harvested here.

Where it comes from…

Tags

Catch of the day, Eating locally, Fresh fish, Italian fishing fleet, Locavore, Santa Margherita Ligure

Possibly the world’s ugliest fish?

‘Locavore’ is a word I abhor.  Oh I know, it’s a perfectly good word and absolutely descriptive.  But, to me, it carries moral overtones that I don’t like – the idea that if I eat food that is all grown/produced within, let us say, fifty miles of where I live, I am somehow a better person than the poor sod who has to eat out-of-season apples from Argentina and whose beef comes from the mid-west and which enjoyed a last supper of who knows what.

We lived in New England when I first heard the term.  I thought it was laughable. What would we, in Connecticut, eat in January if all our food had to be grown nearby?  Frozen food?  But think of the energy costs associated with that.  Food that was grown in our own gardens that we lovingly canned.   While it’s true that canned fruits and veggies seem to retain most of their nutritional value, they likely give up a great deal in texture and crispness.  Wouldn’t you rather eat a fresh green bean than a canned one?

Then I thought about the long arc of the history of what we eat.  In the Middle Ages people were restricted to a diet of food produced nearby because the means to move it any great distance simply did not exist.   Their teeth turned black and fell out.  They had diseases associated with vitamin deficiencies: rickets, scurvy and beriberi.   How wonderful it was when  trade began to bring spices and food from the East, the Caribbean  and South America, and eating changed forever.  Sugar!  Coffee and tea!  Sublime.  Lemons and limes.  Pineapple!  Poi. No, forget about poi. Chocolate!! (never forget chocolate…)  Empires grew and food moved ever more freely from point A to point B, and it was all good (and from more than just a culinary point-of-view, but that’s another subject altogether).

Then, about a decade or so ago, the specter of eating locally reared its head.  Farm markets (of which I am a huge fan, incidentally) sprouted on every village green.  Calves seen cavorting in a neighbor’s pasture one day were in his freezer the next day.  Everyone had a chicken. And that was good too.  But the idea that that’s all we should eat seems to me to be nonsense.

So, having said all that, let me recant just a bit.  I think it’s really important to know where our food comes from, and to make intelligent choices about what we eat using that information as one criterion.  I have a personal preference against eating a fish from China – God only knows what that fish ate, so I don’t want to eat him.  I also think it’s really important for everyone, especially children, to know that food doesn’t ‘come’ from supermarkets.  Milk comes from cows and goats, and cheese comes from milk – these are really good things to know.  Jellies and jams are not born that way, and spaghetti doesn’t grow on trees, despite what you see about Switzerland on Youtube.

People in Italy take food very seriously.  The fresh fods  we buy here are marked with a quality grade and geographical source.  There are plenty of Italians who won’t eat food not grown in Italy (or, maybe, France and Switzerland) – but there are plenty who will.  The important thing is that the information is available and one can make a choice.

Fish is a topic of often spirited discussion: wild caught or farm raised?  As ocean stocks grow ever smaller, there’s much to be said for farm-raised fish, as long as the farmer is responsible about the fish food he uses (I suppose the same thing could be said for chickens – but when was the last time you ate a wild-caught chicken?  I digress.)  There is a large fish-farm off the coast in nearby Chiavari; you can see the pens as you drive down the hill into the city.  But in neighboring Santa Margherita Ligure you can do one better – you can go to the port at about 3:30 or 4:00 p.m. and watch the day’s catch as it is delivered to the fish stalls in the arcade across the street.  Then, if you’ve seen something that whets your appetite, you can go over and buy it immediately, sometimes still squirming.

Many of the small Rivieras communities no longer have fishing fleets, but Santa and several others still do.  The boats are all business, as you can see above.  They usually moor  a short distance from the port, and the catch is ferried in by skiff.

The fish are all neatly sorted and put in flats.  The person taking the box will trot through a gauntlet of curious onlookers, cross the street, and deliver the goods to the vendors.    Sometimes the fellow who transports the fish is the vendor.  Who goes to see the fish come in?  Some are tourists who have just happened by, some are buyers for the local restaurants, and some are consumers looking for a good fish for dinner.

Yum!  Someone’s having octopus tonight.

This guy was so pleased with his fishies he had to share the good news with his friends.

This is the kind of ‘locavore’ I adore.  It’s just people doing what they’ve done their whole lives, and what’s been done in their town for centuries.  It has nothing to do with a Philosophy, or a Point of View, and there’s certainly no sense that if you go buy your fish from Supermercato Billa you’re less of a person than if you go to the port to buy it.  It’s just the way things are. As a matter of fact, with the whole sea at their door,   one of the great winter treats for Ligurians is, surprisingly, stoccafisso, dried cod.  I think it is odious, but people here love it cooked with tomatoes, potatoes, carrots, onions and garlic. That’s the Ligurian style.  In Milan it is cooked with cream, which is even worse. Why would you eat that when you can have fresh fish?  I don’t know, but it is highly regarded here, and eaten with great gusto. Cod, by the way, doesn’t live in the warm Tigullio Sea – it comes from New England or Scandinavia.

So yes, please grow your own veggies in your garden, or buy them from your local farm market or CSA, but please, oh please, don’t make me feel guilty when I buy a peach from Israel.  Don’t turn eating fresh local food into a Cause or a Movement.  Good food is good food no matter where it comes from.  I understand the arguments about the cost of transport, but transporting goods is something that has gone on for centuries.  Let’s not go back to the Middle Ages.