Read published article at Italian Notebook

I wound my way up the narrow road towards the tiny, secluded sanctuary of S. Lucia in Sassinoro. I was on my way to meet Giovanna, a volunteer in the shrine’s wee gift shop.  She and her husband Giorgio were part of the family I was researching for a heritage tour.

Like many holy places, the legend surrounding S. Lucia in Sassinoro began in the spring of 1600 as a shepherd’s tale.  A number of sheep had been mysteriously disappearing and just as mysteriously reappearing again after a few minutes, so the shepherds decided to follow the flock as they grazed.  They discovered that the animals were going in and out of a split in the rocky face of the mountain.  They squeezed through the narrow crack and made their way into the hillside until they reached a grotto where they were suddenly blinded by the appearance of a beautiful woman and a handsome young man bathed in shimmering light.

They ran home to tell of their miraculous encounter and returned with the town priest to verify the account.  In the grotto they found a statue of S. Lucia and S. Michele!  The town fathers decided to erect a place of worship on the spot and construction of the sanctuary began in 1622 and was completed in 1643.

Today this quaint little church nestles quietly into the mountain above the village of Sassinoro. But once inside, the feeling becomes one of awe as the apse is dramatically set into the huge overhanging face of the grotto. It is still possible to squeeze through the original path which the shepherds took on all fours, to view the ancient statues of S. Lucia and S. Michele.

S. Lucia is the patron saint of the blind and a small room off the side of the church is filled with reliquaries containing silver ex-votos donated by faithful worshipers who have regained their sight after praying to her.

A Circus Comes to Sassinoro

On the day of my visit to the sanctuary, I had an experience so glorious in its absurdity that it had to be documented and shared.

While admiring the inside of the church of S. Lucia in Sassinoro, my host Giovanna pointed out the last-minute preparations being made for a wedding that was to take place shortly: the bride and groom’s seats and pew had been padded with white satin drapery; the central aisle carpeted with a white runner and strewn carefully with orange rose petals.  Bouquets of yellow flowers decorated the pews on either side of the carpet, creating a strong visual perspective towards the magnificent, suspended cross with its incredible, rocky backdrop.

As we walked out into the dappled sunlight I began to say my goodbyes, but my eyes were drawn to a strange apparition on the far side of the courtyard, standing directly opposite a white marble statue of Padre Pio.  Like the glimmering image of St. Michael in the dark grotto of 1600, a young man stood, emanating a blinding light.  I had to blinked twice to make sure my eyes weren’t deceiving me.

He was olive-skinned and decked from head to toe in shades of cream and white.  A diamond-studded clasp closed the lapels of a jacket made out of what seemed to be upholstery fabric; a smaller pin glinted at his throat in place of a tie.  While the unhemmed pants billowed out over his cream-coloured boots, a jauntily-held white cane brought my gaze back to ruffled shirt-cuffs peaking out from the jacket sleeves.  The whole thing was topped off by a top hat studded with sequins.

Could this be St. Barnum or Bailey, I wondered, or was it a character out of a Savoyard production of Gilbert & Sullivan? The total effect was of a ring-leader at a circus and I watched, tranfixed, to see whether he would pull a rabbit out of his hat.

“Oh my God”, I gasped slowly, “It’s the groom!”

Two considertions broke into my mind.  What kind of person could have suggested this bizarre outfit and had the young man had to pay for it?

At that moment the bride’s entourage pulled up at the the gate below, cars piling up behind the her 10-meter limousine which huffed to a halt at the bottom of the stairs.  Out spilled a cresting wave of white tulle.

This gal must have been a long-standing member of the congregation of S. Lucia because the lenses of her glasses were thick as bottle-bottoms. Her father  - also dressed in white, but with an interesting shade of purple shirt and tie – helped her out of the car and proudly led her up the stairs.  Not to be outdone, her mother wore a red strapless gown while her aunt videoed the procession from behind in a tight-fitting black dress with a striking cleavage.  Someone at the top of the steps shouted down to the bride as she bravely navigated the stairs that she was lifting her dress too high for decency…

The riotous assembly regrouped in the sunlit churchyard, as the four-year-old bridesmaid augustly took her place behind the couple and holding the end of veil in her tiny hands.

Padre Pio, unperturbed by the garish show, calmly blessed everyone as they entered into the shadows of the church.

segue versione italiano

“Under every stone lurks a politician” wrote Aristophanes in 410 B.C.

This was undoubtedly the case in the recent administrative elections in our town.

Three candidates were running for the office of mayor this year in Sant’Agata, each with a roster of eligible  officers which meant almost practically everybody in town was jostling for a position in the administration.  I began to understand how personal political campaigning could be.

The months and weeks running up to the elections saw a flutter of activity in our little town.  Candidates could be seen everywhere, huddled in small groups or talking to prospective supporters.

This brought me to muse about an entertaining book I’m reading on the political campaigns of ancient Pompei.  Candidates were promoted largely by friends, family and ‘corporations’.  These were associations made up of local merchants and professionals: fruit sellers, goldsmiths, launderers, porters and mule drivers would urge citizens to vote for a canditate, writing slogans such as:

NERUM AED(ILEM) OVF. UNGUENTARI FACITE ROG(ANT)
I urge you to vote for Nero as surveyor.  He is packed by the perfumers.

C LOLLIUM FUSCUM IIVIR(UM)…ASELLINAS ROGANT NEC SINE ZMYRINA
Asellina’s chambermaids – including Smirina – request the election of Gaio Lollio Fusco as duumvirate.

Or even the slightly offensive:

CEIUM SECUNDUM IIVIR(UM) OVF. SUTORIA PRIMIGENIA CUM SUIS ROG(ANT) ASTYLE DORMIS
Choose Ceio Secondo for duumvirate.  It is Sutoria Primigenia and her family who ask for your vote.  Astilo you are asleep!

Oooh, that must have hurt!

ELEZIONI PASSATE

“Sotto ogni pietra si annida un politico”, scrisse Aristofane nel 410 a.c.  Era il caso delle recenti Elezioni Amministrative avvenute nella nostra città.

Tre candidati si contendevano la carica di Sindaco, ognuno con la propria lista di candidati assessori, per un totale di aspiranti amministratori vicino alla metà dei votanti. Cominciai a capire quanto personalizzata una tale campagna elettorale possa diventare.

Nei mesi e settimane precedenti il voto fervevano iniziative nel paese: si potevano vedere i candidati presenziare un po’ ovunque, in piccoli gruppi fra loro o parlando a potenziali elettori.

Questo mi fece pensare ad un interessante libro che sto leggendo sulle campagne elettorali dell’antica Pompei.  I candidati erano sostenuti principalmente da amici, familiari e corporazioni.
Queste erano le associazioni in cui si organizzavano mercanti e professionisti: fruttivendoli, gioiellieri, lavandai, facchini, mulattieri. Tutti si adoperavano, spronando i cittadini a votare per il proprio candidato, per mezzo di slogans come:

NERUM AED(ILEM) OVF. UNGUENTARI FACITE ROG(ANT)
Vi prego di eleggere a edile Nero. Lo appoggiano i profumieri..

C LOLLIUM FUSCUM IIVIR(UM)…ASELLINAS ROGANT NEC SINE ZMYRINA
Le cameriere di Asellina – non senza Smirina – chiedono l’elezione a duunviro di Gaio Lollo Fusco.

O perfino il leggermente offensivo:

CEIUM SECUNDUM IIVIR(UM) OVF. SUTORIA PRIMIGENIA CUM SUIS ROG(ANT) ASTYLE DORMIS
Vi prego di eleggere a duunviro Ceio Secondo.  Lo chiede Primigenia insieme ai suoi congiunti.  Astilo, tu dormi!

Questa deve aver toccato a fondo!

I met a girlfriend on the street the other day in Sant’Agata dei Goti.  Caterina was carrying two big plastic bags.  I asked her  what they were and discovered that she was taking some greens from her garden to an old lady living down the road.  In one bag was the ubiquitous broccoli raab, which in Campania is called simply broccoletti.  In the other was what looked like a heap of weeds.  Caterina’s family owns land that produces grapes for the Mustilli winery and her mother - from the generation that lived through the vagaries of war - always picks the edible weeds in the garden; and in the first warm days of early spring, still roams the fields in search of that wonder of wonders: wild vegetables or le verdure di campo.

We oohed and aahed a little while about wild greens and then went our separate ways.  Next day however, my doorbell rang and Caterina appeared with two even bigger, bulging bags, both filled with the same delightful assortment I admired the day before.

I happen to have a weak spot when it comes to wild weeds because no other vegetable can compare to the green, bittersweet, ancient taste of this mixture.  Furthermore wild edible plants define the term ‘fresh’: they must be cooked as soon as they are picked because they begin to wither immediately.  It’s not often one gets a chance to get a bagful of this stuff and I was so thrilled that I had to take pictures.  As Caterina explained how to clean them, I put a big pot of water on the stove.  As the water came to a boil I threw a handful of sale grosso together with the greens, cooked them for five minutes, strained them and voilà, done.  They can be eaten all’agro with a little olive oil and lemon, or ripassate in padella (pan-fried) with garlic, oil and peperoncino, or pancotto by adding cubed pieces of dried bread.  Added to beaten eggs it makes a mean frittata.

One day I hope meet Caterina’s mother so that she can teach me how to identify the edible herbs: ortica, cicoria, piscialetto (literally bed-wetter or dandelion), asparagi, radichiello, borragine and cardillo from the inedible ones; and when I do, I promise to organize a field day for food lovers, so that the next time you’re walking through a grassy field you’ll be able to do more then just pluck a few flowers, but to be able to pick and delight in these delectable edible weeds.

It started out as a convivial challenge. “I need to find a name for my new product.”

Our friend Berardino Lombardo, rugged maverick chef-turned-farmer-and-breeder, had done it again: by applying the old italian adage, del maiale non si butta niente (nothing of the pig goes to waste), he’d forged his latest idea into an extraordinary example of cured meat, the result of tying together the lard, bacon and loin of pork.

Accompanied by our photographer Claudio Corrivetti, we trudged deep into the chestnut forests of his 40 hectare estate, to the hut where Berardino prepares and smokes his products. There amidst the prized prosciutti, capocolli, soppressate and sausages hung something new. It was odd-looking: the entire back of the pig folded in half like a wallet, pressed together between two pieces of wood and firmly tied with string all along its length.

These, however, were no ordinary pigs, but the rare black maiale nero Casertano, an ancient indigenous breed which (it is said) Berardino single-handedly saved from extinction. (To cure this cut of meat, it is salted, seasoned, smoked for two months over a smouldering aromatic fire of pines and bay leaves and then matured for another nine months in tufa caves).

Berardino hoisted a big piece onto his shoulders and climbing up the hill to his 18th century casale said, “Now let’s see what it tastes like.”

We sat, ate, drank and talked about this wonderful new …’thing’. It was extraordinary: delicate, rich and juicy, with a spicy, round flavour. Looking at Claudio’s photos I said the word “string” out loud in English. My husband countered with the Italian “stringa”.  Claudio paused, then blurted, “I have it! Stringata!”

At that’s how the Stringata got its name!

It’s too bad the holidays are over.  In December we look forward to Christmas and anticipate visiting with extended families and eating wonderful seasonal recipes. Then it’s time to greet the new year with spumante, panettone, cotechino and lenticchie.  And finally presents and candy-coal are bought to stuff the children’s stockings for la Befana.  After this prolonged food orgy, a kind of lagging fatigue sets in; it seems there is hardly anything worth living for until Easter.  If it wasn’t for the pigs, January would be a dull, cold month indeed.

U’ puorc (as the pig is called in Campanian dialect), is the prince of the season. Now as in the past, this is a time of celebration for rural farmers and an excellent reason for the whole family to get together once again. A fat, healthy pig signifies ample food for the winter, with tasty delicacies such as prosciutto, culatello, salami and capocollo or soppressata,. The saying goes “E’ una festa per tutti tranne che per il maiale” (It’s a party for everyone but the pig).

Whereas everyone has heard of these wonderful Italian pork products, there are other, lesser known ones as well. “Del maiale non si butta niente” (nothing of the pig goes to waste), goes another old saying, and nothing could be more true of this generous, multi-purpose mammal.  There is the unusual sausage called sanguinaccio, which comes from the word sangue or blood.  After the pig is slaughtered it is hung and drained of blood.  In Campania (as in other regions of Italy) the blood is quickly collected and mixed with raisins, pepper, salt, grated cheese and hand-made tagliolini (or wheat, rice or spelt).  For the sweet version, the cheese and salt are substituted with sugar and cocoa.  It is then either fried, baked or boiled and afterwards sliced and served.  Inevitably, as more animals are bred and fed industrially, this ancient recipe is becoming harder to find.

Old-time farmers still use this as an excellent remedy for anemia, but it has a strong taste and is not for the faint-hearted!