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If there is one thing that gets my knickers in a twist, it’s those things that still have me stymied after 50 years in Italy.  So let’s like to try to solve the broccoli/broccoletti dilemma once and for all, shall we?

First up are broccoletti aka cime di rapa, rapini and broccoli di rape (broccoli raab or rabe in english).  This vegetable is actually the top tender leaves and buds of a wild yellow flower that is picked before it blossoms.  I am told they are a member of the Chicory Family.  In Naples they are called friarielli - not to be confused with friggiarelli, which are those scrumptious little green peppers that are stir-fried in garlic and oil.

Then an American couple told me that broccoletti in America (aka broccolini) are a different plant altogether; a cross between broccoli and Gai Lan or Asian Broccoli.  Oh Lord!

Chaos sets in when it comes to the broccoli enigma because as a little girl in America, I remember broccoli as a vegetable that looked like a tiny green tree.

But when I came to Rome and was sent to the market to buy some, the vendor handed me a fascinating, alien-green cauliflower (cavolfiore) with fractal spires that looked like something that had been revisited by Max Escher.  He called it broccolo.

Now broccolo, or cavolo, is actually a cabbage, which is part of the Brassicaceae Family.  Other members include: cavolo cappuccio (used to make sauerkraut), cavolo nero, cavolo cinese, broccolo cinese, cavolo portoghese, cavolo rosso, cavoletti di Bruxelles (Bruxelles sprouts) and even CAVOLO BROCCOLO!

MA CHE CAVOLO! (in english, what the…!) or as the Romans say, “SONO CAVOLI VOSTRI” or ‘it’s your problem’.

And so be it!

I recently spent five glorious days revisiting Puglia and one of the places I enjoyed most was Alberobello.  That is the beauty of travelling in Italy: once is never enough!

This was my third visit to the UNESCO world heritage site, and I could focus less on the quaint and irresistible charm of the round tiled roofs set on the square-based structures, and more on their history.

The town is ensconsed in thick groves of olive and almond trees that thrive on the dry, bouldered soil of Puglia.  In fact the soil is so rocky that new stones come to light every time the soil is tilled, thus creating an endless supply of light-weight stones that can be used as rooftiles.

The history of these unusual dwellings dates back to the second half of the 15th century when the territory was ruled by the Aquaviva family, who had introduced some forty families into the region to clear the terrain.  Over time, the land was populated by these farmers who learned to cultivate the rough land, rendering it extremely fruitful.

However, during the same period, the Kingdom of Naples had enacted legislation requiring all new towns to pay a heavy tax.  In response, the feudal lords ordered their tenants to build ‘dry’ dwellings without the use of mortar, so that they could easily be pulled down in the case of royal inspection, cunningly avoiding taxation!

In 1797 a group of brave citizens petitioned the Bourbon King Ferdinando IV who, by royal decree, in May of the same year set the village free.

View this article on Italian Notebook

By Leslie Xavier. See original Italian Notebook article here

Each year during Carnevale, animated giants inhabit the streets of Putignano in Puglia. These allegorical paper-maché creations are approximately 4 stories high! Very much like floats in parades the world over, they gracefully glide down the streets. Hidden Lilliputians guide the animations of these modern Gullivers, barely missing lamp posts and balconies along the route.

Each float is created with a theme that carries a social or political satirical message. One of the favorites was the float addressing the oil spill in the U.S. A diver in a dive suit of stars and stripes paddles and swims amid a very “Finding Nemo” undersea world. At the base of the float a very conspicuous cork bobbles precariously in a “British Petroleum” pipeline.

The parade is highlighted by events such as Tarantella dancing, live music, and a host of people dressed for the occasion. The event is definitely family oriented with a children’s parade during the day and plenty of lively actors and street musicians.

Putignano claims to have the oldest and longest Carnevale, its origin dating to December 26th, 1394, with the transfer of St Stefan’s relics from Monopoli to Putignano. During this transfer of the relics, it is said that local farmers formed a procession with dancing, singing and reciting rhymes, hence the beginning of the Carnevale!

Nowadays the Carnevale in Putignano begins December 26th and ends on Martedi’ Grasso (Shrove Tuesday). The end of Carnevale is marked in a unique way as “extreme unction” is administered by fake priests using a toilet bowl brush and water from a miniature toilet, “priso”. Sprinkling the crowd with “holy water” they bring a close to Carnevale as the bells of the church tolls 365 times.

While other cities such as Venice are mobbed by visitors, amazingly this parade remains off the beaten paths of pit stops for Carnevale. There is a parade each Sunday with the big parade being on Martedi Grasso (March 8th this year), so there is still time to join in the fun!

You can get more information at Carnevale di Putignano.

Caro Babbo Natale,

Per cambiare, quest’anno potresti portar via qualcosa?

Extra! Extra! Extra Virgin Olive Oil Fresh Off the Press!

Pressing matters, a phrase with two meanings: one defines ‘an issue of crucial importance’; the other acknowledges that how something is pressed, matters.  Both are very relevant to the subject of olive oil. 

On a metaphysical level olives symbolize Peace, a fragile concept. But in reality olives are rugged and hardy trees, with roots that extend deep into the ground.  Not only are they extraordinary creatures, (read more about the secret life of olives), but they are practically indestructible and can withstand fire, flood and drought.  Try to cut down an olive tree and you will need special equipment (the wood is hard as rock) and new branches will tenaciously spring from the roots.

Many Italians can espouse the qualities of extra-virgin olive oil, often with a preference for certain regions, which are often where they were born or where their family originated.  I have become a diehard fan of the tasty and slightly piquant Campanian oil made from the racioppella, ortice and ortolana varieties, but no matter where your taste buds lie, the pressing process itself is a rite of passage that needs to be seen to better appreciate this quintessential element of Italian cuisine.  Yesterday I followed my friend and olive-grower Pasquale to a small press outside S. Agata dei Goti to witness the process first-hand.  

After a morning spent among the treetops combing purple olives from the branches, Pasquale brought his harvest directly to the local press. He arrived by tractor hauling the huge crates of olives that by color alone could almost be mistaken for grapes.  He was tired, tense and out of sorts but it was vital that the olives be pressed quickly before fermentation set in at the bottom of the crates where the olives were being crushed by their own weight. 

However, as soon as the fruits began dancing their way up the conveyor belt that would take them through the washing process, the tension began to dissipate.  The responsibility had been removed from his shoulders and onto the those of the miller. He wandered outside to smoke and chat with the other farmers and returned, relaxed and smiling. 

Then he climbed up the rickety ladder to watch the huge crusher, with its three enormous granite wheels, grossly crack and mash the olives.  The course paste then passed through a kneader and mixer called a gramulatore.  (This is where the oil and water molecules coalesce into drops of larger dimensions and is the tricky part of the process, as the temperature and amount of mixing must be carefully controlled.  It is also where the dense, complex and heady perfumes of grass, artichoke, tomato, apple and even banana are released into the air!)  Now his mood turned almost euphoric as he made his way past the extractor, where the oil and water are separated by centrifugal force. 

Pasquale stopped in front of the spout where the oil would appear, and hovered there, legs apart, arms wrapped around his chest, anxiously awaiting the product his hard work and as the thick, green liquid began to spout forth, all the farmers gathered around to watch the vat slowly fill.  The color was brilliant, phosphorescent, alive…almost extra-terrestrial!

The oil was transferred into four 25-liter, stainless-steel containers with big screw caps and loaded back onto the tractor. The four containers sat lonely on the wagon that had previously been piled high with tons of tiny fruit. It was a long day’s work, but one that would provide Pasquale’s family with oil for the whole year and hopefully a little extra to sell to friends like me!