My mother has always prided herself on her huge american-style salads which are a combination of everything available at the market-place including lettuce, tomatoes, carrots, cucumbers bell peppers, fennel, sprouts, onions and radishes.  And if it happens to be taking the place of a meal, she’ll add some form of protein such as cheese, tuna or hard-boiled eggs to boot.  But it doesn’t stop here.  On top of this goes a generous quantity of her favorite salad dressing made of oil, vinegar (or lemon), garlic, mustard powder, Worcestershire sauce, dill, salt and pepper.

This type of salad goes against the grain of most Italians who believe that salad should be eaten after the second course in order to clean the palate in preparation for fruit and dessert. Thus the simpler the dressing the better, ie: oil and salt.  Furthermore, this provides an excellent opportunity to appreciate the prescious extra-virgin, cold-pressed olive oil many have combed the Ligurian, Tuscan, Umbrian, Campanian or Puglian countrysides to find.

I have come to appreciate both types of salads, but I have an italian friend who told me the Neapolitan proverb on salads and it seemed to me the perfect balance between the two.  First the lettuce is mixed in an earthenware pot that has been rubbed with garlic.  Then, she said, it takes 3 people to make the dressing: 

“Un prodigo per l’olio, un’avaro per l’aceto e un saggio per il sale”…

“A spendthrift for the oil, a miser for the vinegar and a sage for salt.”

Text and fotos by artist Penny Ewles-Bergeron

Courtesy of Italian Notebook

Few ancient sites have the power to thrill like Pompeii and Herculaneum – the cities Vesuvius destroyed in AD79. Here are history and beauty on a overwhelming scale. But should you ever succeed in becoming blasé about wandering the streets of a Roman town, the suburban baths of Herculaneum will stun you anew.

Built in the 40s AD, the baths occupied a mezzanine terrace between this successful, wealthy city and the seashore. It was the manner of the city’s destruction that allows us this vivid picture of the past.. Unlike Pompeii, Herculaneum was not crushed by the weight of stone raining from the skies. When the super-hot pyroclastic flow rushed through the city it carbonised anything and anybody in its path, including 250 poor souls waiting on the shore to be rescued. suburbanbaths2 The Suburban BathsBut when 20 metres of mud and ash pushed its way into the streets and houses, many structures stayed upright.

Sumptuously decorated in marble and stucco, these spaces, with patches of lava still clinging to the walls, really do transport us to a vanished culture. Poignant and beautiful.

I found the little puppy on a morning walk with my dog. He was curled up by a gate, miserable, wet and all alone. As often happens in this part of Italy, he had been torn from his mother and siblings and then simply thrown away.

I picked him up; he was breathing heavily and bubbles were coming out of his nose. What was I doing? I already had a dog, a big German shepherd named Sabra and my husband would not be at all happy if I brought home another dog. I put him down; he looked around, totally lost, and then frantically scrambled towards my feet. I picked him up again.

I thought… I’ll take him closer to town. That way someone passing by will see him and take him home. As I walked along the panoramica, the little puppy sat quietly in the crook of my arm, content for the warmth and company.

I put him down gently at the entrance to S. Agata. “There you go little guy.  Someone will surely pick you up”, I assured him.  He wandered away aimlessly when I suddenly realized a steep ravine yawned at the side of the road. Sabra studiously ignored the unfolding drama. I ran to catch him and realized I just couldn’t leave him there, all alone, to fend for himself. “Nope,” I said scooping him up, “you’re coming with me.”

When we arrived home I put the damp pup on the terrace and gave him some warm milk. He seemed anxious to eat, but gagged and couldn’t swallow, so before calling the vet, I wrapped him up in a blanket where he immediately plummeted into a deep sleep.

When the vet arrived he looked the dog over, clucking at what he heard in the stethoscope, and then diagnosed him with a severe case of bronchitis. His chest and throat, he said, were terribly inflamed and that was why he could not swallow any food. Puppy was injected with two different antibiotics and the vet told us to repeat the shots for another two days and hope that he survived.

I got out my camera and took a few pictures of the little tyke. Then I wrote to all my dog-loving friends, attached the pictures and asked for suggestions about a name. The response was immediate and unequivocal: Lucky.

Needless to say, Lucky survived and 11 days later, the time came for me to say good-bye and take him to his new owners. I was happy because he was going to a great home with four children and a 6-month old puppy playmate. What more could a little dog want than to play all day and never be alone?

It was hard to see him go. He’d morphed into a totally different little animal: always underfoot, playful, strong and belligerent. I’m really going to miss him.

Sabra, with a sigh of relief, won’t…

versione italiana

It would be hard to argue that Italians love to eat and I had heard many accounts, which to me seemed totally out of proportion, about the amount of food served at weddings, baptisms and first communions in Campania. So when my husband and I were asked to interpret for friends coming to S. Giorgio La Molara (land of the Titanic Chessboards) to take part in their relatives’ wedding, we knew we were in for a big meal.  S. Giorgio however is in a poor part of the country so we assumed this would be a simpler and cozier affair and nothing like the fancy feeding frenzies of Naples or Caserta.  Little did we know how wrong we could be.

Eating began before the wedding with a spread of canapés, sandwiches, confetti (sugared almonds), cakes, wine, beer and soft drinks at the family’s house.  At 11:00 the bride left for church and by 1:00 o’clock the couple were happily married and the honking motorcade was noisily winding its way to the restaurant.

The DJ named Antonio ushered the bride and groom into the restaurant with a strident version of Wagner’s Bridal Chorus and all 304 of us sat down to an antipasto of fried and marinated fish, aptly named Fantasia del Marinaio (fisherman’s fantasy). Then came the Preludio S. Giorgio (S. George’s prelude), two separate courses of cured meats and cheeses.  We then plunged back into the sea on a plate of salmon and lobster Insalata del Dio Nettuno (Neptune’s salad) as the guests insistently banged their knives on the half-empty bottles of wine, signalling they wanted a passionate kiss from the bride and groom.

At 4:00 pm, as Antonio embarked on a series of classical Neapolitan songs – accompanied by his over-amplified accordion - we passed the threshold of the first pasta course and Lasagnette della Casa, Cavatelli ai Funghi Porcini and Orecchiette Gamberetti e Rucola (orecchiette with shrimp and rocket) were dutifully downed.  The rest of the meal consisted of two main fish courses, followed by two main courses of meat - divided by lemon sherbet. Then came fruit cocktail, ice-cream and enough wedding cake and sweets to feed an army. The assault ended at quarter to one in the morning.

But it wasn’t until 5pm that we really understood what we were in for and decided just to relax and enjoy the ride. I began observing the guests, most of whom were from farming families similar to those of the bride and groom.  Everyone was well dressed, but few looked comfortable: the men stood awkwardly in their new suits and women crossed their ankles instead of their knees.  As I looked at these warm, generous and hard-working people who had welcomed us as family, as they mingled, drank, danced and cackled amongst themselves, I realized with delight that there wasn’t a single nose-job or face-lift anywhere to be seen.

…and as Antonio ripped into a rousing rally of ‘O Sarracino, the bride slipped into a pair of beach shoes and hit the dance floor…

english version

L’amore degli Italiani per il cibo è fuori discussione ed avevo sentito molti racconti, forse esagerati, delle quantità di portate servite in Campania ai banchetti di nozze, battesimi, o prime comunioni.
Perciò, invitati da amici ad accompagnarli come interpreti al matrimonio della loro nipotina italiana a S. Giorgio la Molara, ci aspettavamo un lauto pranzo. Però essendo S. Giorgio in una tranquilla zona agricola pensavamo ad un ricevimento ben più semplice e familiare dei luculliani banchetti di Napoli o Caserta.
Come ci sbagliavamo…

Si cominciò a mangiare ben prima della cerimonia, con il rinfresco di rustici, tramezzini, dolci, aperitivi alcoolici ed analcolici mentre la sposa si preparava. Partiti alle 11 per la chiesa alle 13 la nuova coppia era felicemente unita e si muoveva col suo rumoroso corteo verso il ristorante.

Il DJ Antonio introduceva gli sposi in sala sulle note roboanti della Marcia Nuziale di Wagner e con gli invitati (304!) prendemmo posto davanti al primo antipasto, Fantasia del Marinaio di pesce fritto e marinato. Poi il Preludio S. Giorgio, due portate di affettati e formaggi; quindi altro tuffo in mare con l’ Insalata di Nettuno di salmone e scampi. Già da un po’ i convitati reclamavano un bacio degli sposi battendo le posate sulle bottiglie semivuote.

Verso le 16, Antonio lanciava una serie di classici napoletani, accompagnati dalla sua super-amplificata fisarmonica, e ci traghettava nei primi piatti: Lasagnette della Casa, Cavatelli ai Porcini, Orecchiette Gamberi e Rucola , tutto da noi doverosamente consumato. Il resto del pranzo consisteva di due secondi piatti di mare e due secondi piatti di terra, ovviamente intervallati da un rinfrescante sorbetto di limone.
A conclusione (o colpo di grazia?) composizione di frutta, gelato, buffet di dolci sufficiente in varietà per un’armata, ed ovviamente la monumentale Torta Nuziale. L’assalto terminò ben oltre la mezzanotte.

Era stato comunque già verso l’ora del tè che avevamo compreso la portata degli avvenimenti e deciso di goderci la festa ed ignorare l’orologio. Osservai meglio i presenti, molti, come le famiglie degli sposi, agricoltori per generazioni. L’elegante abbigliamento provocava qualche scomodità, col passare delle ore, ma l’atmosfera allegra e socievole legava tutti, conosciuti o appena incontrati, ballando o sorseggiando insieme. Inoltre, totale assenza di nasi ritoccati o lifting.

Verso il tardi il DJ aumentava il ritmo ed il volume, la sposa si toglieva i tacchi sulla pista, e le danze continuavano…