Roadtripp 2007 Week #1- Super Tuscan Summer

Italy. Summer. Tuscany. Friends.

It was an inspired idea. A tag team at the ovens. Something hot NOT in the kitchens.

Judy Witts (THE Diva of Divina Cucina) at the full moon paddle.
La Capitaina Kate Hill at the wheel of the land boat.
and a revolving cast of cooking characters: Donna, Margaux, Elaine and Jane
at the Super Tuscan hideaway hamlet of the famous butcher family of Panzano.
Lamole di Lamole.

Crank up the oven.
Keep it hot for seven days.
Bake, cook, stew and grill in the duomo of a wood fire oven.
We came, we cooked, we conquered.
The village heard of the Due Regazze Americane at the ovens.
Paddles arrived; wood was delivered.
We drove the oven like madwomen.

We cooked:
A handspan bistecchia Pananzzi from Dario's Butcher's fiefdom.
A handsome Pork arista wrapped in rosemary and lard. (see photos here!)
Made to measure three different flour Pizzettas .
Apple dolce with balsamic vinegar.
A very French Cassoulet made with tarbais beans and Dario's exceptional fatty sausages.


My favorite Super Tuscan Souvenirs:

• Cappuccino cocktails Panzano's bar.


• The dirt track commute from Lamole to Panzano.


• Evening cocktails here.


• Porchetta-to-go sandwiches with too much salt.


• Holy card saints and halo pizza paddles.


• The devil with an angel's grin, butcher apron and cleaver in hand!


• Building wood sculptures to burn in the bread oven.


• Jasmin wafting from every nook & cranny in Tuscany.


• Cashmere milk soap washing the salt away.


• Summer linen dresses in the Greve market.


• Dinner at the VIPpa table at SoloCiccia watching Dario's sturdy all-women crew in the kitchen.

That's enough. The Adriatico beckons. Judy sends Elaine and me on our way to Senagallia. More salty adventures await, of the seaside kind. Grazie tante Judy. You are the Queen of The Divine Kitchen of Tuscany. Next time, it's at my place... the feast of the Saints Catherines. The wood is stacked and drying for grilling those magret de canard and foie gras sandwiches..

Summer Road Trip

On the Road 2007:

France

Italy

Slovenia

Croatia

Serbia

Bulgaria

Turkey

Macedonia

Croatia

Italy

France

More to come...

Captain, there’s a fox in my toilet…

Some days begin like this… with the promise of a slow Sunday café-au-lait morning.
Gray spring skies, wall-to-wall clouds.

Still barge floating on a deep green canal.
Young pup playing on the canal bank and barking at frogs,

tall grass dripping night rains, anything that looks new or suspicious.

"Silly dog."
Some days don’t keep their promise.

Weekends are about barge chores, garden projects, long-distance phone calls via Skype to friends in need of a good long chin wag. But what’s with the toilets today? Captains hate problems with toilets. It makes us grumpy before we’ve had our morning tea, coffee, whatever. This morning the forward cabin’s head seems blocked. I jump to the second cabin to pee and the marine WC is filled to the rim with incoming canal water. Yikes! Pump away. I never read about real pirates having to fix the toilets.

Pump and flush; clean filters, shake, rattle, listen. Head number 2 seems ok now. Jump in the shower, get soapy then realize you have to stop to clean the pump filter because the last person to take a shower had long white fur and lots of muddy grit from the frog pond.

“Arret! Quit barking Bacon!” At five months he barks at his shadow, chases his tail and is surprised by bikes and passing boats. “Quiet!”

The day goes. Garden cleaned up, recycle bin filled, wine bottles emptied, light bulbs changed. Friends drop by and help. We gossip. We eat goose rillettes on pain de pruneaux. Small glasses of white wine- Cotes de Gascogne, get refilled. Little pleasures. Hang laundry between showers. Move firewood inside to dry.

Bacon chases two bicycles too far down the towpath.

Big trouble for that little dog!
Get the lead, hook him on the lines.
“Bad dog! Very bad dog!”
“Now stay and be quiet.” I am too old to be mother to a puppy...

Damn toilet. Sometimes I hate being the only Captain in earshot. What’s with this toilet anyway? Something blocking the intake. Something stinks. So I go outside, grab the boat hook and lean over next to the through-hulls.

“oh.”

“Gross. Very gross.” It’s a dead critter. Bloated, floating and blocking the inlet holes. I use the 10-foot barge pole like a broom to sweep it way and out into the canal center to slowly drift toward Bordeaux- 100 kilometers away. Its fat red fur floats around like seaweed. It’s long bushy tale leaves a trail of decay.

“Lady, there’s a fox in your soup.”

Sometimes, being a pirate queen isn't what its cracked up to be.