A Mass of Odds and Ends

Until that watery sunshine gets a little stronger and we all emerge from sitting squashed in front of the wood burning fire chocolate is on our minds. The Italian type, made with cocoa, rich and satisfying, a meal in itself. With or without chilli peppers.

Quantities for one cup

• pour milk into cup
• one heaped dessertspoon of cocoa
• one flat dessertspoon of sugar
• one third dessertspoon of flour
• optional chilli pepper

Mix the dry ingredients in a pan until they are well amalgamated, breaking down the lumps of cocoa.

Add a little of the milk and mix into a thick smooth paste. This will take a while.

Gradually add the rest of the milk stirring vigorously, put it on the stove and heat gradually, stirring. When it is almost boiling and thick enough take off heat.

The chilli peppers are optional. Sam has perfected the use of these - he adds two per person at the heating stage, stirring and slightly crushing them. When the chocolate is ready he takes them out. Sometimes he doesn’t, which results in people running full tilt for the kitchen sink and water. They add a piquant bite to the chocolate.

Quantities: these are personal, if you like your hot chocolate very thick and mousse like then this recipe is good, if you prefer it thinner reduce the quantity of flour. Some people prefer more sugar, a little less cocoa. It may take a while and a few cups to find the right balance.

Tim likes eating alone. But it takes patience…

Night the dog wearies first…

Smokey tires quite quickly…

Finally even Twilight has had enough.

On these cold dark winter days no one feels like going outside into the jungle of a garden to pick some fresh rosemary and sage, but I was getting fed up with the jam jar on the counter which frequently tipped its contents all over my chopping board just as I sliced bread for toast. All you need to make this is two small bottles (it helps if they are rectangular or square like these two), a piece of wire and a nail.

Wrap the wire tightly around the top of one bottle, leave about five or six centimetres between the bottles (you need to experiment to see how much the bottles tip towards each other, obviously you don’t want them to do so too much otherwise the water begins to pour out) then wrap it around the second bottle. When you hang them on the nail they naturally tip towards each other.

It’s market day today. If you look closely at the stairs leading up to our Ospedale (Mogliano’s health clinic) you’ll see the dark blue carabinieri car, an essential part of the Tuesday landscape.  Their presence does not indicate that a crime has been apprehended; only the most persistent and determined criminals get away with it in Mogliano. The reason that the carabinieri are everywhere in Mogliano is because they like going out. They are, after all, Italian, they love gossip, and they all love the bar. 

Despite a completely blameless past I began to feel shortly after I first started living here that the Italian forces of law and order were keeping a very close watch on my every move.  And this was at least five years before I shocked them right down to the tips of their highly polished boots by going into our local caserma to interview them on police procedure for my book. They stopped my car every few days and whilst going through my documents yet again would cast dubious looks through the window at the sea of dogs, boys, building tools and books on the backseat, sure that it was all a front for something.  You can only imagine their delight when they caught me out a few weeks ago. My European drivers licence (issued after a mere ten month wait) registered me as born in Loro Piceno, a village five minutes away. Our Mareschiallo, still frowning disapprovingly at my feeble response to his question “So where is that book, then?”, held up my drivers licence triumphantly, “Do you realise that this is a false document? I KNOW you were born in Cape Town.” Certain that he would follow me around the village until I sorted it out I did so immediately, and this morning I can go into town with my head held high, for the time being on the right side of the law.

Securing her bronze eyepiece in position my stepgranddaughter finally asked the question that has been bugging her for some time, “Chi commanda qui?” She watches her grandfather and I with the intense expression of an anthropologist studying a rare and doomed tribe , but I suspect all four of our children would like to know who is really in charge. 

When we decided to get married we were taking a leap into the unknown. I’ve lived in two continents and gave up on proper jobs over twenty years ago whereas Aldo left his childhood home to move in with me and has always worked. Combining our children, our cultures and muddling along in three languages (the boys and Aldo talk to one another in dialect when they don’t want me to understand…) we’ve reached a point where neither of us can really answer her question. Aldo clearly controls the kitchen, from purchase of food (”Why did you buy THIS pasta?” he’ll ask, eyes swivelling skywards when I point out that it was on special offer) to preparation, including washing up and general management. I’m in charge of laundry, simply because the sound of the washing machine working in the mornings when I am on my own makes me feel that things are happening, even if my work is becalmed. We seem to pass the big decisions backwards and forwards, never sure who decides what, but Andrea wanted a proper answer. I suggested Aldo but he pointed to Jasper, who professed shock: “The only person I am in charge of here is Mum.” Aldo nodded sagely.

Winter days start abruptly at six forty when Sam and I hunch our shoulders against the cold and pick our way gingerly to the frozen car. I’ve usually forgotten to cover the windscreen with a cloth (Aldo’s solution to frosted windscreens) which means that I pick frenetically at the thick layer of ice with whatever comes to hand, (usually a cd case) clearing a small circle which enables me to peer out as I navigate up our road, occasionally opening my door (the driver’s window hasn’t opened for a while…) to check that we’re not hitting the verge as the windscreen wipers and heater work on clearing the ice.

Back home after delivering both children to school, battling for space in front of our wood-burning stove with four chilly cats, I’m working on setting up an Etsy shop, selling my gold and silver jewellery and cashmere scarves.  The cats are delighted, settling down with evident gusto on the folded pile of scarves waiting to be photographed.  Do email me if you’d like to receive the Etsy shop address.