A Mass of Odds and Ends

Three times a week I and other beautiful lissom young things exercise in a (mirror-free) gym run by a stoic German woman called Sabina who has survived many hardships in the last few months, a long dramatic story involving a doomed house (site of a brutal double murder four years ago - oh yes, everything happens here), rival gym instructors and the carabinieri. Another time, perhaps. Recently we noticed that the ages on our identity documents were beginning to intrude on our general flexibility and we needed some yoga. Twilight, intrigued in an offhand feline way by the idea of a species that can’t lick its navel with a leg thrown casually behind its ear, gave yoga a brief thought before shuddering with disgust at our clumsiness.

I love notebooks. The groaning shelves my study bear witness to this passion, and every now and then I try my hand at making one myself. This is my attempt at renewing my recipe book, a battered notebook with torn pages, liberally illustrated with splashes of wine and dabs of butter. There is lots of inspiration on the internet, I particularly like Erin Zamrzla’s work, you can see it here , and I love these notebooks made by Attic Journals. My solution is nowhere near as elegant - I took a clip file, covered it with newspaper and stuck some of my favourite recipes on the cover, then covered the whole thing with sticky-backed plastic.

For the pages I cut newspaper down to A4 size then stuck one recipe per page -that way I didn’t even have to rewrite any of the recipes. In the case of old recipe books that were falling apart I took the best recipes out and glued them onto pages as well.

I haven’t had time to write anything today, Sam turns eighteen in a few days time and we are hunting for the perfect party venue. One place is too “shabby”, another too “smart”, the one I like (in centro storico) is “too central”. “Everyone will come,” he tells me, “and all the old ladies will know about it.” There’s no arguing with that.

None of our children suffer from false modesty and they had a lovely time putting on different scarves and wrist warmers in front of the mirror until the moment came when I ushered them outside. On a day which switched from bright sunshine to snow storms modelling cashmere outdoors seemed hard work. Each time I opened the door to usher one frozen model indoors and call for another snatches of the Entertainer, played by one hand, drifted onto the terrace.  Both boys have recently taken up the piano, but they tell me that due to their inherent natural talent they don’t need any formal lessons, preferring to do it their own way. In Sam’s case this (naturally enough) means picking out the notes of “My Way” whilst his younger brother is following his lead in learning The Entertainer.  Finally I called for all models at once, leaving Aldo in peace with the washing up and some mellow jazz on his ipod.

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.