Our Rain Soaked Village. Sunday 20th September, 2009.

The piazza below our shuttered windows came to life before we did this morning. The rain was constant although at times it waned to a light shower before returning back to heavy downpours. The sky was a solemn and steely grey and it rumbled with thunder as AJ slept and JR and I put on a pot of coffee. Our lounge room overlooks terracotta tiled roofs and they became deeper in colour and shone, taking on a reflective surface that would disappear when the rain was over and the sun returned to Tuscany.

Every so often I would wander to our bedroom, open the window and watch the umbrellas passing below. Welcoming smells of pizzas and sauces wafted up from the restaurant lined streets, I was getting hungry. Italian radio played somewhere outside and drifted into our room, James Blunt sang his familiar songs and it was so nice to hear an English song after so long.

I can’t remember if I mentioned that my computer was fixed in Provence by the lovely Frank at Cie and Co in Nyons. My emails have been downloaded but not all of them and it is only now I am realising the implications of the loss of some of my data. I have to find a way to retrieve the email address for our Venice exchange in October; it has been a while since our last contact. I have an empty contact list and only have email addresses from my most recent emails. I am sure we will find a solution; I think JR worries a little more than I, I remain optimistic that it will work out fine using a little nouse.

It was well into siesta time when we left the house, still with the rain falling around us. Dal Buchaniere, the restaurant where JR and I ate last night was still open so the three of us wandered in and before long we were sharing an authentic pizza with a floury crust, topped with a rich tomato sauce, mozzarella and spicy salami, simple and beautiful. I followed with a risotto of gamberi and funghi, mama mia life is good.

I am sure you are all wondering if and when we will make our mark on Casteglioni to ensure the town will never forget us. The incident happened today during lunch. Our pitcher of red wine arrived along with a jug of water. I filled our water glasses while the waiter fluffed around us taking away things from the table that three diners would not need. He went to take AJ’s very fancy, goblet style water glass away. He lifted it, looked inside, shrugged his shoulders, smiled and off he went. We ate our delicious lunch and lingered for ages, chatting about AJ returning home to high school and all about the fun he had with the local kids last night. He went to take a sip of his water and said, “Why have I got a candle in my drink?” I immediately went into fits of laughter as I realised what I had done to him. I had filled the candle holder with water which AJ had been sipping from during the course of our lunch, he only realised there was a tea light in it just before we were ready to leave; gosh it was funny. The staff all laughed along, I suspect the waiter had told the others and they were waiting to see when our faux pas would be noticed. I am so glad we are able to provide entertainment to the locals wherever we go.

We spent the afternoon exploring the Centro Storico area of Castiglione taking advantage of a break in the rain. AJ had been up to the highest part of the village belonging to a castle and a maze of cobbled streets lined with atmospheric restaurants, so he was our guide. Along the way he shared with us the stories of mischief he and the kids got up to on Saturday night, it took me back a few years that’s for sure. We found bushes of wild rosemary and noted where they were for the nights we cook JR’s rosemary potatoes. Coming back down into the main street of the village we all devoured our first Italian gelato, my mint and strachiatello was the perfect combination and the girl behind the counter was a doll. Come to think of it, all of the locals so far have been wonderful, warm and welcoming.

We cooked Claudia’s pasta dish for dinner, crescents of al dente pasta tossed with olive oil, salt, blushing tomatoes that tasted so wonderful and juicy, teardrops of snow white boconccini and olives that AJ depipped that were as black as night.

Au Revoir France and Thanks For The Memories. Friday 18th September, 2009.

4.30 is such an uncivilised time to begin the day. We were out the door of Hotel Windsor before 6am to catch our 6.25 train. We sat with our early morning coffees awaiting the announcement of the platform we would depart from, it never came and our early start was delayed by over an hour. We had 13 hours of travel ahead of us, all of our connections looked like they would fall like dominoes and our 8pm arrival in Rome would not be.

We met a few fellow Aussies who were travelling on two trains with us as far as Genova, they, like us, were looking at options and alternatives. JR learned that there was a train leaving for Nice soon, he rebooked us on it and off we went, fellow Aussies too. There was no chance of catching our next connection from Nice to Genova but we learned that there was another Genova train departing only minutes after our arrival. We planned a quick exit and dashed off the platform. It was surely the day for a miracle, the train we boarded as the guard was blowing his whistle for departure was our original Genova bound train that had also been delayed, we were on board and back on track.

As we had boarded in such a hurry, we did not get on in our correct carriage. We had to negotiate our fat suitcases, laptops and backpacks through three carriages, passing disgruntled fellow travellers who were blocking the aisle with their own luggage, some were sitting in the aisles; I would imagine many of these travellers were in the same boat as we and the train carried journeymen and women from quite a few connections. All is never smooth on travel days. When we arrived at our seats, they were occupied by strangers bottoms. We negotiated our rightful ownersip and settled in for a great leg of our journey accompanied by interesting and lively friends. There were older sisters from Marseille en route to Italy for a holiday together to escape the madness of husbands, kids and dogs. One of them gave me a bottle of violet perfume and patted her heart smiling at me. Their limited English and our best French was assisted by a darling Chinese student sitting beside me who had studied French during her 12 months in France, she was on her way to a holiday in Italy too. We all shared treats and stories of life. A girl from the next compartment commented on what a friendly carriage we were. Our babble must have sounded so funny and highly unusual to those not involved.

So, back on track and only one hour behind time, if the train kept chugging along the tracks we would be fine as we had an almost two hour wait until our next train from Genova to Rome. Claudia, our Tuscany and Rome home-exchanger, met us at the station. There was no fear of her missing us and I had wondered during our travels today, what we would look like to her, all dishevelled after our early morning start and 13 hours of travel. Surely we were a sight for sore eyes.

JR spotted her first. She looked typically Italian with light hair and dark tanned skin, she is as slim as a reed and her smile lights up her face and makes her eyes crinkle with kindness. It was so different arriving in Rome accompanied by a local. A taxi was procured for us immediately, after Claudia spoke a few words to the security guy at the taxi rank. In mere minutes we were at her beautiful apartment whose tall, timber doors separated the sanctuary of her home from the busy streets outside. We would return to her apartment for three weeks after spending the next two weeks, beginning tomorrow, at her holiday apartment in Castiglione della Pescaia, a beachside town in Tuscany.

The foyer of her apartment is cavernous and filled with light. The floor and stairs are white and grey marble and in the centre, running floor to the ceiling high above, is a caged elevator I have only ever seen before in movies, I love it. Up four floors we are inside her home floored with glossy, honey toned timber floors. Claudia is so welcoming and shows us around, pointing us all in the direction of our bed for the night before she drives us the two hours to our exchange in Castiglione della Pescaia in the morning. She has prepared a simple Italian inspired dinner. She thinks it is nothing but we are all in raptures. It cements our love for Italian ingredients and the dedication to quality and simplicity they adhere to. Dinner consisted of many little courses. We began with a pasta dish with boconccini cheese, perfectly ripened cherry tomatoes, black olives, salt, and fruity olive oil. It was pure harmony and we have all decided it will be a regular dinner for us during our time in Italy. We had a simple salad of a mix of green leaves straight from her friends kitchen garden, again, only adorned with salt and oil, the balsamic was on the table for those who wished to indulge. There was a plate of slightly leathery bressola, and the most wafer thin and tender whisps of prosciutto crudo which we ate with ripe melon. How blessed we are and as Claudia left the room to answer yet another call or text on her mobile, JR began to laugh saying, “You gotta love home-exchange”. It brings us back to the magic of this concept and the richness it brings to our experiences. Claudia’s friend, Mario, arrives from his work in Romania, he is greying and handsome, warm and friendly. We all realise how much French language we have used and understood. Now, in a strange country surrounded by a new language, we become tongue tied every time we go to open our mouths, English does not come first, French is completely useless, and our Italian, other than culinary words, is practically non-existent. The next few months will be interesting to say the least.

Chef's Table. Tuesday 15th September, 2009.

The old wood oven had been stoked with large branches of oak three hours before my cooking class began at La Mirande in Avignon. The earthy aromas of burning wood drifted up to the lobby where we sat with coffee, tea and a coke for AJ. The boys had time for a quick game of chess before chef was ready to begin class in the ancient underground kitchen, during which AJ was allowed to wander the main square in front of the Papal Palace and enjoy and ice-cream.


There was myself and one other, Gail, a lady from Chicago, cooking with chef tonight. By 8pm the guest table would be filled with 15 hungry diners, we had two hours to prepare the feast.
Chef was lively and fun. His body was of small stature, on top of which sat a craggy face that never stopped smiling. He was 100 miles an hour from the moment we met. First, there were four ducks to prepare. Head, neck and feet were taken care of with a brutal blow of the knife, the necks were reserved to deepen the sauce. I pulled their innards from their little bodies and in their place was put dry sprigs of aromatic thyme and a sprinkle of salt.


We chopped, sliced and diced to our hearts content, chatting all the while about chef’s adventures which rolled of his tongue like scenes from tales of the rich and famous. JR snapped away to capture the spirit in this very special kitchen and the heart of La Mirande Hotel. The wood stove bubbled with heavy copper pots filled with the stars from tonight’s nights menu; potimarron simered in milk and veal stock, the duck necks floated in stock which was reduced to almost nothing, and a large pot of diced eggplant, red pepper, parsley, and tomato which would become a flavoursome ratatouille was stirred from time to time using a wooden spoon almost as tall as myself.


We cut tiny apples into segments for the clafouti and after the batter was mixed and poured into the heavy, rectangular copper pan, chef trotted it over to the hotel kitchen to be baked in an oven with a precise regulation of heat which could not be obtained with the beautiful 122 year old wood stove we were using. The hotel kitchen was more sterile and hotel kitchen like than our wood and copper filled hideaway deep under the city of Avignon that was filled with soft and comforting aromas which were very fitting for the rainy night it was.

AJ returned from his adventures on time having enjoyed an hour or so of freedom. He poked his nose about the pots and pans, investigating what would be for dinner as chef snipped the fins from small red snapper and sliced off delicate fillets of flesh, this was to be second course. Other diners began to arrive; two lovely sisters from Newport Beach, California, a couple from Melbourne were hot on their heels. Before long the room was filled and chef whisked us all deeper underground to the cellar where we all exchanged pleasantries and shared an aperitif of white wine.

Back in the kitchen we sat around the central wooden table, large baskets of chewy bread had been cut and the table awaited 15. The potimaron (pumpkin) soup was the debutante tonight, what a way to start. The veal stock had given it a distinctly meaty depth, very different to my lighter style pumpkin soup and so much better I think. Oven roasted hallibut and pan fried red snapper were served on a bed of tender leeks, blanketed in a sauce of balsamic and olive oil, to the side sat a ripe fig whose ripe flesh displayed itself like a flower in bloom. It would have been rude to lick my plate but I wanted to, was everyone else thinking the same? The duck lay on a bed of rattatouille and was moist and tender, not a little bit fatty, the sauce was quite light, perfectly seasoned too.

“It’s a good table tonight”, chef whispers in my ear. Here we are in France, 15 strangers, coming together over the love of food. There is not a word of French spoken until Chef encourages us to all sing a few of his patriotic ballads, one, an ode to the beloved bridge of Avignon. It is a great group, seven of which are Australian which is quite a treat for us after being away from home for so long. We spend quite a bit of time chatting with Lindsay and Susie, a gorgeous couple from Sydney. The table are quite interested about our adventures and shoot questions up, down, and across the table and we have a right old time sharing our stories and learning about theirs. I grow quite fond of our English speaking, French eating table of friends as the night ticks along and the apple clafouti makes its appearance.

Chef holds the floor with his stories of tripping the light fantastic with the who’s who of the world, what he has cooked for them over the years and the funny predicaments he has found himself in, he maintains his 100 miles an hour approach to life, his energy never wanes.

We leave our underground haven of good food and good times to enjoy a coffee in the lobby. The young boy ballses up the tea and coffee order good and proper, I encourage him to get a pen and paper to save him taking the order a fifth time, he does which is a relief to us all. Chef comes to join us, as does a friend of his, a professional magician who holds the floor for a while, enthralling AJ, and one of the chef’s table guests who has been practicing magic of his own all night, with confuddling tricks of disappearing coins, my brain just cannot get around it, neither can AJ’s.

The rain is still coming down, in the headlights it makes the shape of a lit sparkler as we drive towards it, it lasts all the way home to our little village in the hills. Alex’s voice comes from the back seat of the car, “Thanks for shaping me into the person I am”. If he only knew that there were no thanks needed, it has been the greatest pleasure of my lifetime and will remain so forever.