Good Morning,
This week we’re excited to have Grace Brown sharing with us from Italy. Also, we’re scheduling in people to write for the Gazette just now, so if you’d like to just get in touch!
Best,
Kate + Sinae
Hey, I’m Grace (she/her)(@gr_cebrown). I’m researching my PhD in Glasgow, thinking about eco-socialism, the climate crisis and queer futurity. I’m in Italy this summer, writing my thesis and eating well every day.
5th Sept Day 1
I wake up in Ripatransone, about a fifteen-minute drive from the Adriatic Sea on the east coast of Italy. We’re staying with some family friends for a night after a weekend in Rome. They’re the most Italian-American people I’ve ever been around: sharing stories about Sinatra and James – ‘Jimmy’ – Gandolfini. Last night they cooked us a four-course meal, so even though we’ve slept in today, breakfast is the last thing on my mind.
To tide myself over until lunch I have some taralli – round cookies, just softer than biscotti, flavoured with anise. They don’t leave crumbs when you bite down, but crumble in the mouth without much resistance. I forget to take a picture, but we eat them dipped in hot espresso, looking out over the Apennine Mountains through the kitchen window.
We take a walk around the town. Google Maps says the narrowest alley in Italy is here, but we don’t find it. Too narrow? Jack, our host, knows everything about Ripatransone and the surrounding areas: who owns what building, the co-operative structure of the miles of vineyards we’re looking out upon, the unofficial name of the thin track road in the distance (“via del diavolo,” due to its treacherous nature). He seemingly knows everyone we pass, too, and we get introduced to a former mayor, amongst other locals. It’s charming and like a story book. I feel very Sally Rooney.
Lunch is another feast. We have fresh bread, pecorino cheese wrapped in wax paper, green beans cooked in oil and lemon juice, a salad with bright red meaty tomatoes, and a potato-and-pepper omelette cooked with a tiny bit of parmesan and white wine. I’ve been eating like this for a month now, and while I’m craving spice, there’s nothing really like the simplicity of these foods: fresh crisp vegetables with nothing but oil and salt.
After lunch, Gio and I get back on the road. We stop off at Ascoli Piceno, a medieval town full of marble piazzas. I’ve been in Italy for a month now and seen countless little paesi that fit this description, but these tiny ancient towns wrapped around the edge of a hilltop don’t stop impressing. In Rome, a common joke between the two of us became: ‘do you reckon that’s old?’ marvelling at some wonder of the ancient world, casually tucked beside the pavement. Here, we pass what seem to be more ancient Roman ruins, and barely even glance out of the car window. We stop at Café Meletti to pick up some bottles of the thick, amber coloured amaro that’s been their namesake since since 1870. All trip, Gio has been extolling the praises of olive ascolane. Olives, stuffed with a mix of ground meats (among much else), breaded and deep fried. While wandering through the town we see a cart selling them; then a stall; and then come to realise that this is where they were invented. Ascolane — Ascoli Piaceno — of course! Gio buys a cone full of them, while I get a cone of cherry and pistachio gelato. As we’re walking back to the car, basting in the pleasure of it all, we see a poster advertising a rally for the Fratelli d’Italia, the far-right party that’s set to win the upcoming election.
We drive on, stopping at Norcia. It’s an alpine town in a huge, flat natural basin surrounded by mountain ranges. It’s famous for truffles and salumi, and we buy some fresh pasta and a jar with three pungent black truffles nestled inside. The village was devastated by earthquakes in 2018, and around the town many buildings are still cracked or held up by wooden trellis.
After the truffle detour, we stop at yet another quaint town, after driving through the mountains of Umbria at golden hour. Jack had recommended us a vineyard, and after half a dozen wrong turns, its owner eventually leads us up a stony track to where his cantina is sequestered away. He shows us the terracotta urns he brews his ancient grapes in, and we buy two boxes of natural wine. Most bottles are either €7 or €10.
We plan to make truffle pasta at home, but at the end of a day’s long drive we see the Golden Arches. I get a McChicken and we split some large fries. It’s a farcical end to a day of gastronomic delights, but the hot, salty fries hit the spot in the exact way they always do. It’s enough to see us across the last 45 minutes of our drive, and when we get home to Orvieto we leave the truffles for tomorrow.