Nero di Seppia

Had a hankerin' for squid ink pasta, so I decided to give it a go.

The recipe is as simple as can be, just add a tiny packet of squid ink into the mix of eggs, semolina and olive oil.  Salt isn't necessary, as the ink is pretty salty on it's own.

The thing about making pasta is that it isn't hard at all.  It just takes an understanding of the right feel of the dough, and the desire to actually make it, which can take quite a while.

A few things I learned this time around:

Run the pasta through the pasta maker, lightly 'puff puff' with flour (does that make sense?), and tangle immediately into nests.  I had been advised to let the pasta hang and dry out a bit before making the nests, but as the consistency of my dough was already, well, perfect (la la la), there was no risk of the nests turning into jumbled, gooey blobs.  If I let it dry more than a few minutes, it would crack when I tried to tangle it.  So.

I finished the pasta up and almost immediately set a little water on to boil.  I couldn't wait to see how it was, if it had actually worked.  Chopped up some marinated squid, and tossed it in a pan with a little reduced wine, shallots, capers, lemon juice and butter.  Prezzemolo over the top, and when FL came home, cosi sporco from a long, cold day at work, I presented him with a gorgeous plate of black linguine, little white squid tentacles waving bravely out of the tangles of the nest, the perfume of salt and sea and vibrant green parsley steaming up.  He deemed it delicious, just perfect, and though I believed him, FL is not exactly my harshest critic.  Before I could hide the evidence of my experiment, in came papa bear, Giorgio.

He is nothing if not the strong, silent type, and tends to eat his lunch and dinner with merely a grunt of approval or distaste, depending on how suitable he finds the meal.  Giorgio walked directly over to the pan of linguine and lifted the lid.

"Porco dio!" he exclaimed, "You actually made squid ink linguine!"

He scooped up the remainder of the linguine and rambled back to his seat.  FL, Paola, Middle Brother Matteo and myself all paused to watch the first bite.

Giorgio chewed and chuckled.  "Cavolo, everything this girl touches turns to gold.  You could sell this!"

I smiled modestly and FL beamed.  Il Nido the pasta company seems like not such a bad idea.
 


Now that the weather is pleasant I have been walking the mountain every day.  The "fire road", as it would be called in Marietta, runs at a straight 45* incline for a few kilometers, and then hits a real hike at the final peak, which is practically, at least to my sweat-bleary eyes, about a kilometer at 80*.  A really awesome work out, and with my head phones in at a fast pace I feel exalted when I hit the top.  There I am every day after lunch, powering up the mountain, throat raw and heart pounding, totally in the zone, and it has been several weeks that I pass the same two ladies getting their afternoon workout the exact same way.  These ladies, however, are about 80 years old, and nuns to boot.  So while I am there, all of 25, in running shorts with an ipod strapped to my arm, there are these sweet tiny nuns, hiking the same hills in habits, a tiny black umbrella to ward off the sun, their 80 year old bodies functioning at a fitness level that I probably will never reach.

After several weeks of passing each other on a daily basis, smiling and waving, the smaller of the two flagged me down, and asked me my name.  I told her Eleonora, cause it's simpler that way, and explained that I was American (which always gets "oooh, really"s) and was living here with my moroso, Friulano for fidanzato, Italian for...serious boyfriend.  They wished me good luck, and we went on our way.  Two days later, we saw each other again.

"Eleonora!" the little one cried as we passed.  "Eleonora, I only remembered afterward- the day we met, the day you told us your name, was the day of Sant'Eleonora!  I thought it was so lovely to have met you on your special day!"

God, I loved this.  Grinned from ear to ear, my heart fluttered a bit.


Sunday is FL's birthday.  He has requested a grand brunch (piles of egg-in-a-holes!) and bloody marys.  Am off right now to pick up some flowers and blue paper to make a banner.

il nido

"Il nido" means nest in Italian...i nidi plural.  I love this word.  I got to thinking about nests, dreaming about nests, taking note of my desire to "nest" and what that means, considering the intricacy and beauty of nests, etc.  Saw one high up in a tree at Bosc di Sot this weekend, and I took it as a good sign.  Then I got the inkling to make pasta.  The most beautiful pasta, I think, comes in a nest.  It could be linguine or spaghetti or angel hair, just tossed into a beautiful nido as it dries.  Dry, it is fragile and swirly, and seems as purposely tangled as elegantly wind-blown hair.  Cooked, it becomes soft, and supple, fluid, still swirly.  And then, even after all the trauma of a rapid boil, when set in a bowl, sauced and seasoned as it may be, it is still a nest.  What is more comforting then a piping hot nest of spaghetti?

Nests make me think of Easter colors, baby blues and soft greys and buttercup yellows, and of sweet song birds.  Nests make me tranquil and hungry, as what is actually done in a nest?  Sleeping and eating.  And waiting around blissed out in a polka dotted shell till it's time to be born.  It's a utopia, or at least it seems that way to me.

So it is Monday afternoon, and I am making nests.  Linguine, to be specific.

 The first step is fairly simple...as long as you do it right.  3 eggs dropped into the well dug into the center of a mountain of 300g of semolina flour.  Salt and olive oil, and I popped in a little pinch of nutmeg and cinnamon.  Whisk, but be sure not to lose your mountain!  Slowly incorporate the flour into the beaten eggs, allowing the mountain to implode upon itself.  Once it is well incorporated, kneed.  And kneed and kneed and kneed.

Then make a ball, and allow to sit, covered, for half an hour.  Once it has sat and risen a bit it should be firm and elastic.

Roll it out, cut into strips, and slide into the pasta  maker.

These flattened sheets then go right into the setting marked "linguine" (or the one that makes thin, flat noodles).

Well floured and hung up to dry, after an hour they will be ready to be tossed into nests.

The pasta can be cooked fresh after an hour, or sealed and kept in the refrigerator (up to three days) or the freezer (a month).  If left to dry out completely, about 24 hours, the pasta will take on the consistency of that found in stores, and can be kept in the pantry, in an airtight container, for several months.  The key is allowing enough time for the pasta to dry, so that mold is avoided.

The reason I slipped nutmeg and cinnamon into the linguine is because tonight, Paola, FL's mom, is going to make ragu'.  I love a hint of cinnamon and nutmeg in my ragu' but Paola would have a fit if I tried to slip some into her sauce.  So I hid my secret ingredient right inside the noodle.  Pretty brilliant, huh?

I plan on making pasta again tomorrow...maybe with a little saffron or red pepper...and if it dries right I am going to send it to my friend Jane, in Philly.  If it get there ok, if she cooks it and says that it is fresh and perfect, the little nidi undamaged...then who knows?  Maybe i'll send you some someday.

I could tell it was well into morning on Sunday when we woke up, as there was a harsh line of hot sunshine slicing over my shoulder and forearm.  Sometimes, when the wind blows at night, the shutters move just slightly, creating a perfect gap for the position of the 9am sun.  This is my alarm clock many a morning, and as by 9:30 the sun has moved enough to send the sword of brightness up from my arm and onto my terrorized eyes, I tend to be grumpy upon waking.

FL rolled over and tapped my shoulder.

"Grr," I said.

"Do you know what I was dreaming about," he purred?

Oh, Jesus Christ, I thought.  Not this morning.  I had eaten enough spaghetti Carbonara the night before to feed a pack of wild dogs, and it was sitting in my hot stomach, dense.  I wanted to kick off the covers and stretch out and lay, hide from the sunlight, cool down, digest.  I froze and pretended to still be asleep.

"Piccola mia..."  He nuzzled my ear with his nose.  "Do you know what I dreamed?"

"Baaah, no.  Yes!  Probably.  I'm very hot, and grumpy.  Please leave me alone."

"I know something that will make you ungrumpy," he said, sounding so sure of himself I opened my eyes just to roll them.

"Alright, Mr. Wonderful, what's that?" 

"Eggsina'ol!"

Ah!  The sweet man wanted eggs-in-a-hole.  Good plan.

"Wait!" I cried, "Do you not have to go jackhammer?"  I had been sadly expecting the moment when he would arise to head off to work at Bosc di Sot, leaving me feeling v. lonely and unhelpful under the covers.

"I'd do a better job of that here, no?"  Ah.  There it was.  I grinned in spite of myself.  "No, piccola, today we're just going to relax, I think."

"Whoo-hoo," I whooped.  "Let's go get you some breakfast!"

We carried our giant American coffee maker, plus filters and Illy coffee, up to the kitchen.  I had FL slice two thick pieces of ossocollo (substitute for country ham) which I fried up in a pan.  In went a huge chunk of buffalo-milk butter, a little salt, and two slices of Ciabatta, holes cut out in the center with a wine glass.  Eggs went in the middle, seasoned with fresh ground pepper, pepperoncini and oregano, cooked just long enough to secure their suspension in the bread, yolk fluid and glorious.  I let the holes toast until golden, and then served up the prettiest plate of eggs-in-a-hole that I had ever seen.  FL set down a pitcher of fresh orange juice (he loves juicing oranges, I guess the same way i love peeling eggs), and I took a yogurt out of the fridge.  The coffee steamed, I spiked mine with goats milk.

Sipping my coffee, spooning my yogurt, watching FL devour his breakfast, I felt waves of love (as I always do when watching him eat), and said, "Amore, you are going to fit in so perfectly in America."

"I know," he said, and put a yolk-soaked cut of hole into his mouth.  He chewed thoughtfully.  "It's just amazing, you know?"

"What, darling?"

 "How good the hole is."  He shook his head and mopped up more yolk with another piece, looking at it admiringly.  "It's the best part."

"Yes, darling."

It was a gorgeous day.  From the kitchen window we could see up over Mt. Quarin, the sky an electric blue, streaks of clouds.  Feral cats played in the garden, no longer a nuisance, it was all too idyllic.  The first hints that spring exists, maybe not too far away.  We decided to take the motorcycle out.  FL put on his leather pants (so incredible), and we were off.

For hours we rode, out through Collio, around the hills, through valleys.  The grass was still a winter-parched yellow, the grape vines still bare and cold, rows and rows of sticks and wires.  The Julian Pre-Alps peeked up crystal clear over the horizon.  Collio at the cusp of Spring, I thought.  It was so warm.  People were out along the road, walking, riding bikes.  We made it into Slovenia and just kept going.

I love riding on the motorcycle.  It's an amazing place to think, and everything seems to come so clear and steady.  Being a passenger on a motorcycle offers a unique opportunity to feel and see adventure in a relaxed state.  I don't have to exert myself, the thrills just come at me, and all the while I'm snuggled up and secure on FL's back.  FL says he can practically feel my mind whirring, can feel my thoughts, he says there's so much energy holding on to him.

We stopped at a roadside store that sells homemade products made from honey.  There were bee houses (hives?) all around, and the shop sold soaps, shampoos, perfumes, grappa, cookies, and even salami made with their honey.  I picked out a beautiful bottle of liquor made from honey, lemon, ginseng and other such things.  I'll save it for when Marion and Kalla come to visit.

The sun began to set so we made our way to Porchis.  I told Fabio that I had recently learned to play Briscola, to which he insisted that we try a hand.  Lord, did I get schooled.

"Count!" He screamed.  "You have to have to count, always!  How many cards do I have?  You have to know!  You have 32, I win already, do that thing with the cards."

By "that thing" he meant shuffle.  The Italians are awed, absolutely awed by my ability to shuffle.  They just sort of put them in a pile on the table and mix them around.  My shuffling makes me seems like a Briscola shark, but apparently I'm way off the mark.

"COUNT!"

Every turn Fabio would whoosh in, win the hand, take the cards, hollering, "Big mistake!  You know why?" and poor me, muttering outloud trying to keep up with the math, "wait, 4, so 28, no 30, plus, wait, 11?  11?!"

The last hand had a crowd of old men at my back, hollering at Fabio and pointing at which card I was to play, jabbering in Friulano, cursing, laughing, encouraging, advising.  I won the hand, but I was beat.

"Aha, frute," Fabbio lovingly boasted, "sei bravissima!  Just a little practice, that's all.  The key to Briscola is to count and curse."

Exhausted, FL and I curled up by the fireplace.  It was so warm, the sun so pink through the windows, I began to drift off slightly, so slightly...

Hunger caught up with me.  It was Sunday night, afterall, and I won't lie: I had been thinking about that asparagi/brie/prosciutto cotto pizza all week.  Back we went to Leon d'Oro, my heart pumping from excitement and food lust.  This time I tried a variation: radicchio di Treviso, salsiccia e brie (I have a soft spot in my heart for radicchio ever since I spent that week with that sweet farmer in Veneto), and it didn't disappoint.  A sorbetto to boot, and I was a happy camper.

At home we snuggled up, warm again warm again under the duvet, to watch Rebel Without a Cause and sip chamomile.  I was sleepy in the best way:  after a full day, on a full tummy, in the crook of a strong arm.   

Things are looking up, up, up my loves.

A loophole has been found in the extracomunitari-meets-Italian-work-force battle, enabling me to, well, work.

This communist bar- EventualMente- that I have been so lovingly roped into is not a public place.  It is a "Circolo", a private club, which means that it requires a membership and fees upon entrance.  There are laws, naturally, which govern if a circolo is abiding by the laws of being a circolo (namely, everyone must have a membership card while inside the bar, which forfeits medical rights and other such things, enter-at-your-own-risk and so forth), but outside of that it is self-governing.  As a result, the only requirements for employees are that they carry an insurance card in their pockets at all times.  No work permits, no visas.  what a relief!  knowing that i will have a little money in my pocket has lifted my spirits tremendously, and having somewhere to report to on a regular basis has done the same.  As for now I'll only work three to four days a week, but that is just perfect- still enough time to get my yoga in, work on the wine exporting, and help out with Bosc di Sot.

The work is rather fun as well.  Basic barista duties, serving beer, wine and coffee to the masses, and there's always people to talk to, always music and cards.  I'm getting rather good at Briscola.  As the place is run by Condor and LucaBello, I haven't much to fear- they hired me knowing full well what a spaz I am.  I asked Condor last night if this all means that he is my boss.  He said, no, that he is the boss of no one.  Oh, that's right, I said, I forgot- we're communists. 

Lots more work to do on the house.  Apparently there is something wrong with the chimney over the cast iron stove in the kitchen and it has to be closed up.  This will mean more knocking down walls, more dust.  i refuse to be a part of this.  after knocking out the ceilings last week my throat and nose have not recovered.  my nose is constantly bloody, and i wake up all clogged and gooey, nasty drainage in my throat.  and this is the result with a face mask on!  there's no telling what's up with poor FL's lungs, but i think he's genetically disposed to be tough.  i, on the other hand, am a gentle fiorellina and require more protection.  the bathroom, though, is coming along wonderfully!  we got rid of the ceiling and exposed the gorgeous old wooden beams.  new walls are in, and we have ordered an glorious glorious bathtub.  the next step will be tiles and color schemes- we're thinking either emerald, or a soft mint if we get chocolate hardwood setting for the sinks.  vediamo.

good news on the wine front.  i'm getting some interest, some dialogue.  people in this business are, for the most part, unbelievably kind and helpful, so the energy is right, and my hopes are high.

other than that...fabio and simona at porchis returned safely from their vacation in Egypt (mad, but apparently is was gorgeous and sunny and all-inclusive at the 5-star resort for something like 300 euro including airfare, so...bombs and armed guards might not be such a bad trade-off.  they are definitely the only jerks in friuli with SUNTANS).  anyway, thank god they made it back safely, because now there's PORCHIS again!  lalala! 

and, mmm, FL's mom is making octopus salad tonight...can't wait!