The Story-tine:  Manchego + Truffle Oil = Better than ________ (Fill in the blank as you wish.)

The day after New Years day our neighbors held a small gathering, and we were invited.  It wasn’t a big event, just some champagne and nibbles.  Tim swears he was told to come any time after 1 PM.  We arrived around 1:30 to find that the party was winding down.  Except for a Swedish woman and us, everyone else still clustered around the appetizer table were from The Netherlands who chose Spain, as most northern European transplants do, for the sunshine and mild winters.  To our relief they all spoke at least a little English.  So, our job from thereon was to be charming – didn’t want anyone to resent the switch to the minority language just because we showed up!  As latecomers no less.

While the invitation may been for “a glass” of champagne, we were more or less treated to a bottle.  The beer drinkers among us didn’t know thirst either, and plates of smoked salmon on toasts frequently passed hands.  About an hour and a half plus several rounds of bubbly later, slices of Manchego made their first appearance.  I don’t think this was by design.  I think our hostess simply ran out of salmon but not boozers.

I’d noshed on Manchego many times before, but something about those slices on that day were notably different, and no, it wasn’t the champers talking.  Within a few bites my table manners felt the effects of an inner hungry wolf, awakened and slavering.  Triggered as such I even ate the rinds on my appetizer plate.  I usually skip the cheese rind.  But I loved that rind, almost as much as I loved that offering of creamy sheep’s cheese with its strange, heavenly-earthy aftertaste, kind of like eating a sandwich of dark chocolate covered bark and salty, slick milk.  Which might sound gross.  Yet it wasn’t.  (As evidenced by it’s storytine worthiness.)

Way, way too soon, the first and then the second platter of cheese emptied.  The gannets murmured their approval, their immense satisfaction, their longing for more.  Our hostess collapsed into a chair next to Tim, looking pleased but like she wouldn’t say no to a coma either.

This was my chance, I decided, to lure from her where she’d found that cheese – the maker, the store.  Didn’t care about the price.

Couldn’t remember, she said, except that she’d picked up from Lidl*.

Lidl!!?

Yes, Lidl, she repeated before adding -  as casually as if lint were the topic of conversation – that she’d drizzled truffle oil over the cheese after slicing it.

Truffle oil?

Yes, truffle oil, the white kind.

Remember that, I told Tim, backing up the seriousness of this order with a poke in the ribs.  He owed me this tiny tiny piece of his memory, having muddled the single most important detail of the party invitation.

Our hostess smiled.  Through her drowze she could tell that the little wolf-ette lingering too long on her patio and gnawing on cheese nubs was giving a most sincere compliment.

More About The Cheese
As mentioned, Manchego is a sheep’s milk cheese from the Castilla-La Mancha region.  True Manchego is made with only whole milk from only Manchego sheep.  You know you’re in the company of a the real deal if the round of cheese is stamped with “Denomincation de Origen Protegida” (D.O.P.) and is produced in the provinces of Toledo, Ciudad Real, Cuenca or Albacete.

There are only so many Manchego sheep in the provincial pastures of Castilla-La Mancha, so in the marketplace you’ll often find “Manchego style” cheese which is produced by different sheep, possibly elsewhere but using similar methods of molding, curing, etc.  It’s good, too.  Just not as good.

Even as a young cheese, Manchego packs a punch.  Tastebud-wise, it plays very well with strong red wines, and strongly-flavored partners such as sundried tomatoes, olives and – hell, yes – truffle oil.

I used to buy it at Whole Foods in Midtown, Atlanta, although come to think of it I can’t verify if was true Manchego or the knockoff.

More Still About The (Precious) Truffle Oil
In your personal life you might have sworn off lovers who lie, cheat, or forget to pay compliments, but when it comes to truffle oil you’re going to have to respect the good intentions of its deceit.  The truth is that 99% of the time, the stuff you buy – even by mail order from Italy – is a chemical concoction and not a single nubbin of actual truffle participates in the production process.  (The New York Times did a piece about it in 2007.  See the notes below for the link.)  Unless the bottle reads Infusion of Truffle, you’re experiencing the heady effects of 4-dithiapentane, and that is what generates the essence or aroma of truffle, as printed on the bottle, 99% of the time.

I know, bummer.

However, try to not let the facts pee on the magic, because 4-dithiapentane tastes far better than it looks on paper.  Besides, you have your lucky laboratories to thank for the affordability of this enhancement-in-a-bottle that has some versatility.  It’s good for more than just tarting up a cheese course.  It will add a little something something to soups and sauces, omelettes and risottos.  All you need is a few drops.  One bottle lasts a long time.  That is unless you knock it back like it’s Sangria.

I bought my bottles of truffle oil (one essence of black truffle, one essence of white truffle) in France, but in the states you can find sources online if not in your local fancy pants grocery store.

The Asteriks:

* Lidl is a discount supermarket with outlets across Europe.  It’s like an Aldi, another european chain with a footprint in the US.

**  To read this NY Times article about truffle oils in full you may have to register.  Them’s their rules.

I can easily produce something edible, but it’s rare for me to produce something of plate-licking caliber.  God knows it’s not for lack of trying either.  Edible, however, is what tends to shake out of these kitchen sessions.  There’s no bitterness attached to this statement even though edible just isn’t good enough…if I’m being honest.

It’s obvious I haven’t a latent stash of culinary talent waiting to be coaxed out of hiding, and I can accept that.  Likewise I’ll continue to love my afternoons or evenings consumed by the promise of a new – or even an old -recipe.  But all the while I still have an entrenched faith in dogged persistence, that a sweet, fat payoff awaits:  eventually I’ll progress from mere edibles to delectables.

You have to dream in big, drippy, meaty haunches or you have nothing but watery broth at stake, to guide. And there’s no fun in that, even if you’re a vegetarian and the only haunch you can stomach is of tofu.

I was all set to devote this year to becoming a far better, more skillful, more knowledgeable cook – which sounds sort of haunchy – but as I was writing about that framework I realized that that was not “it”.

No, “it” is thicker than how deftly I can mince shallots, stickier than my defeatist attitude towards cake.  “It” is my lifelong mixed-bag relationship with food, not my aspirations for the making of food, that call out.  We have some rifts to heal and a vision for the future to flesh out, food and I, neither of which will happen if I don’t defrost the freezer they’ve been sitting in.

By chance or luck (whichever you believe in) my quarterly order to Amazon included several books* that touch on different aspects of a food relationship I’ve been quietly or nervously noodling.

There’s the Eat-better-spend-less aspect that drew me to Economy Gastronomy by Allegra McEvedy & Paul Merrett.

There’s the screw restrictive diets/sensible adoration aspect à la Miss Dahl’s Voluptuous Delights by Sophie Dahl.

There’s the global-citizen/huge-swell-of-pride aspect from knowing how to cook both seasonally AND indigenously that spurred me to explore Spanish cuisine via Seasonal Spanish Food by José Pizarro, Culinaria Spain by Marion Trutter, and The Real Taste of Spain by Jenny Chandler.

I’m pleased with these new additions to my food lit library.   I’m not so pleased by the hard stuff that lies ahead and outside their pages.  But now is the time to engage with it, because now is the time.

* Note – These links are indeed Amazon affiliate links.  If you use them to buy something, I receive an affiliate commission.  Thought I should let you know so that you don’t feel mislead.

In recent years I’ve explored their very opposite by spending January naming what was already good and sound from the year before, a ritual I called the 31 Days of Self-Congratulations.

Corsica, September 2008

That exercise didn’t call to me this time, maybe because it’s a very time-consuming one. Could also be that the year felt like it wound to a close mid-November when our trip to Italy was over.  And the disparities between regular life after enjoying the irregularities of the traveling life were wide and sharp, and it took me a while to recognize that this was strong stuff that would stand between me and my optimistic New Year rituals of the past.  Not to mention the lure of new ones, like the “Best Of” lists that were bell-ringers (unintentional punning) for many bloggers in 2009.

Happily, fortuitously, mercifully, relievedl-y this morning I awoke to the bright penny shine of 2010 before me with my regular life batteries recharged enough that I was thirsty to write again.

Perhaps that’s what a low-key New Year’s Eve spent in the company of your Partner-in-Life, darling dog, roaring fire, a good dinner (lamb shoulder, parsnips and carrots, and mashed spuds with gravy made from the lamb drippings) the last of the excellent box wine from Chateau Peyriac de Mer (it’s the same excellent stuff they bottle, only in a box – trust me), and fireworks we could watch from the roof of our house can accomplish.

I also awoke thinking that a new New Year ritual regarding Determinations (not the R-word nor the I-word) would be better than none.  It’s funny how sometimes with our first blink we have the answers we’ve been gnashing our teeth over for eons.  On the other hand, last night it was very windy.  Window-door rattling windy.  Part of me fancies that overnight the wind swept through me, too, clearing a path to what was so apparent today.  And why not?

1. Utilizing self-discipline some more, at least as Judith Sills defines it:  “acting according to what you think instead of how you feel at the moment. That’s the only way any of us gets ourselves to do the hard stuff.”
2. Remember who I am. One of the sore spots of 2009 was acknowledging the degree that I’d muzzled parts of myself to meet certain expectations coming from outside myself.  One example:  for the sake of giving compassion a larger role, I didn’t speak with the conviction or honesty I felt.  There are times when a soft squeak can’t possibly do the job of a lion’s roar.
3. Thank friends who I’ve leaned on in 2009, and remind them that I’m here for them, too.
4. Enjoy the higher ground…sometimes.
5. Take more walks.
6. Own what I create with pragmatism and fairness – the good, the bad, the so-so…the beautiful, the ugly, the simply plain.
7. Remember that flexibility creates opportunities.
8. To that end let myself imagine big, because holding a bigger vision for my life is not a recipe for disappointment but a recipe for innovation.
9. Since icing is sometimes crucial to a cake, believe big in those imagineerings.
10. And since even sprinkles atop icing can be non-negotiable, believe I can stand on my own two feet.
11. For the next year, write with a sense of purpose.  Even if the purpose is silliness.
12. Face my demons, Temper Temper and Between-Meal Snacks.  Fairly self-explanatory.
13. Engage with the eternal question regarding Happiness…
14. …with inquisitiveness.  Rather than panic or the feeling that the clock is running out.

Best wishes everyone.  Here’s to luck and opportunity for us all.

I’m afraid that on December 31st when I look back on what I’ve written here in 2009, all I will see is a of gripes about the internet troubles we’ve had in the past few months.  But that has been the case, much to my consternation.  To that end, I just want to send a quick word to the friends of this blog – old and new – that things will probably be quiet here for a little while longer while we we wait for our internet service to be activated.

The alternatives are limited, because we’ll be broke if we go to the internet cafes every day.  Or turn into barflies if we have to keep going to pubs to check emails and write blog posts. Or morph into Wifi trolls.

This last one is a very real possibility.  Tonight we drove around various neighborhoods looking for an unprotected network. (Didn’t find one, arrrrgh.)  How sad is that?  Don’t answer.  Just cross your fingers that Telefónica process our order mucho rápido.  Graçias.

Here’s hoping you stick with me and the better posts to come.  Pinky swear.

You forget the number of days since your jeans met with soap and water, the passwords to various and sundry social networking sites, and that not one but two significant holidays loom on the horizon.  That is until your mother sends a very sweet “Happy Thanksgiving-we miss you-where the hell are you-why haven’t you updated Flickr with more photos” email and…BAM…at least the pending holiday realization hits home.

Plus, sort of ironically  – a holiday related article written a while back at the request of lovely friend appears in virtual print on her freshly minted website..and you forget to make an announcement that toots the appropriate horns.  The site, aptly named Holiday Chill, is all about helping those who experience cold sweats, raging panic, and bitter disappointment at a certain time of year they dare not name for obvious reasons do just that – chill out so they can enjoy themselves.

You can read my contribution to the cause here.  But, if this is THE year you’re gonna send those blankety blank holiday pressures out the blankety blank door, just subscribe to the feed.

Here’s hoping this year’s Thanksgiving festivities fill your belly and warm your cockles.  {clink clink}

Then we hit the road that takes us back to Spain and the normal-ish life we have back there.  Can you sense that that’s not exactly rocking my world right now?

That is indeed real gold making these mosaics all glowy and sparkly. (Ravenna, Italy)

Apologies for not writing about this trip every step of the way as I said I would, for – um – not writing very much at all.  The funny thing about setting the intention to just have a good time, and then actually sticking with it and having one, is that I became very protective of my good time.  As in I wasn’t letting anything with a whiff of compromise meddle with it.  Not even stuff I normally like and enjoy doing, like writing.  I say this so that when you find yourself in this same situ you’ll know that a) you’re not alone in this kind of upside-down craziness, b) it happens, and c) no need to get a brain wedgie about it.

It will take us a few days to get back to Spain, and once there we’ll be busy busy setting up house and pestering Telefonica to be quick as bunnies about setting up our ADSL.  And buying a bed so we have a place to lay our heads, acquiring cutlery and glasses and all the usual accoutrements that turn a house into a habitation.  And decompressing from enjoying six of the dreamiest weeks a practical dreamer could ask for.

We might not have noticed this statue if it weren’t for the…you know.

Maybe it's the Sangiovese doing the thinking, but he doesn't look unhappy with his accessory.

]]> http://flyingready.com/travel-stuff/marketing-101-for-statues/feed/ 0 http://flyingready.com/travel-stuff/american-bland/ http://flyingready.com/travel-stuff/american-bland/#comments Fri, 06 Nov 2009 09:24:57 +0000 Melissa http://flyingready.com/?p=2243 Spotted this on a cafe menu in Florence…typo?  Phonetic spelling?  Thinking aloud?  Hmm.

Maybe they're just checking to see if anyone's paying attention...

Monday was a rainy, dismal day in Florence.  We walked around for as long as we could stand it, visited Santa Croce, and then Tim and I decided we’d be happier dealing with the crappy weather in our own way.  He ducked into more churches; I shopped for a sweater.  But wound up with these shoes – always had a soft spot for patent.

Hello, new shoes.  Your life will be spent in the very close company of my feet, but rest assured you’re in good hands.  If you get wet, I’ll only use a soft towel to dry you, and you’re definitely worth regular changes of socks.  So, no worries there.

(Do you talk to your shoes?  If so, I’d love to know about it.  Shoe communicators like company.)

I delighted in my shoes all day yesterday, especially as we made the pilgrimage to Michaelangelo’s David on our last morning in Florence. The new shoe shine has not lessened today as I took doggie for his morning walk around Ferrara, our home for the next two weeks.

Ferrara – “The City of Bicycles”

They aren’t kidding.  They’s everywhere.  I will have to hoist myself and my new shoes upon a bike while we’re here.  If it weren’t for the cars and buses and bicycle riders far more confident than myself, I’d be more excited about this.  As it stands, I’m a little on edge about riding helmetless on cobbled streets amidst traffic.  But, I’ll get over the edge and the nerves and peddle with joy around this lovely town…when the day comes.

The apartment we’ve rented in Ferrara was once a hospital.  Until a few years ago, the building was a wreck but has since been converted into apartments, offices and swanky shops.  I’ve uploaded a couple of pics to Flickr, including one that shows the original beams on the ceilings.  More photos in the days ahead.

“One of the secrets of a happy life is continuous small treats.” – Iris Murdoch

My fingers are having a typo figary,  producing “Irish” whenever I want to type “Iris”…

At any rate, with the exception of a nice, long afternoon walk if the rain holds off, we’re taking it easy today.  Even though we’re very excited about where we are.  Because we’ve been hither and thither for the past four weeks and have caught colds and need a little non-sightseeing time..

Plus – and it’s a jim-dandy of a “plus “- we have an EXCELLENT broadband connection which means we can send emails with 21st century speed, upload photos, make phone calls, have multiple tabs running in Firefox.  Finally!

AND – this is a jim-dandy of an “and “- there’s enough juice in the ADSL that I can listen to a live stream of RTE 1.  This morning I heard an interview of and some poetry read by Paul Durcan on the Pat Kenny show which is followed by the ringing of the Angelus bells at noon.  I love Irish radio.  I also love Spanish Radio 3 and Radio Clásica.

I can’t tell you how happy I am to be cooling my jets in one country while listening to live radio from another – station hopping between the stations of two different countries to be more exact – within the four walls of a very, very old building with old ceiling beams but new plumbing.   Small treats.  Big happy.

* * * * * * *

Side note:  If you’re more into the touristy side our travels, mosy to my other blog, Flying Ready for that kind of commentary and photos.  So far, I’ve only covered the Tuscany leg, but the Lake Como/Florence stint is next.

Twyla Tharp, in her wonderful new book, The Creative Habit, writes about the problem of beginnings.  You will be hearing more about this book in times to come.  But for now I’m tossing some toothpicks on the cafe table, selecting one at random, and letting it dictate my beginning.

Which happens to be about how we broke the long drive from Moraira to Lucca.  We drove from Moraira to Barcelona, from Barcelona to Marseille, Marseille to Rapallo, Rapallo to Lucca.

Originally, we’d planned to take a ferry from Barcelona to Livorno.  But then we opted to take the slow approach and see what we could along the way.

So, we drove to Barcelona where we planned to spend the night.  We walked around for a few hours and enjoyed a coffee on the Ramblas.  I love the architecture of Barcelona, and the vibe of this city.  We have yet to stay in this city for more than 36 hours, and I think we need to do something about that in the next year.  Mark those words.  You saw them here.  Today.

Marseille, Old Port

Then, Marseille.  It isn’t a beautiful city.  It’s kind of gritty and chaotic yet exotic and confident.  It’s on the Must See Again list.  There’s a youthfulness about it, stylish people, and loads of outdoor cafes in the Vieux Port area.  A good dinner is not hard to find.  We visited the cathedral and baptistry, walked in some of the different neighborhoods, strolled through the market stalls of a less fashionable quarter, sipped wine while the police dealt with some shoplifting youths, lost count of the ambulances roaring up and down the streets.  Over a lovely Lebanese meal we dealt with the bad news that a tree fell on our house in Atlanta.  C’est la vie.

Portofino

Next, Rapallo – a town on the Italian Riviera. En route to Rapallo we drove through Monaco, just cause.  And then held our breath as the autopiste on the French side became the autostrada on the Italian side and many many motorists took full advantage of the fact that there are no speed limits.  While in Rapallo we wandered through the pretty streets, felt a bit shabby in our ho hum clothes next to the well-heeled Italians, bought dog food and a phone charger, and enjoyed a very good dinner at a bistro.   The next day we drove to the neighboring village of Portofino, which is pretty much dripping with money so there was no point in continuing the shabby-style comparison.  It began to rain rather hard, so we bought some foccacia to go, and hit the road for Lucca.

Tuscany

Lucca, book stall

Lucca was my first glimpse of a Tuscan town.  It’s old ramparts are still intact and have become a kind of park encircling the city.   Puccini was born in Lucca, and so the town takes great pride in his association.  That is now. In Puccini’s time they weren’t’ so fond of him.  He was an upstart of none-too-high birth who had a thing going with the wife of a very wealthy man.  She ditched the money bags for the composer.  It’s not clear if their life together was all that rosy once the romance ebbed.  Eventually, they married, but apparently Puccini had a bit of a roving eye and that instigated some spectacular arguments – we’re talking the full orchestra.

At any rate, I’ve kind of fallen in love with Lucca.  There’s a feeling of spaciousness to it, that you don’t always find in old towns.  We spent a couple of afternoons walking around and being tourists.  One evening went to a concert.  It wasn’t a particularly good concert, but we couldn’t be on Puccini’s home turf and turn down a recital showcasing his standards.

Elsewhere in Tuscany…

Pisa, Duomo after the rain.

We spent an afternoon in Pisa, too.  As we were walking into town it began to rain, and the rain shower turned into a rather blustery, uncomfortable rain “event”, the sort where the rain comes in sideways and finds your eyes no matter where you look.  As the storm ran it’s course, we huddled with a hundred other tourists from a multitude of nations under the eaves of the Baptistry which gave a little cover.  It occurred to me, while huddled, that people have been doing that for hundreds of years, seeking shelter from the elements under the eaves of this same building and grateful for what little cover they get out of it but still wishing the storm would hurry the hell up and move on.

By the way, the leaning tower is rather impressive.  But it also seemed kind of short.  It’s like when you meet someone in person who sounded tall on the phone but turns out to be a shortie.

The other memorable moment in Pisa was a traffic incident in which a man got out of his car to yell at another driver for something.  We don’t know what the issue was, because naturally he was screaming in Italian.  Something went down that really got his goat, because he had a good yell in the street, hand gesticulations ablazing. Very fun to watch.  Not so fun for the other driver who seemed very confused by the fuss.

Siena, Il Campo

The day after Pisa we drove to Siena where we stayed overnight.  Maybe it was how the October sun hit the brick buildings, but I was drawn to the town from step one.  We stayed at hotel just outside one of the impressive gates, and didn’t have more than a 10 minute walk into town or 20 minute walk to Il Campo, a wide,  magnificent plaza where everyone congregates.

Yet as much as I enjoyed every minute spent in the city itself and admire its magnificent duomo, what I remember most is lunch, dinner and the colorful laundry hang outside the houses.  We both had pasta for lunch.  Moi:  papardelle with duck.  Tim:  porcini ravioli in a ewe’s cheese sauce.  He’s tried replicating the cheese sauce a couple of times since then, but it’s been tough going.  Personally, I think it might have had a little young balsamic tossed in, but his jury is still out on that one.  For dinner we found a ristorante just off Il Campo, where our dog was made welcome in the main dining room.  The proprietor’s dog, a lovely golden retriever, slept in the bar side of the restaurant.  He had a sly humor about him, the proprietor.  So we enjoyed that as well as the perfectly cooked food on our plates.  Moi:  grilled lamb chops with a potato and fennel mash.  Tim:  Beef stew over rice. Our plates were bare, very nearly licked clean.

As for the laundry, I’m putting together a Flickr album of the laundry scapes we’ve been taking.  File that under “Coming Soon.”

From outside the walls of San Gimignano.

The following day we toodled through the Tuscan countryside,  stopping in San Gimignano and Castellina di Chianti along the way.  The scenery was everything it was touted to be, I’m delighted to report.  Don’t let the lousy lighting on our photo mislead you into thinking I’m waxing on without reason.

Later in the week we spent an afternoon traipsing around Florence and trying to dissuade our dog from barking at buses.  Rufus has developed this thing about buses – he wants to kill them.  Since he can’t get do that, he barks.   And not little barks.  Barks that have scared the bejeezus out of people not expecting such a roar from such a little dog. When he wasn’t barking at buses, Rufus had horses on his mind.  Horses induce this high pitched squeal in Rufus that’s hard to describe.  It’s kind of like he’s dying, and maybe he is in a way because he is absolutely dying to have a go at those horses, startle them into running so he can have a merry chase.  Horses are just big sheep to him.

When we weren’t keeping our dog quiet, we were letting him pose for pictures.  Tourists kept asking if they could take a photo of him.  He was the toast of the Ponte Vecchio.  We think he’s very cute, but dang, the Italian ladies have taken a real shine to him.  And he knows it…the little barking-at-buses-squealing-at-horses bugger.

The point of going into Florence was to get a taste of it, more than try to see any of the big ticket attractions, and to have lunch.  Lunch in Florence, unfortunately, was memorable because it was totally blah.  Shame.

Florence, near the Basilica of Santa Maria Novella

However, they day was not lost.  On our way back to the car we passed the Basilica of Santa Maria Novella.  To the right of that plaza an old-ish man played his violin beneath the awning of the Hotel Universo.  Somehow all the pieces of the day melded into a circular still life in which old is now and now is timeless – the dimming light of an autumn afternoon in an old square, the pretty Renaissance church, the plaza abuzz with students, and the lone man off to the side playing his fiddle for coins.