Dear Olivia

Mary Contini

Description

In this fascinating follow-up to the highly successful Dear Francesca, Mary Contini writes to her other daughter, Olivia, to tell the story of her great-grandparents, the humble Italian shepherds who emigrated to Edinburgh and then helped to transform Britain's food culture. Sharing some of the recipes that they brought over, the tomatoes, the garlic, the sausage, the wine, this is a mouthwatering memoir of family and food. It is also a brilliant evocation of life between the wars, a triumphant story of survival against all the odds, that captures the sights and smells of Italian life and culture, at home and abroad.

Sujets

• Family history
• Italy
• My Last Duchess

Informations

• Publié par: Canongate Books
• Date de parution: 10 avril 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781847677358
• Langue: English

Extrait

This book is dedicated to
Vittorio Fortunato Crolla (1915–2005)
who lived his journey
in love, courage and hope



Contents
Title Page Dedication Recipes from Fontitune Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Edinburgh Acknowledgments Further reading About the Author Copyright
Recipes from Fontitune
Note: all recipes serve 4

Pan’, Sal’ e Olio
Bread, Salt and Oil
Zampone e Lenticchie
Stuffed Pig’s Trotter with Slow-Cooked Lentils
Lenticchie in Umido
Slow-cooked Lentils

Brodo di Pollo
Chicken Broth
Costolette
Roast Pork Ribs
Misticanza
Spring Herb Salad

Sugo di Fonteluna
Italian Sausage Tomato Sauce for Pasta
Cacciocavallo alla Brace
Grilled Cacciocavallo Cheese
Patate e Finocchio al Forno
Roasted Potatoes and Fennel

’Sagne e Fagioli
Pasta and Bean Soup

’Sagne
Lasagne Pasta Sheets
Baccalà All’Aglio e Olio
Salt Cod with Oil and Garlic

Pizza Farciti con Scarola
Pizza Stuffed with Greens
Verdure
Greens
Frittata con Pasta
Frittata with Pasta
Dear Olivia


I have often told you about your ancestors who were poor shepherds from the south of Italy. They emigrated in the early 1900s and chose to make Edinburgh their new home.
Your father’s grandfather, Alfonso Crolla, opened a shop in 1934, when his own daughter, Olivia, was eleven years old, the age you are now.
Over the years I have heard many stories about their experiences, what kind of life they left behind, why they were forced to leave Italy and how they chose to settle and raise their families in Scotland.
I have heard stories of courage, faith and love; of prejudice, disaster and loss. Moving and inspiring stories of hardship and determination, success and failure, tears and laughter. Now that so many of your ancestors have gone, I have recorded the stories in the words that they told me, to pass them on to you. So that you can get to know them and understand the sacrifices they made for your future, I have pieced together their experiences and have tried to imagine what it must have felt like and how life would have been.
We have inherited an ethos of work, a glorious heritage of family and food, and most importantly a faith in God. This is the final piece of the jigsaw, the untold part of your heritage that illuminates the past.
Their example will help you to be strong and honest and to realise that you must never judge a person by religion, race or appearance. You must resist prejudice and always search for the truth.
I hope their story will inspire you to be optimistic and hardworking, and to reach for great things. I want you to learn to love and respect them and be as proud of them as I am.


All my love


Mummy
1
Fontitune, Italy 16 Januar y 1913


It was pandemonium. The pig was running crazily around the piazza. Women were running behind it grabbing at its tail. Children screamed with delight as it snorted and barged at their aunts. The women, skirts tucked into their aprons, squealed as the pig charged towards them. Ass, cockerel, hens and goats all joined in the cacophony of excitement.
Maria stood decisively, rope in hand, and assessed the situation. Without a hint of doubt she yelled at the pig.
‘Aaaiiihh!’
She threw down a handful of acorns. The pig stopped in its tracks. Then it immediately buried its face greedily in the nuts. In a split second Maria stepped forward and with a flick of her wrist expertly slung the rope over its head. Before the pig could react, Maria tightened the noose and pulled the rope round its snout; the pig was caught.
The children cheered.
‘Zia Maria is the winner! Zia Maria is the winner!’
‘Brava! Brava! Bellezza Zia Maria. Bellezza! ’
Zia Maria had guaranteed their feast tonight.
It was the middle of January, just after dawn, seven days since the full moon. It was a good omen. On the mountains all around, the snow glistened gloriously in the early light. The rays bounced off the ice creating the illusion that the whole valley was on fire. It was bitterly cold. The last stars waning in the sky promised a clear day: a perfect day for slaughtering the pig.
A huge, blackened, cast-iron pot of boiling water was securely balanced on the fire. The women had prepared the bonfire before dawn so that the water would be ready on time. Maria told the older children to drag the protesting pig to the post and tether it. She tied its snout and mouth shut, muffling its squeals. The pig was not happy. Powerful and fat, black and glossy, at well over a hundred kilos, it preferred not to be manhandled by a woman and a bunch of kids.
Maria was apprehensive. The men had not yet come down from La Meta. They were needed to despatch the beast. Tadon Michele could manage but he was not as strong as his son Alfonso. She moved away from the scuffle and went to look for Alfonso.


Maria Crolla c. 1913



Alfonso Crolla c. 1913
She was a handsome woman: tall, with strong, broad shoulders, a round face with dark, sultry eyes, and glowing, olive skin. Her thick, dark hair was parted at the side and bundled high on her head, covered with a red kerchief. She was heavy with her first child. At twenty-four she was resilient and resolute. Maria would make a good mother.
The rope round the pig’s snout broke. The children scattered, terrified. The pig squealed, its shriek echoing around the mountains, ricocheting from hillside to hillside. In this the pig made a mistake. Its clamour alerted its executioners.
The three brothers, Alfonso, Pietro and Emidio, were already on their way down from the mountain when they heard it. They had spent the last few nights on the meadow half-way up the mountain, il Prato di Mezzo . They laughed and called back to the pig in fun, projecting their voices to make them echo down to Fontitune.
‘ Non ti preoccupare, porchetta bella! Andiamo! ’

The men quickened their pace. Taking the lead, Alfonso strode out quickly and came round the bend ahead of his brothers.
Alfonso was tall and striking: a fine-looking man. He walked straight-backed, his head held proudly with an air of authority. His jet black hair flopped over his broad forehead. He had a long, aquiline nose with a glorious dark moustache that decorated his soft, sweet lips. His deep, smoky brown eyes appeared to brim with emotion as if tears would well up and spill over at any moment.
He was dressed in shepherd’s garb, with a roomy brown smock belted in at the waist over loose-fitting trousers. His legs were covered with white linen rags, tied criss-cross with leather straps that secured goat-skin soles under his feet. The footwear, le ciocie , was the same as that worn by shepherds in these parts for centuries. A thick sheepskin was draped over his back, with his bagpipes, zampogne , slung over his shoulder.
As she caught sight of him, Maria’s heart leapt. She was always disconcerted by her reaction to him. She sighed. Wasn’t he handsome? Of the three brothers, Alfonso was the strongest, the leader.
‘ Che bello ,’ she thought to herself. She raised her arm to attract his attention. ‘Alfons’! Alfons’! Vieni ca! Vieni ca! Come on! The pig’s ready! Forza! Forza! Hurry up!’ she called up the hill, her hand cupped at the side of her mouth.
Catching sight of her, Alfonso smiled. He loved her very much, this new bride of his. He walked towards her. As she called again, he slowed down and halted. He was in no hurry. He wanted her to come to him. He wanted to watch her move towards him. He just wanted her.
Maria reached him, exasperated that he had stopped. Her brows furrowed. ‘Alfons’! What are you playing at? The pig’s ready. Can you not hear its screams?’

Alfonso wasn’t thinking about the pig. He put his hand over her mouth to quieten her and drew her towards him. She pulled her head back, embarrassed at his actions. Anyone might see. Ignoring her protests he kissed her strong and hard with all the passion of a young man insanely besotted. Unable to resist, she relented and kissed him back.
Immediately he felt her submit, he pushed her away playfully. He just needed to know that she wanted him, that she felt the same fire in her soul that he did. He needed to know that he was in charge. She could wait. He put his arm round her waist and turned towards the village.
Further back up the road his brothers had seen everything. They had lingered behind laughingly, allowing the lovers some privacy.
Alfonso called again, his voice echoing around the hillsides. The small crowd struggling with the pig heard him and cheered and clapped.
Finalmente! Finally Alfonso was coming. Now the fun would start.
As soon as he arrived, Alfonso set to work. He threw off his sheepskin and pipes and grabbed the large cloth his sister-in-law handed him. He tied it securely round his body, high under his arms. The women threw some fresh straw under the pig and positioned a flat skillet at the ready. Taking the knife from his father, Alfonso stood astride the pig, held it down with his legs, pulled its head back with the rope and, without giving it another thought, slit its throat.
The pig shrieked in protestation. Its blood spurted out over the cloth and splashed down over Alfonso’s sandals. The pig writhed in fury, but soon, weakened by the shock and loss of blood, it fell to the ground. The climax was over.
Emidio secured the pig’s hind legs. ‘ Tira! Tira! Pull!’ Together with the other men