 |
 |
|
|
|
|||
|
|||
|
LETTER FROM TUSCANY Winter 2002
|
|||
|
AS WINTER SETS in the Tuscan countryside becomes strangely still: the olive trees stand quietly, now more silver than green, and the bare stems of the grape vines trace their russet-gold embroidery across empty fields. The new wine and the peppery green oil have been stored in the cellars. Outside work comes to a halt. It's time for "il Maiale": the old ritual of the killing of the pig. Coming between December and the Epiphany, on the 6th January, it's an event which involves the whole family, from the oldest to the youngest, each with their assigned tasks. There was a time not so long ago that most of the farmers didn't own their land but worked under the "mezzadria" system whereby half of what they produced went to the landlord, Il Padrone. The pig was vital to their survival, the main sustenance during hard winters. As soon as a child was old enough to walk the necessary miles to the village school, it became his or her task to take the pigs out each morning and afternoon to graze on acorns and wild grasses. Today farmers raise and kill their own pigs as a matter of tradition. Plus they like to know what they're eating and meat of any sort is far more expensive in Italy than in Australia, the USA or Canada. Following our own more recent tradition, we join our neighbours the Bindi family in the killing of 'our' pig. The first job is the preparation, near the pigsties, of a big cauldron of water which is kept constantly on the boil by the women. Clouds of white vapour fill the cold air. The men do the slaughtering, using a special gun. The pig is hung and the hot water poured over the outer layer of skin which is peeled away before a process of scrubbing and cleaning with sharp knives. Traditionally it was the women who prepared the prosciutto (two haunches and two shoulders), the salami and sausages. The latter are made from different cuts of the meat and some fat, very finely chopped, plus salt, pepper, fennel seeds, chilli powder, sage, oregano and of course garlic (the garlic has the central green shoot known as its "anima" or its soul, removed as this would spoil the taste). The mix is worked to the consistency of dough then pumped into the well-washed intestines, tied with string, and hung in the cellar ready for eating. They are best eaten cooked over the coals with some of the spare ribs, "il costoleccio". The prosciuttos are the most prized cuts and are treated with great care. They are massaged to get rid of all the bloood and liquid, salted, covered with chilli powder and black pepper. After resting for a week they will hang in the cellar until Easter and will be eaten during summer with figs or melon. Nothing was ever wasted: the blood made "buristo" a type of blood sausage; the fat was used to make soap and the bristles to make brushes. |
Whereas Onedo Bindi has always been in charge of the killing and cutting while his wife Orfella organised the preparation of the meat, a professional butcher is now hired to head the process. With his skillful hands and set of sharp knives he seems totally concentrated on the job in hand while never missing a scrap of the gossip and the jokes that are part of every job that takes place. Later he will be guest of honour at the big table and give his judgement on the quality of the meat. This year the process was punctuated by a small drama. Simona Bindi, now a wife and mother, has become an excellent and inventive cook. Since she was a teenager she was proud of her skill in cleaning the bones for pieces of meat left by the men. She uses her sharpest knife with great speed and skill. With her sleeves rolled up she was busily cleaning a big bone when I heard her shriek. She stood holding her wrist which was spurting blood onto the kitchen floor. Barbara moved in to press a cloth on the wound and hold the arm up. But the sight of her own blood was too much for Simona. She became increasingly pale, and was helped outside to get some fresh air where she collapsed. Barbara called for a chair and Simona sat with her family fussing anxiously around her. It's a long way to the hospital. Orfella applied vinegar to her forehead and Onedo appeared with a glass of pale liquid. I thought it was Grappa and would have helped Simona drink it, but it was only water. On cautious examination the wound proved to be a small one, though deep, and Simona recovered. She joined everyone at the ritual evening meal to enjoy a local dish "il Tegamaccio", meaning the big frypan, where all sorts of fresh cuts of meat are cooked with herbs and tomato sauce. The main topic of conversation, as the glasses were filled with new red wine, was Simona's mishap. By the end of the meal her few drops of blood had grown to a river and that's what the village heard the next day. Ugo Mariotti |
||
|
|||
 |
|||
