Life Cheese

There are certain experiences that one by one make the trip worthwhile. These are the things I came here to do: taste wines made from a single grape variety grown on a single hillside, walk through local farms with an expert on organic agriculture, eat homemade pastries for breakfast and go hiking up a mountain, finally learn how to properly salt the water for pasta. These experiences and lessons are priceless; I came here to get them.

But then, there are also experiences that one by one, make one's life worthwhile. These are rare, few and far between for most people, especially as they get older. Last week I had one though, and I didn't see it coming. We visited a small producer of goat cheese, and I slept the entire bus ride and woke up in the foothills of the mountains. The man in charge of the cheese operation said our bus couldn't take us where he wanted to go.

So they took us in a tractor, a big tractor that pulled the same trailer they used to transport goats and hay. They took us up the mountain, way up the mountain, and we could feel the air quickly change and see the valley stretch out behind us. The road stopped past the tree line at a cabin and a barn where they keep their goats and cows during the spring and summer.

We saw the goats. We saw their cows. We saw their dogs. We breathed the air, took in the view. Then they fed us: cheese, bread, and big jugs of rustic red wine. It was everything we needed.

We Were All Food Poisoned!

Although my trip to Italy, so far, has been fantastic, blog posts about how beautiful everything is, how great the food tastes, and how wonderful the people will get boring very quickly. So, I'm writing about something a little less pleasant.

Throughout the year, we have about seven weeks worth of trips to various regions; they call these trips "stages" (pronounced stahj, its French), and they are intended to be food and culture safaris: the time to eat, drink, experience a new region of Europe, and learn by doing.

Our first trip took place almost two weeks ago, and they took us to Puglia, the heel of the boot that is Italy. The place was beautiful: we walked through ancient groves of olive trees, swam in cool water while gazing out towards a hazy sea, and we drank Prosecco in a hilltop town, sitting in an outdoor cafe with a view of the rolling, golden valley, feeling the warm breeze rush over us. I'll never forget these moments, but I'll also remember the trip as a death-march of cold cuts.

Every meal was a big occasion: multiple courses of meats, cheeses, pasta, more meat. Often, lunch looked the same: cured meat, cheese, bread, wine, and lardo (cured pork fat). One night, we ate seafood: fish salad, raw fish, fish with homemade pasta, fried fish, and then fruit and dessert. The next night: appetizers of fried dough, focaccia with greens, frittata, cured meats, two kinds of homemade pasta, stewed horse, boiled octopus, and then fruit and dessert. And the whole time, the wine kept coming.

Halfway through the trip, we all felt like our systems couldn't keep up with this much food and wine. We ate prunes and yogurt for breakfast. Some sought out fresh fruit; I bought myself some tomatoes. It didn't seem to be working. We all felt slow, lethargic; I imagined myself to be getting gout.



Something had to give. The center could not hold. On the last day we broke down. Two of the girls got sick early in the morning: they looked pale, droopy, and very unhappy. In two hours they fell into vomiting, and we altered course. Our trip leader, Alessandra, took us to a beachtown, set us free to wander for the afternoon, and got these poor girls a hotel room.

I fell victim next. Thinking I was just a little hungover, I decided to go for a swim, which usually helps me feel better. I swam for a while and then sprawled out on the beach to sunbathe. It must have been funny to the friends I was with, because it looked like I was having a great time, and all of a sudden, on the walk back into town, I bent over the railing of the staircase and barfed my guts out into the creek below. After my second puke, Alessandra took me to the hotel room with the other girls, and I took my place with the fallen.

Over the course of the next two days, at least a quarter of us became acutely ill; and almost everyone got queasy stomaches, headaches, and a general malaise. The weekend we got back, everyone hibernated in their rooms. Some fasted, others caught up on fruits and vegetables. For a day and a half, all I could keep down was white rice and gatorade.

But now we're all better, and the next stage starts on Monday. Studying food is intense.

Wine Doesn't Smell Like Wine

Not long ago, I did some tasting with some good friends. We were discussing the smells and the tastes in the wines, nothing too serious or over the top. One of my friends, a free-thinker, stopped us, and suggested that the wine just smells like wine. No one had an answer for him, until now.
Just last week we had a two day sensory analysis unit here at Cheese School. Our professor had prepared twenty six "standard" aromas that we all had to identify. These standards were compounds mixed into a base wine, or simply the smelly thing itself, like chunks of butter, caramel, or bubble gum. It didn't take long for us to figure out what all this stuff was: asparagus juice, black pepper, nutmeg, olive, honey, lemon, raspberry, etc...
Trying to guess smells can dislodge lots of memories. You have to close your eyes, picture what the smell reminds you of, and then unpack the memory to isolate what it is you smelled and are now remembering. It's a fun way to make your brain work. After smelling a standard for "artificial fruit flavor", I couldn't guess what the smell was supposed to be, but got stuck on images of drinking juice boxes and eating popsicles as a kid. After smelling soy sauce mixed with base wine, I could distinctly remember drinking red wine that smelled just like this, but I had never identified the aroma. I drove myself crazy trying to name the smell and never figured out that it was soy.




After identifying the standards, we were asked to analyze real wines. Four whites on the first day and four reds on the next. Lo and behold, some of the wines smelled exactly like the standards we had identified. One white was a dead ringer for asparagus, another had distinctive bell pepper and green bean aromas. The reds were a little harder to pinpoint, but the descriptors we used showed consistent trends. One red had vanilla and caramel while others had fresh berry and spice or soy sauce and leather.
The lesson learned: the aromas in wine are a real thing. Volatile compounds exist in wine that create specific smells. Winemakers can use sensory analysis to adjust their winemaking techniques to avoid making wines that smell like green beans and olives. More importantly, smelling wine all day is a very, very good use of time.

ps. Thanks to Raymond for his pictures!

Cicliturismo!

Bit by bit, I am doing everything I came to Italy to do. Yesterday I bought a bike, and it's beautiful: an old, blue Colnago in absolutely perfect shape. It has a steel frame, yellow handlebars, and Campagnolo components. It is exactly the bike I imagined myself riding here.

I couldn't imagine how perfect Piemonte is for cycling. We are surrounded by rolling hills that are packed with vineyards and Hazelnut groves and studded with hilltop villages. On a bike, you could spend all day exploring, visiting dozens of towns and wine DOC's without riding more than 25 miles from the home base. I am determined to see it all.

Unhurried

We're all starting to settle into a rhythm here at school, slowing adjusting to a new way to eat, to sleep, and to focus. Class runs from nine in the morning until noon, and again from one until four in the afternoon. At school they feed us a great big lunch, with three courses (pasta, some main dish, salad, and sometimes dessert) and table service. After lunch I always have an espresso before going back to class, and by the time I get back from school around five I am ready for a nap.

The late afternoon and evening seems to roll on forever; dinner is always late, and the time just feels suspended and easy. We've mostly been eating salame, bread, and cheese in evenings because lunch is pretty hearty. Many Italians enjoy an aperitivo in the evening, a pre dinner drink and light snacks that can go on for hours. They can be seen all over, in groups sipping sparkling wine, pink cocktails made with bitter, herbal spirits, and lager beers, solidly rooted in conversation, looking as if the whole purpose of the day is to arrive at their table outside the cafe.

You can't help but fall into this slower, unhurried pace. Today my roommates and I woke up around eleven, chatted a bit and then went to the market to buy something to eat for lunch. We strolled around the town, ran into classmates, and once we had everything we needed and a menu in mind, we went back and cooked. We had crostini, pasta, salad, cheese, and fruit, lingering after each course, and the whole time I felt my old insticts reacting to how unhurried we were. Eating lunch was the whole point of the day; there was nothing to run off and accomplish. We all made it to Italy and were nibbling artisan cheese and cherries, nectarines, and apricots from the market. The point was to be there, doing that.

After each course, I could feel a layer of my old habits peeling away. By about 5:30, lunch was over, and that was all we had done so far that day. We tossed around ideas of walking into town for gelato later that evening, but no one needed to commit to anything; we had already gotten so much out of the day, and in a way, accomplished so much.

If we wanted gelato, it would be there.

Molto Fortunato!

Somehow, I knew I would have some adventure getting here to Bra. Everything was going too well: all my flights were on time, I slept almost the entire way to Rome, and I felt great upon arriving. After getting off the final plane to Torino I was lulled into a happy stupor: I felt like I had made it and I immediately had a victory espresso before getting on my first train.

Twenty minutes later, it all evaporated. I was riding a bus which was to take me to the central train station, but I never saw the stop I needed; it seemed I had ridden the bus too far. I asked an Italian man what to do, and he said to get off now and take the metro. I gathered 150 pounds of luggage, got off the bus, and made to cross the street. Then I realized, my small red backpack was still on the bus, with my wallet, passport, camera, iPod, and a snack sized bag of trail mix, which I was planning to eat on the train.

I had a small moment of panic, released a few f-bombs into the street, and then quickly calmed down. I had copies of my passport and back up debit cards in my other bags. I could always fly home and start over again if I needed to.

As it turns out, it didn't come to that. A young kid tried to call the bus company for me, but his phone was out of minutes, so he pointed me towards the police station, and I started walking. I wish I had left one of my heavy pieces of luggage on the bus. 15 minutes later I ended up at the training academy for the Italian highway patrol. Close enough. The secretary there, Fabio, was incredibly patient and eager to help. He called two different numbers and was able to talk to the dispatch for the bus line. Luckily, there were only two buses that made the loop I had been riding. He sent me back to the bus stop; both busses would pass by within an hour, and there would be good chance they have my bag.

After a few buses passed, I saw the "Dora Fly", the bus I had been on. I boarded the bus, and in my best Italian told the driver, "I'm the stupid kid who left his...." He stopped me and pointed to my bag, which was hanging on a hook right behind him.

I rode back to the station, an official checked my passport and filled out a report. I felt like hugging the bus driver, but that is not the custom here, so I thanked him and went on my way, feeling very lucky. Molto fortunato.

Packing Up Life

Here is my stuff.


I've done this six other times since finishing college: pack up everything you need and take off. This was the first time I've had to put it all in suitcases. Amazingly, after laying out everything I thought I would need for the year, it all fit perfectly into the luggage I had. I even brought my yoga mat, a 2mm wetsuit, tennis racket, and a 4.5 pound tub of Prolong Energy Drink (for cycling).




And it all fits.