The bells of St Peters

"Auguri."
"Auguri." My path crosses that of a neighbour in front of the church of Our Lady of Lourdes, and we exchange seasonal greetings.

Neapolitan pastiera 

The night before Easter I had been surprised to note that the church had set up a speaker system so powerful even those not attending Easter Mass could hear it. I'd been startled walking my dog round the block by the indistinct murmur of the faithful as they chanted the liturgy. It was a creepy sound which made me think of mindless brainwashing sects where people chant words without knowing what they mean. It was all very Village of the Damned by way of The Stepford Wives. My dog didn't think much of it either,
More prosaically it meant no one could sleep before midnight as the priests voice boomed the mass into the night. Though I noted that my hard-of-hearing elderly neighbours who had listened to the via Crucis report on their TV  at the usual too-loud-volume the night before weren't tonight among the local faithful. By the sounds of it there was something better on TV.

Easter dawned rainless which was something after the storms of the day before with their dazzling flashes of lightning and hail stones pelting down. Children could enjoy their Easter egg hunt albeit on damp ground or unravel the miles of cellophane that enveloped their gigantic eggs. I figured Easter was an early lesson in disappointment for Italian children. They received their gargantuan eggs, impressive to behold, dressed to the nines, but once the wrapping was discarded all that remained was a large chocolate shell either empty or filled with the type of rubbish found in a popular chocolate egg (banned in the USA) one eighth of the size. And the odds were that after a timorous bite of the usually commercial brand chocolate the mega eggs would be whisked away by anxious mothers, never to be seen again - at least not in egg shape. You wouldn't want to ruin your appetite now.
The alternative to these mega eggs were teeny tiny ones sold per grams, also largely commercial brands. There are few artisan chocolatiers in Rome. 

So after the anti-climactic chocolate egg there is the Easter brunch or lunch. The Pope this year decided to confuse everyone by saying that lamb wasn't traditional, it represented the soul of Jesus, so, come to think of it, maybe the faithful shouldn't be eating it. He undoubtedly saved a few lambs. Of course, he then decided to compound the confusion by telling people that hell didn't exist. I guess there is no logic in religion.

Fortunately not everyone pays attention to the Pope and prefers just to enjoy the Easter break for what it is: a few days off work. Once the weather cleared it was fun to ramble through the various parks. 
On Pasquetta (Easter Monday) this meant keeping a tight hold on the dog as people set up their barbecues. Never mind the cold breeze, tradition was tradition: Pasquetta was picnic-in-the-park day.
All good things come to an end. The break is over. No more holidays til the summer. Secretly, I still like to think that chocolate eggs come flying in on the bells of St Peters - the chocolate eggs of my childhood.

Bitter greens

"La cicoria rinnova la memoria," intones a voice behind me. I turn around. It's one of the local old women, grey-haired and slightly stooped. Her sturdy brown sensible shoes are worn out from her continual pounding up and down the pavements of the area. As she goes by, she utters  old sayings or quotes from the bible, and sometimes admonishments to passers-by. She punctuates her words with hand gestures. She doesn't expect an answer. She's a familiar figure on the streets.

cicoria di catalogna

Chicory is just one of the bitter leaves Italians are fond of. In Rome a particular dish called puntarelle alla Romana celebrates the bitter shoots snuggled among the leaves of cicoria di catalogna. Preparing the puntarelle takes time and patience, and knife skills to cut the tiny shoots into slivers that will curl in their ice cold water bath, but the final result served in an emulsion of anchovies and vinegar is worth it. 

The cicoria di catalogna is a mighty vegetable. A bunch will yield riches because once the puntarelle are disposed of there are the leaves and stalks to cook. They are often steamed or sautéed with some garlic or a hint of pepperoncino and then served with a dribble of fine olive oil.

But it is also the season of broccoletti (tender stem broccoli) found in large tufts on market stalls and slightly less fresh in the supermarkets where the yellow flowers can often to be seen flowering from the broccoli heads, a clear sign that the plant is past its best. 

Bieta - chard

Or there are the cime di rapa (turnip tops) which are the centre piece of the pugliese dish of orecchiette con cime di rapa. All these greens have distinct bitterish flavours and are all labour intensive in their preparation phases.

Another generous vegetable is the bietola (chard). Its large leaves and fibrous stalks have different cooking times and they must be cooked separately for optimum results. The stalks can be stewed Sicilian style in tomatoes and anchovies while the leaves may be steamed. Maybe because of the time it takes to prepare these vegetables most Italian supermarkets will sell large bags of ready-prepared and ready-cleaned spinach, bietola or cicoria and there is also the mixed bag option.

Then there are the elderly who are trying to eke out their meagre pensions by picking up leaves  in the fields: dandelions, nettles and wild rocket as well as any herbs they can find.

As for our street crier she is constantly encouraging people to eat their greens, "la bieta per la dieta," and with their high water content and low calories they would be perfect for a diet.

Tomato stewed bieta stalks

Snow and the city

The British Isles are being hammered  and battered by the 'Beast from the East', an abnormally cold weather system. This week Rome woke up to snow. The commune di Roma had taken the precaution the night before of closing all the schools amid jeers and laughter. Nobody thought it would snow, or at least, snow enough to warrant closing the schools. Instead, it did.

Monday morning I pulled up the shutters to a surreal vision. Already from the strange silence I'd guessed that something had happened. An eerie glow through the shutter slats had given an early indication. I faced a pure snowy white roof, to my left the branches of the trees were sagging under the weight of the snow. I peered four floors down at the road all covered in a white slick, I saw some footprints on the pavement. "Oh shit!" was all I could think.

The previous snowy spell had been five years ago and resulted in panic as the Mayor at the time, Alemanno, rather tardily decided to close schools. He was largely criticised for mis-handling the situation and not having paid enough attention to the weather forecast. A week later another flurry being predicted he closed the schools in advance. The flurry was merely a few flakes of lazy melting snow not worth closing down the city for. He couldn't win. Again he was criticised.

This time the town hall had taken pre-emptive action. Sadly, the Mayor Raggi was soundly criticised for being in Mexico, on a world climate summit (irony of ironies), rather than in Rome dealing with the snow hands on. 

In the end my fears came to nothing. Schools were closed so happy children got to spend a day at home and outside playing with unfamiliar snow balls and building small snowmen. In the parks some attempted a little sleighing.  Most public administration offices were closed too. A large part of the bus network ground to a halt though the two metro lines were unaffected. And I and my colleagues got an unexpected day off which was all the more appreciated for having come unexpectedly.

The next day most schools and public administration offices remained closed. Overnight temperatures had dropped to well below seasonal norms and the city authorities had decided to limit road traffic. Nevertheless, as I walked my dog on slippery pavements, I noticed a massive traffic jam was forming in my area. It seemed most people had chosen to go back to work.

Rome isn't a city that deals well with snow, it can barely deal with heavy rain fall. Sewers get blocked and roads turn to rivers. Likewise as the snow rapidly turned to slush and branches that had crashed down from the umbrella pines clogged the drain holes, cold water accumulated along the sides of roads. 

By the third day the temperatures shot up again though there, for a while, remained the threat of more snow, more cold temperatures. It hasn't happened. Now it looks as if Rome is back on its normal course towards the Spring. Anyway there's an election to take care of! 

To err is human

In France the right to make a mistake has been granted to citizens by Parliament. It's a way of conceding that when dealing with bureaucracy not everyone gets it right first time round. It's also a way of getting people to own up to minor transgressions without fear of reprisals.

There are limits to the French Parliament's magnitude: citizens can make a mistake only once and it must be done in good faith. But it's a step forward. 

Italy has an even more byzantine bureaucracy than France.The pursuit of elusive bits of paper to prove information which is known is an obligatory rite of passage for anyone hoping to stay in Italy long term. There are scores of offices and buildings stuffed full of files all over the nation. Obtaining the various documents involves some kind of cost usually both monetary and temporal. It also involves dealing with the disgruntled employees of public administration offices, who knowing they can't be fired, have dispensed with any semblance of customer service. Why should they when the customer is always wrong? 

Thus, one employee may require certain documents for a transaction whereas another may require different ones for exactly the same transaction. A colleague traipsed off to get a birth certificate translated (a certified translation)and  was then told upon handing in her translation: "Oh, you didn't need to do that!" There's of course no point in getting angry in such situations. And yes, most foreign documents must be translated, neither a simple nor inexpensive undertaking. 

The concept of making a mistake in good faith doesn't exist in Italy. Actually, I suspect that the notion of good faith doesn't exist here. This may explain why people never own up to having made a mistake. Ever. Thus ordinary mortals when dealing with bureaucracy have to have the knowledge of a lawyer and an accountant rolled into one, that's for starters. Hence, there is a large number of offices providing services such as help to fill in tax returns, help with contracts etc.... It's a lucrative business. However, should the service provider make a mistake they are not liable. The customer who hired their services is. There's no way out with such a system.

Another colleague, in good faith, handed in an incorrectly filled (by her accountant) tax return form (her employer hadn't paid as much as he should have).  Five years later, the mistake was noticed. She argued that it had been a mistake. How could she have known what her accountant hadn't noticed? she argued. "Ignorance isn't an excuse," was the convenient coverall repost. She was fined and charged five years accrued interest on the fine. Again, in such circumstances, there is no point losing ones rag.

So good on France for recognising that people can make mistakes. It's high time that happened here.

Oranges and lemons

"Oranges and lemons rang the bells of St. Clement's"I think. I'm walking past the local discount supermarket and the orange trees are bearing their usual crop. As ever the first line of an old nursery rhyme pops into my head. I've forgotten the rest . I look it up. It ends on a particular grisly note: "Here comes the chopper to chop off your head." How could I have forgotten that? 

In this season oranges and lemons are everywhere. I walk to the enclosed park where my dog runs free and I notice, in the courtyards of the condominium complexes I pass, lemon and orange trees all with heavily laden branches. Some have fallen on the pavement and split open. 

 I climb a flight of stairs in Garbatella and sitting jauntily on a wall is a lone lemon. I glance upwards and sure enough there's another fruit full tree.

In Rome, the most famous place for oranges is the orange garden (giardino degli aranci aka Parco Savello) on the Aventine hill.


The garden is next to the Basilica of Santa Sabina. To the left of the entrance to the garden is a striking fountain. The latter half is an old Roman basin whereas affixed to the wall with water gushing from its mouth into the basin, is a large ornamental marble mask which had originally been designed by Giacomo della Porta for a cattle market (Campo Vaccino) in the centre of Rome.

Thanks to accumulated dirt caused by the flow of water from its mouth it now looks as if the stern face is vomiting into the ancient Roman basin. Time for a clean up.

Beside the gate on entering the small enclosed park and at various intervals there are notices with the park rules: no walking on the grass, no dogs without leashes, no playing ball games etc....

 In the Spring, the garden is a popular place for newly weds to come and have their photos taken. In Winter it is quiet. When I went, on separate benches two down and outs were having a kip, couples walked hand in hand and tourists admired the view from the central terrace high above the fast flowing road alongside the Tiber. In the background but faint were the cries and shouts of young children from a nearby primary school.

The alleys are gravel lined. Small orange dots, some an exploded pulpy mess lie on the gravel. Sour oranges that have fallen off their trees. The discarded peel, left lying where it fell despite numerous small bins in the park, also shows that some visitors have sampled the oranges.

The orange trees are planted in lines and enclosed in grassy areas where no one is allowed to go without permission. I have been told that it's possible to pick the fruit for a fee . But there seems to be one about:  no park guard to enforce the rules, nor anyone to take money and oversee the picking of the fruit.

The park is on the site of an ancient castle, one of the bordering walls used to surround the castle, and an old fortress which belonged to the Savelli family. The castle was given to the Dominican Order of Santa Sabina who transformed it into a monastery.

Nowadays visitors come to the orange garden to marvel at the view from its terrace. From the terrace in the distance the dome of St Peter's stands out as does more closely the synagogue. Just opposite the terrace the distinctive ochre and sienna red  warehouses in Trastevere can be seen, to their right and above is the Gianiculum hill and in the middle of the Tiber, the boat shaped Tiber island... There are so many things to see, it's a view worth making the trip for. 
Of couse, Rome is a very small producer of citrus fruit. Condominium courtyards and balconies may hold a small treasure trove of them but the South is where they are cultivated en masse. Sicily and Calabria have vast orange, citron and lemon groves. The cultivation of citrus fruit is important for these impoverished regions.

In the North of the country, in Ivrea at Carnival in February is held the annual battle of the oranges. Battling factions of the town pitch oranges, often rejects of the export market, at each other. The roads and squares of the city turn to a pulpy slush.  
On the shores of Lake Garda, after a long interlude, cultivation of a rarer sort of orange is increasing whereas in Liguria the citrus fruit used to make the drink 'chinotto' are grown. Italians are fond of chinotto. It is an acquired taste. In appearance it looks like a type of cola, but there's a bizarre bitter after taste, reminiscent of lemon pith with an aromatic tint to it.
For those who would like to find out more about citrus fruit in Italy I would recommend reading Helena Atlee's award-winning book.

Auguri. The Romans and their wishes.

"Auguri!" booms a loud voice behind me. I jump. I hadn't realised I was being followed. I turn round to, in turn, wish 'auguri'. It's a neighbour and he isn't addressing me but a friend of his who is waving down from a balcony in the opposite building.



In ancient Roman times augurs were high priests who read the auspices from the behaviour of birds, and other creatures. Thus, a particular flight path could mean the approval of the gods for a certain action whilst another would mean disapproval. The ancient Romans were a superstitious bunch and rarely took decisive action without consulting the augurs.



Not to say that today's Romans aren't suspicious too. When, a few years ago, the Pope released doves from his balcony above St Peter's Square and they were felled by some predatory gulls, there was much head shaking and debate as to just how bad an omen this was.

More recently, Rome's sad dead Christmas tree, nicknamed spelacchio, was seen as a symbol of all that has gone wrong and is still going wrong in Rome. However, it might be argued that spelacchio hasn't done too badly. The tree made the international press, gained world renown and may well have become the most visited, most talked about and most photographed of all Piazza Venezia's Christmas trees. Not bad for a corpse.



Today, people continue to wish each other a good future with their 'auguri', on every occasion they can.



But what could a modern Roman wish for? Maybe a change of the city administration? Or an overhaul of the bankrupt public transport company? A refuse clearing system that works and clears away the refuse? Roads and infrastructures that not only are clean but solid? A loosening  up of the time demanding, expensive and ceaseless bureaucracy that in many cases only exists to provide jobs? There are many things this city needs.

Vandalised bus shelter.

But 2018 arrives fraught with concerns wherever we may be.  I think we all need a lot of 'AUGURI!'

In the soup

"So who's making the trifle?" It was decision time for the Christmas party. No one was willing to make the trifle. Excuses flowed. "I'm already making a cake." "I can't do it. It always comes out wrong." "It's an English thing, I wouldn't know how to make it." There were a few half-hearted looks at recipes online. Some aghast observations, "alcohol, cake and jelly? In just one dish?" In the end no one made the trifle. It was that unheard of things: a trifle-less party.


Roll on a week and I'm in France. Dessert appears, a superb homemade apple cake in a puff pastry crust swimming in a pool of 'creme anglaise' (English vanilla cream). I refer to it as custard. "

Apple cake à la George Sand

No, not custard, you know 'Zuppa Inglese'", I'm corrected. But I know that Zuppa Inglese (English soup) is...well...trifle. A debate ensues on the relative merits of creme anglaise, creme patissiere, custard and zuppa Inglese. It's all vaguely confusing. The dessert, by the way, was delicious.


Now one thing I know is that I don't like Zuppa Inglese. This is because the sponge cake or ladyfingers layered in it are soaked in a liqueur called Alchermes, a sickly sweet pink coloured liqueur which is found in many Italian desserts. As its flavour is reminiscent of medicinal syrups I wasn't surprised to find out that in the past it had been used as such a remedy, most notably for the smallpox.


The soaked sponge is then doused in creme patissiere or custard as for a trifle.  It may then be topped by a chocolate sauce or meringue or whipped cream. The Zuppa Inglese may have originated from the 16th century kitchens of the Dukes of Este, the rulers of Ferrara. They would have asked their cook to reproduce the 'English trifle' which they had enjoyed on their frequent visits to the Elizabethan court.


Another story would have it that a Neapolitan pastry cook made it for Lord Nelson and had taken inspiration from the English booze-laden trifles. Hence, he gave it the name of Zuppa Inglese (English soup).


Whatever its origins Zuppa Inglese is a form of trifle albeit without the fruit and the jelly which goes into traditional English trifles. But the real question remains: is Tiramisu a trifle? 

Honfleur - Normandy