Tag: Culture

A Tuscan Wedding Feast

‘…picked by Teresa and her girlfriends from the meadows around the village.’

You are all invited to an Italian wedding feast.  Dust off your gladrags and let Angela Petch tingle your taste buds with an extract from the final chapter of ‘Tuscan Roots’. 

 

 

 

 

Extract

‘Teresa and her friends from the village have been busy for days in the kitchen, banning Anna from the food preparations..’

The railings on the steps to Il Casalone have been festooned with laurel branches, garlands of white roses and long strands of variegated ivy and Teresa and her friends from the village have been busy for days in the kitchen, banning Anna from the food preparations. The wedding meal and sharing of food is every bit as important a ritual as the nuptial mass. Tables are piled with a feast of colourful, appetising food, spread on freshly laundered Busatti linen. A warm, balmy October has followed a wet summer and so a separate round table is arranged outside on the terrace to hold a whole Parmesan cheese, cut into squares and served with sparkling Prosecco to each guest as they arrive. Teresa and her team have been busy with starters of roast peppers, courgettes and aubergines, pastries with asparagus and artichokes and melting soft cheeses, home-made cappelletti, small hat-shaped ravioli stuffed with chicken breast, lean beef, lemon zest and nutmeg – and tagliatelle, with Anna’s favourite fresh tomato and basil sauce.

‘And all this is to be washed down with glasses of full-bodied local Sangiovese and Chianti Classico.’

And for the main course, Teresa carries in a platter of whole roast suckling pig served with tiny potatoes kept from the ‘orto’, roasted in olive oil and pungent rosemary, a salad of flowers: nasturtiums, borage and marigold petals with young dandelion leaves, wild sorrel and rocket picked by Teresa and her girlfriends from the meadows around the village. And all this is to be washed down with glasses of full-bodied local Sangiovese and Chianti Classico.

End***

The food prepared by the locals, in the Italian Apennines, transcends time and bridges the gap between the generations.

The food prepared by the locals, in the Italian Apennines, transcends time and bridges the gap between the generations.  I enjoyed ‘the stuffed zucchini flowers, little squares of crostini topped with spicy tomatoes, liver pate and a creamy relish made from dandelion flowers, roasted bay leaves topped with ovals of melted cheese.’  Food is prepared: to celebrate feasts, to welcome people into the home, to celebrate family occasions and to woo.

Let Angela Petch tingle your taste buds with her final chapter of ‘Tuscan Roots’.

Read Tuscan Roots, and you will not want to leave the romantic beauty of ‘indigo blue mountains’, or the ruins of Il Mulino (The Mill).  You will be impressed with the bravery of the Italian community during the war, and you will not want to leave the blossoming romance.  I highly recommend this book! Please read my whole review.

Angela has also published ‘Now and Then in Tuscany’: the sequel to Tuscan Roots.

She has published several stories in People’s Friend and is currently writing her third novel.

About Tuscan Roots

If you like Italy, you will enjoy this novel. A story of two women living in two different times. In 1943,in occupied Italy, Ines Santini’s sheltered existence is turned upside down when she meets Norman, an escaped British POW. Years later, Anna Swillland, their daughter, starts to unravel romantic and historical accounts from assorted documents left to her after her mother’s death. She travels to the beautiful Tuscan Apennines, where the story unfolds. In researching her parents’ past, she will discover secrets about the war, her parents and herself, which will change her life forever.

Angela’s Love Affair with Italy

Angela Petch in Italy

I live in the beautiful Italian Apennines for several months each year. Such an inspiring location.
My love affair with Italy was born at the age of seven when I moved with my family to Rome where we lived for six years. My father worked for the Commonwealth War Graves Commission and he made sure we learned Italian and visited many places during that time.
Later on I studied Italian at the University of Kent at Canterbury and afterwards worked in Sicily, where I met my husband. His Italian mother and British father met in Urbino in 1944 and married after a war-time romance.

 

Contact Angela
Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/AngelaJaneClarePetch/
Twitter:  https://twitter.com/Angela_Petch
Website:  https://angelapetchsblogsite.wordpress.com/

 

Please see all my extracts at Book Extracts and my website and blog at JessieCahalin.com.

Turkish Delights

Cherry trees bursting with flavour

Food is the heart of a culture and its identity, so I have invited authors to share the plates of food offered in their delicious words. Beth Elliott has invited me to join her at her table, in Turkey. Travel with me to enjoy the vibrant colours and fresh flavours of Turkish food.  A decadent Turkish feast awaits you in Beth’s travel article.

Friends,

A view of the Taurus Mountains at Aladag, in Adana province.

This is the end of a travel article called Cherries and Plums, about a Turkish mountain village [yayla] in the Taurus, north of Adana. My husband was Turkish and his kind relatives invite me to stay with them each summer. Of course, they like the coolest places they can find, hence a cottage as high up in the mountains as they could go.

Best wishes,

Beth

Extract – Cherries and Plumbs

The trees are always laden with fruit in season, sweet and tempting.

All the plum trees in everyone’s garden up in the yayla are bent nearly double under their load of purple-sheened fruit. It takes several days to pick all those we can reach. After making jam until we have used up all the sugar and run out of jars; after filling five kilo bags for each of a dozen friends and relatives in the city and after eating as many raw plums as we dare, the rest at the top of the tree are left for the birds.

In September in the main street of Tekir there is a slightly melancholy air. The summer crowds have gone. Now the weather is cooler down in Adana, the townsfolk don’t come up to their country cottages so much. A few elderly men in traditional baggy trousers shuffle along the street to their favourite café. There they will read the newspaper, talk with friends and watch the much reduced world go by.

Main market in Adana

The street is lined with mighty trees. They provide shelter from sun and rain. Little shops expand onto the pavement with displays of thick jumpers and woolly waistcoats, hardware, newspapers and strong shoes, in preparation for the snow of the coming winter. Alongside the general stores, are food shops. The large number of refrigerated stalls stocked with great tubs of thick, creamy yoghurt and pails of local white cheese reflect the importance of these items in the traditional Turkish diet.

Nearby, another shop also has a refrigerated display, this time of glorious plump green and black olives and turshu – mixed pickled vegetables. On the counter are oblong containers of honeycomb, oozing golden and sweet. The irresistible smell of fresh bread: loaves or the flat pide, wafts to our nostrils.

Everything is piled into the car. We set off slowly down the main street, across the bridge, turn sharply at the edge of town where the houses thin out and the fruit trees begin. The car twists and turns its way uphill. We go past the new mosque with its little pocket money shop underneath [useful for biscuits and matches].

Here the mountain sweeps out into a shelf where shepherds pasture their flocks in the hot summer months. The larch trees grow from this point up. Great cobbles are set in the track to stop wheels losing their grip in wet or snowy weather. The car creeps up in second gear and at last we reach the yayla, set so high above the valley but still far below the sheer grey wall of rock that makes a sharp outline against the sky. Somewhere over the ridge is the eagle’s eyrie.

Yayla soup, made from yoghurt, flour, an egg and broth, with some rice added in. You can add pepper sauce on top for a spicy version, as well as mint.

For the evening meal we have hot yoghurt soup – called, appropriately, yayla soup. This is followed by salad, cheese and olives. Then we fall upon the fresh bread and honey. To finish, there is a huge bowl of plums.

Jessie:  This is a wonderful article.  I would like to know more about Turkish food.

Beth: I have some photographs to tempt you.

Here is the main market in Adana. Four types of beans, three sorts of peppers, all fresh that morning. Turks won’t eat produce unless it’s of that day.

Breakfast at my aunt’s home

Breakfast at my aunt’s home. Four sorts of white cheese plus one hard cheese, kaymak, olives, salad, dried apricots, walnuts, honey and grape syrup [pekmez]. The boiled eggs and the freshly squeezed orange juice were added soon afterwards…

Another breakfast, at my brother and sister-in-laws’ home. Again, white and hard cheeses, olives, eggs, some fruit compotes, honeycomb and rosehip puree. All washed down with many glasses of tea.

The town of Akcatekir on the valley floor. The holiday villages are up in those pinewoods, near the rock wall, where the goats scamper along all day and the eagles fly out occasionally from over the top.

Scandalous Lady

Jessie:  The tables presented speak volumes about the generosity of the Turkish culture.  Tell me how your love of Turkish culture influenced your novel, Scandalous Lady.

Beth Elliott’s fiery, rebellious artist Olivia falls in love with the magical land of Turkey. When she encounters mysterious, ice-cold diplomat Selim, nothing goes to plan – for either of them. Is Olivia destined to live a life of solitude and regret? Or will her past stay buried long enough for her to have her happy ending?

Beth Elliott

From a young age, Beth made up adventure stories and persuaded her friends to act them out with her. Writing the novels came later, after a career as a Languages teacher in several countries. Her own Mr Darcy being Turkish, Beth adds a few exotic elements into some of her Regency Tales.

 

 

 

I hope you enjoyed a taste of Turkish culture.  Please contact me at mailto:JessieCahalin@aol.co.uk if you would like to share your cultural experiences via food and words.

 

Please see all my extracts and excerpts at Book Extracts and my website and blog 

 

No More Mulberries with Mary Smith

Ali Baba and Hussain Ali sharing a bowl of mulberries

I was intrigued when Mary Smith asked me if she could present an extract about Afghan food.  Always keen to learn more about food and other cultures, I invited Mary to present an extract from No More Mulberries. The feast of food is a treat for the senses.

This extract from No More Mulberries comes at the start of the book. Scots-born Miriam, her Afghan husband Dr Iqbal and the two children are finishing their evening meal. Miriam and Iqbal are arguing because he has arbitrarily cancelled the English classes she teaches to some of the village boys.

Mary Smith’s book, No More Mulberries

Extract:

Iqbal’s eyes narrowed and his voice was cool. ‘The subject is closed.’

About to protest, Miriam became aware the two children were still sitting in the room. For once, Ruckshana had fallen silent, gazing round-eyed at her father. Farid’s head was bowed and she couldn’t see his expression, but knew his face would have the closed, tight look it assumed whenever there the possibility of an argument. She’d wait until the children were in bed before continuing this discussion. Hoping to dispel the tension in the room she rose to her feet, saying, ‘Come on, Farid, you clear the plates while I bring the toot.’

Mantu

The children whooped as she placed a large basin heaped with a pyramid of mulberries – white, red, purple – on the cloth. Washed in icy cold well water the berries glistened like jewels in the light of the oil lamps. Everyone gathered round, busy fingers searching expertly for the choicest fruit. At last, Miriam sat back. ‘My favourite, favourite, fruit. I wish they were in season all year round. I’ll put some up to dry tomorrow. They’re not the same dried, though, with their chewy textures and …’ she groped for the word she wanted, shrugged, ‘dustiness. Right, you two,’ she continued, pointing at Ruckshana and Farid in turn, ‘hands and faced washed before you get a story.’

‘I’ll get them ready for bed and read to them,’ Iqbal said. ‘I don’t need to go out tonight.’ She gave him a fleeting smile in outward acceptance of what she understood was a peace offering, though inwardly she still seethed. It would take more than a bedtime story to make peace.

End of Extract

When I lived in Afghanistan I, like Miriam, loved mulberries and was always sorry when their short season ended, though by then it was time for apricots and peaches. It really made me understand the meaning of eating seasonally. Besides, with such a great variety of things to eat it was no hardship not to have apricots in December – fresh ones, that is, there were always dried ones, which were delicious soaked and poached and served with yoghurt for breakfast.

Ash prepared for cooking and the nan fresh from the tandoor. The heat in the tandoor is fearsome.

In No More Mulberries, Miriam worked in the remote, mountainous region of Hazara Jat, as I did. The daily fare is simple: rice with lentils, yoghurt and sometimes ash, which is handmade pasta. Afghanistan was on the Silk Route so benefited from fusion cuisine long before it was fashionable here. The pasta is served with quroot, a rock-hard sour cheese made from buttermilk which is re-hydrated into a sauce and nan, baked in the tandoor. The heat in the tandoor is fearsome. When the weather is cold children sit with their feet dangling inside to warm them – I was horrified to find my three-year-old doing it.

Kabuli rice: rice cooked with lamb and topped with raisins, almonds and strips of carrot, vegetable dishes and firni a pudding made with milk and corn flour and heavily sweetened.

Shurwa is a meat-based soup (chicken or goat) into which we broke our bread – like I used to do with tomato soup when I was a kid – and once it was all nicely mushed, another piece of bread is used as a spoon.

Afghans love entertaining and at a dinner party, a minimum of seven dishes is served, including kabuli (sometimes seen as qabuli) rice cooked with lamb and topped with raisins, almonds and strips of carrot, vegetable dishes and firni a pudding made with milk and corn flour and heavily sweetened. I so admired how the women (often, it has to be said, helped by the men), working in the most primitive conditions, on a mud-constructed stove, smoke billowing around the kitchen produced these dishes, all cooked to perfection, all hot at the same time.

One of my favourite dishes – perhaps because it is easily reproduced at home – is banjan-sia borani.

In the northern city of Mazar-i-Sharif people came from all over Afghanistan, bringing their own regional and tribal specialities. Little leek-filled dumplings are delicious as is mantu, a dish of steamed dumplings filled with minced beef and onions, topped with a yogurt sauce. One of my favourite dishes – perhaps because it is easily reproduced at home – is banjan-sia borani. This is egg-plant (aubergine) slices fried and served with cooked tomatoes, topped with a sour cream and yoghurt garlicky sauce and dried mint.

I still remember the tantalizing aroma of those lamb kebabs being cooked on street grills.

And kebabs! I still remember the tantalizing aroma of those lamb kebabs being cooked on street grills. Afghan sheep have what’s known as dumba – a fat tail – and pieces of this fat are interspersed with chunks of lamb on the skewers to add flavour. The kebabs were served inside round nan breads, which soaked up the delicious juices. I found sheep testicle kebabs particularly tasty, possibly because I’d eaten them before I knew what the succulent softness was.

This is a tiny taster of the varied foods on offer in Afghanistan. And yes, the most memorable meal I had was in the home of a very poor family. He had leprosy and we’d gone to give him his supply of medicines. The rules of hospitality meant he had to feed us, even though he had next to nothing. He brought us spring onions, salt and thin nan. We wrapped a spring onion in the bread, dipped it in salt and it was as good as eating at a banquet.

Biography and links:

Mary Smith is a writer, freelance journalist and poet based in Dumfries & Galloway in south west Scotland.

She worked in Pakistan and Afghanistan for ten years, where she established a mother and child care programme providing skills and knowledge to women health volunteers. She has written a memoir, Drunk Chickens and Burnt Macaroni: Real Stories of Afghan Women, about her work in Afghanistan and the country also provides the setting for her novel No More Mulberries.

Mary’s poems have been widely published in poetry magazines and anthologies and her first full length poetry collection, Thousands Pass Here Every Day, was published by Indigo Dreams.

She has worked in collaboration with photographer Allan Devlin on two local history books: Dumfries Through Time and Castle Douglas Through Time. Secret Dumfries comes out in June 2018. Her next project is to turn her blog; My Dad’s a Goldfish, into a memoir about caring for her dad through his dementia.

Donkey Boy & Other Stories is her latest publication.

Links:
Blogs: My Dad’s a Goldfish: https://marysmith57.wordpress.com
MarySmith’sPlace:  https://marysmithsplace.wordpress.com
Website: www.marysmith.co.uk
Twitter: https://twitter.com/marysmithwriter
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000934032543

Mary’s latest book is a collection of short stories: Donkey Boy & Other Stories. Shot through with flashes of humour the stories here will entertain, amuse, and make you think. Mary Smith’s debut collection of short stories is a real treat, introducing the reader to a diverse range of characters in a wide range of locations. A donkey boy in Pakistan dreams of buying luxuries for his mother; a mouth artist in rural Scotland longs to leave the circus; a visually impaired man has a problem with his socks; and a woman tries to come to terms with a frightening gift – or curse.