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memoir
Marlena
Blasi
de
Marlena
de Blasi
Umbrian
Supper
Club
Once a week,
five women gather
to cook, eat, drink and
talk, Umbrian-style,
and no subject
is taboo
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CONTENTS
PREFACE
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Part I
MIRANDA
Part II
NINUCCIA 49
Part III
PAOLINA 109
Part IV
GILDA 211
EPILOGUE 299
THE RECIPES
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PREFACE
Linked by culture, blood, tradition, compassion, empathy and
love, four rural women compose the Thursday Night Umbrian
Supper Club. Their ages ranging from fifty-two to somewhere
beyond eighty, they gather each week in a derelict stone house
in the hills above Orvieto to cook, to eat, to drink and to talk.
In another epoch less distant in these parts than one might
imagine they would have been the women who gathered by a
river to scrub clothes on stones or sat among meadow weeds to
mend them, waiting for the weekly bread to bake in a communal
oven. The four are linked, too, by their work, each one having
earned her bread by making it. More specifically, the four are
or were professional cooks who practise or practised in the
past genuine Umbrian culinary traditions.
Inclined to things practical which, in their hands, somehow
become also things romantic, the women say that gathering together
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by the fire and around the table is where one finds antidotes to
lifes caprice. Agood supper, they are convinced, restores to us the
small delights that the day ransacks. Through crisis and catastrophe
and rare moments of uninterrupted joy, its this round, clean and
imperishable wisdom that sustains them: cook well, eat well and
talk well with people who are significant to your life.
Long after Id come to live in Orvieto and been befriended
by the clubs matriarch, she risked making room for me at the
Thursday table. The only stranger among them, it wanted only
time before I became of them, foraging, harvesting, making do,
listening, watching, learning, enacting a few of my own ways
and means upon them.
The narrative has a dual thrust: in exuberant detail it recounts
what we cooked and ate and drank and, in at least as exuberant
detail, it tells the stories of the womens lives: fidelity, aging, men
and aging, sexuality, aging men and sexuality, aging women and
sexuality, children, abandonment, destiny, death, the Mafia and
Mother Church being among the subjects explored.
Vivi per sempre, live forever, wed say, as we set to work on
the preparations for a meal. Live forever, wed say again, holding
each others hands around the table, passing around loaves of
still-warm, wood-baked bread, pouring out jug after jug of our
own chewy, teeth-staining red, benevolence setting the scene
for dining but, as much, for storytelling, invigorating memory,
soothing rancour and even, once in a while, illuminating a fear
long stuck in the heart tight as the stone in an unripe plum.
Spoken by Miranda one evening, maybe its these lines that can
best introduce you to the Thursday Night Umbrian Supper Club:
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PREFACE
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PA RT I
MIRANDA
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MIRANDA
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flowers, rubs them between her palms over the potatoes, and the
maddening perfumes they send up cause sighs of longing from
us. Struggling to rise from her bent position, steadying herself
with one hand on the mantel, once she is upright, Miranda-ofthe-Bosoms is flushed with delight. For the pancetta, for the
potatoes. For her frying dance and because its Thursday. Likely
for much more than that.
Quasi, quasi almost, almost, Miranda laughs over her
shoulder, her great beautiful form juddering back behind the faded
flowery bedsheet that secludes the kitchen from the dining room
in the tiny derelict and woodsmoked house she calls her rustico.
Its a Thursday in a long-ago October. And in this squat stone
building, which sits on the verges of the Montefiascone road, we
are nine still-hungry souls awaiting supper. Four women five
including myself form the core group and, tonight, we are joined
by four men: two husbands, the widower of a former member,
and a lover, the last being Mirandas long-time friend, Filiberto.
The ten small tables at which Mirandas guests sit to dine
on other evenings in the week have been pushed together into
one, the diversity of their heights and widths smoothed over in
green-checked oilcloth. Under sheaves of dried olive branches
that hang from the slouching, split-beamed ceiling barely a metre
above our heads, we sit on plank benches and half-broken chairs
along its length. Amerry troupe, having our way with Mirandas
purple wine, passing along a thin-bladed knife and a two-kilo
round of her crusty sourish bread, still warm from the wood-fired
oven in the back garden, each of us saws off a trencher, passes it
to the person on their right. When everyone has bread, we tear
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it into pieces, wet the pieces in the wine, and chew the fine pap
with gusto. Pane e vino, bread and wine.
We slide further into our cups, wet more bread in more wine
until Miranda parts the bedsheet curtain keeping it pinned to
the wall with a tilt of her hip and comes forth holding a great
steaming basin of wild porcini braised in red wine and tomato.
Into small deep white bowls she spoons the mushrooms with their
dark potent juices and directs someone to fetch more bread and
another to remove the pancetta from the grate and lay it over
the potatoes where itll stay warm without burning. She asks if
the wine jugs are full, then serves herself. We raise tumblers and
voices in buon appetito and the house goes silent as stone save
for low-pitched salacious murmurings.
We share in the clearing of plates and the resetting of others.
One of the Thursday night rules is: Once the supper begins,
Miranda will not leave her chair at the table until the meal is
finished. And so, with two kitchen towels against its heat, Ilift
the pan of pancetta and potatoes from the embers and take it
round the table for everyone to serve themselves. Next, one of us
fetches from the kitchen two large chipped Deruta platters piled
with chicken crusted in wild herbs rosemary, oregano, fennel
seeds, fennel flowers and thyme and roasted with crushed
tomatoes and olive oil, the whole of it doused in white wine
toward the end of its cooking time. We fight over the pan juices
and before were ready to surrender the platters crusts poised
for a last swipe someone whisks them away behind the curtain.
Coitus interruptus. We suffer the noise of furtive slurpings. Then
frenzied scrapings of the roasting pan left behind in the sink.
MIRANDA
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MIRANDA
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runs a hand across her cheek, pinches her upper lip, pats her
kitchen-towel turban. Miranda has been consenting to the age
seventy-six for several years now but I think one of her recent
birthdays was her eightieth.
It was a cold January night when I first met Miranda, six
years ago now. While still living in the stable in San Casciano,
Fernando and I were in the thick of our search for our next
house; somehow we found ourselves accidental guests at a festival
to honour SantAntonio Abate Saint Anthony the Abbot in
a tiny Umbrian village near the hilltown of Orvieto. Awooden
crate of just-baked bread balanced picturesquely on her head,
Miranda had gone about the little festa swinging her prosperous
hips, causing the men to pause in their quaffing and orating
whenever she passed by. Iremember one man in particular would
bite the side of a forefinger each time she came near. Aforceful
gesture this, indicator of many sentiments. But that mans motive
for finger-biting was undeniably desire.
As it turned out, we soon found our next house in Orvieto
and waited out the two years it wanted to restore it; for all
that time and ever since, Miranda has been an affectionate and
generous presence in our lives. My first Umbrian friend, my
enduring one. When I was too-long kitchenless she put the keys to
the rustico in my hand, invited me to complete the work of testing
recipes for a manuscript perilously overdue. And when Fernando
and I finally moved into Number 34 Via del Duomo, again it
was she who swanned me through the markets, introduced me
to the farmers, helped me the first American ever to set up in
Orvieto full-time to slash a path through the spiny cultural
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MIRANDA
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Sto bene. Sto veramente bene ma, she says. Im well, truly
well, but. . .
Well then, what is it? asks Gilda. Adelicate fifty-something
beauty, Gildas face seems made of white silk in which her amber
eyes have burned great round holes. I can also see you are a
bitdown.
I think its a matter of fatigue. Our little Miranda is doing too
much. Maybe there should be a nice interval in our Thursday
nights, says Ninuccia, a stout red-haired women with gorgeous
grey eyes and a tendency to rule. The tribes portatrice della verit,
the carrier of truths, Ninuccia knows what is and what isnt and
rarely is she disputed.
All Italiana, everyone around the table begins to speak at once,
each one hearing only themselves. No one wants to surrender
the Thursday suppers nor do they disagree that Miranda should
be doing less. At least for a while. The rumpus builds until she
commands quiet.
My nephews have promised to do a bit of work on this old
place. Not much, mind you shoring up the beams, laying
down a truckload of antique tiles one of them bought from an
auction in Viterbo. Some paint. Even though theyll be working
only in the evenings, Ishould think a month would be enough.
Sometime after the raccolta they should be finished. The olives
will be ripe enough to harvest by mid-November this year,
wouldnt you say?
A murmur of accord. Yes, after the harvest and before the
first snow, the boys should be finished.
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MIRANDA
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And whoever can spare something from his hunt, well, feel
free to hang the haunches, or the beasts entire, in the cheese hut
out back. Birds, hare, boar. Remember to wrap a hoof or a foot
or a wing with the date, written legibly, so well know the order
in which to use them.
No need to date a bird, Miranda. Once its putrid, it speaks
for itself.
Youre just about reaching the putrid stage yourself, Iacovo,
Miranda assures a handsome man in a hand-knitted black sweater,
navy basque and grey canvas trousers tucked into knee-high
boots the same hand-knitted black sweater, navy basque and
grey canvas trousers tucked into the same knee-high boots hes
been wearing summer and winter, its been observed, since the
day his wife passed away half a decade before.
For the last years of his life, Michelangelo never took his boots
off, my darling girl, Iacovo tells her. Its in deference to him that
keeps me night and day in mine.
Bah. Where was I? Yes, the wine and the oil will be here,
wood for the fire, for the bread oven.
And the pecorino, Filiberto says. Therell always be cheese.
Miranda looks at Filiberto, blows him a kiss.
Certo, certo, youve done more than your share and now
well . . . well take over. Take turns. As usual, its Ninuccia who
decides for all of us.
Once again, everyone speaks at the same time, all of them
agreeing that Miranda should indeed retire from her stance in
front of the old iron stove. Yes, yes, of course, giusto, giustissimo,
its right, very right, they repeat again and again though their
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MIRANDA
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Festa di Babette. Since then, well, Ive been thinking that were
like those locals whod lived on salt cod and water and that you
could be her, that Babette woman, sitting us down to some strange
supper on a Thursday. La Festa di Babette.
Youve hardly fared on fish and water all these years, Isay,
raising my glass. Everyone follows suit and we drink to the health
and joy of the goddess of Buonrespiro.
Brava, Miranda, bravissima, bravissima. Everyones on their
feet, coming to surround her, kissing, embracing, placing their
hands on her sweat-shined cheeks. Miranda has ruled her tribe
justly and so merits their love. But the brio quietens perhaps too
quickly and, once back at their places, they resume a collective
sulk, one fidgeting with his ring, one flicking a middle finger
and thumb against errant crumbs. Some fix a perplexed gaze
in my direction, as though I was someone else, someone new.
Which, in a way, is what I am. Being someone new is who an
expatriate is always.
Though Ive known these souls who compose Mirandas
famous Thursday suppers for all the years Ive lived in Orvieto at
least to greet in the markets or wherever our paths cross it was
only last spring that she first invited Fernando and I to join the
ranks of her inner circle. But more than the longevity I lack,
its my straniera, my stranger, status that worries them. How,
oh how, can lAmericana slip into the old white clogs of their
beloved Miranda?
I know better than they that I cant. But what I know that they
dont is that I have no wish to. Its not Mirandas shoes Ill try to
fill; Ive got shoes of my own. Ilike that Miranda sensed I would
MIRANDA
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MIRANDA
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MIRANDA
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MIRANDA
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All the way back into town I repeat and repeat what Andr
Gide taught me so long ago: If you want to discover new lands,
you must consent to stay a very long time at sea.
MIRANDA
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PR A I S E F OR M A R L E NA de B L A S I
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This recipe is one of a dozen luscious recipes taken from The Umbrian Supper Club.
Available in April 2015, it is a delight to read and taste!