My pantry is stocked. Meds up to date. Even have toothpaste. So there was no need for commercial ventures that take me beyond the confines of my little sanctuary. I did take a walk around 13:00, even more repetitive and boring than my hooded adventure-by-night; to the end of my street, left to the cross street, turn around, back home – repeat ten times. But at the end, I felt exercised, which is the point.
Day before yesterday I made soup. One of my favorites during my Scranton period was a recipe I’d found in an Italian cookbook, a brew called acquacotta. That means “cooked water”, so named, I think, because water is the only ingredient that you can’t change. Not having the book with me, I searched the Web for acquacotta and pulled up a dozen or so recipes, none of them even vaguely alike. In the States we’d probably call it “refrigerator soup”.
So, based on what was available at the store and what was available in my memory, I made a nice big pot of it, avoided tedium after the first meal thus provided by ladling it over arugula, or bread, or a good pecorino, finally adding pasta for the last warming.
I also picked up a small ciambellone (similar to bundt cake) at Metà — industrial to be sure, but not bad considering — and a jar of mirtillo (blueberry) jam at the bodega on Piazza Sant’Angelo. It’s one of a dozen or more flavors of marmalade made by the Trappist Friars of Vitorchiano. Wonderful stuff. The fellow who owns the shop called out “be there in a sec” from the back somewhere when I came in, and soon arrived all masked and swaddled. I’d prepared exact change, for which he was grateful, and promptly dropped the jar onto the floor. I’d intended to drop into my bag.
“I missed my bag!”
“Did it break?”
“Seems to be okay. Strong jar.”
“Medieval monastery. Jar’s made of wood. Just looks like glass.”
The industrial cake topped with medieval jam is a surprisingly tasty dessert.
The main excitement today was spring. A glorious morning turned into a balmy afternoon replete with goldfinches darting around the blossoming apricot tree in my yard. Everything there needs tending, so I put on shorts and a polo shirt and set out to clean the paved area in the elevated section.
My yard is on two levels; the lower, intended as a parking space (how that’s supposed to work, I don’t know), and up five steps, a plot of earth of an area greater than my house, walled and overlooking the street. The parking space I use as a little courtyard, shaded by a three-meter square “hanging” umbrella, and furnished in plastic wicker. About half the upper area I had paved when I moved in. Daniele, the guy who painted my rooms, knew a veteran muratore (mason) so it was an easy hire. Daniele took me on a shopping trip into the countryside to search for paving materials, stopping at several suppliers, all of whom he knew. I wanted to do the job with terra cotta, which would have matched the steps and the path that was already in place. He convinced me to go with a exterior porcelain tile, because it was beautiful and on sale (what a bargain). He and Fabrizio the muratore did a wonderful job, and yes, he was absolutely right, the tile was stunningly beautiful once in place.
What I feared, however, was the difficulty of maintaining a textured, variegated, but essentially off-white tile, especially after a winter’s accumulation of grime and dead moss. Today, once again, my fears were founded. Two hours later, I have about 20% yet to scrub with brush and soap. And yes, it is still beautiful, but so is the cotta which has never been anything but swept. Oh well.
Self-isolation turns out to be well-timed. Tomorrow, I will venture out for ingredients to another soup favorite; zucchini creamed with gorgonzola and sage. And for the next six or seven days, two hours at a time, the yard will come into spring readiness.
Otherwise, I hear the same news as you do. Am sick with sorrow for the town in the north that has lost hundreds and is unable to mourn in groups. Am appalled by yesterday’s death rate in Italy. Am heartened by China’s report of no new domestic cases. Am concerned for the land of my birth.
And today, having been responsibly homebound, I have nothing much to add except my creepings within the walls of my domicile, creepings replicated in some fashion by every other resident of this town, and of this country, and increasingly (regretfully) well beyond.
Wash thy hands, world, wash thy hands!
Thanks, as always, to Erika Bizzarri (who has a dog) for the photos of children’s art.