Mamma Mia... That's Life!

by Valerie Barona

  For some unknown reason, I found it incredibly difficult to memorise the distinctive differences between the Italian Police forces. However, they all seemed to have one thing in common: a habit of hiding in discreet places by the roadside, stopping unfortunate motorists at random. They were prone to giving on the spot fines and no amount of wheedling or pleading would get them to change their minds.

  Michele did his best to enlighten me and in time, I managed to define the three categories.

  “I think I’ve got it: the Carabinìeri are in charge of the general safety of the population and they have to make sure the public don’t break the law; the Polizia defend the state and the people, preventing any illegal action or unlawful behaviour.

  The Finanza are like our Inland Revenue and have to make sure every Italian respects the tax laws. They check lorries and their loads and fine any driver who doesn’t have the necessary papers for transport and delivery. Right?”

  “Sì, sì…è giusto. Brava!” Michele answered, suitably impressed.

  A patrol had stopped me soon after I passed my driving test. Although I was the only vehicle on the road and was driving at a leisurely pace, I still only saw the giveaway carabinièri car at the last minute. The policeman strolled out in front of me and waved his baton while his colleague pointed his machine gun at me. A pacifist at heart, I wasn’t used to being the target of firearms and ignoring the consequences, I bravely asked the policeman, resplendent in his uniform, to kindly point the gun in the opposite direction. Looking surprised, he lowered the gun.

  “Grazie,” I managed to say, realising just what I’d done. I mean, no-one dares to confront a police officer for fear of ending up with a hefty fine.

  “Libretto e patente,” asked the one holding the baton.

  I obliged and handed over the log book and driving licence to be scrutinised.

  “E’ inglese?” It sounded more of an accusation than a question as he returned my papers.

  “Sì, sì.” And I’m proud of being English, I wanted to say.

  “E… è un’insegnante?”

  “Sì.”

  “Le piace qui?”

  “Oh, sì, sì.” I love living here so long as I’m not stopped by the police and fined, I was tempted to add.

  They checked the road tax, insurance and tyres, then with a terse:“Buongiorno,” they let me go and waved down the next oncoming car.

  I don’t know why, but the police, regardless of category, always stopped me. At first, I felt proud to think that being a law abiding citizen, they could never find fault with either my driving skills or the car and therefore they couldn’t fine me, but after a while, the novelty – if you can call it that – wore off. On one occasion, they asked me why I was wearing my seatbelt.

  “Because it’s dangerous to drive without it,” I said, adding as an afterthought, “and it’s illegal to drive without being strapped in in England.”

  “But you’re in Italy,” was the reply.

  “Yes, but I’m English,” I said, summoning all the self-control I possessed.

  There was a great feeling of unity among drivers when police cars were found hidden in the most unexpected places. You always knew if there was one in the vicinity when a car flashed its headlights. The first time it happened to me, I thought it was someone I knew and wondered why they hadn’t hooted. All was revealed when the inevitable baton was waved in my face about 400 metres down the road. The family were perplexed to think that so far I’d never actually been fined, even when one of the rear tyres was found to be bald; I was just given a warning and advised to stop at the nearest garage to get it changed. Thanking the policeman profusely, I breathed a sigh of relief and set off on my quest for a new tyre. Perhaps the helpless female role played an important part. Not being the model type and not possessing eyelashes long enough to flutter, I had to rely on other means, notably, my ability to act and so far it had worked.

  I have to admit that once or twice I might have exceeded the speed limit and the police may have turned a blind eye at the emergency stop I carried out when the infamous baton appeared, but having checked my driving licence and noting that I was English, the conversation generally turned to my present situation and whether I enjoyed Italian food and living in the Valtellina.

  Italian police don’t give the impression of being the friendly, approachable type that we associate with the British Bobby. However, on the few occasions we have left the confines of the Valtellina and ventured farther afield, when needing directions, the urban police have always been very helpful and competent.

  *

  A memorable incident with the police force, was some years ago when I was taking my daughter and her friend to their dancing lesson in Morbegno. My mind must have been elsewhere because I was completely oblivious to the police patrol ahead and the policeman who was flagging me down with his baton. I saw him at the last minute and without thinking, waved to him and drove on. It was only when the girls started shouting in horror that reality sunk in. Looking in the rear mirror, I saw the policeman shaking his head in disbelief and gesturing.

  “Mum, will they drive after you and fine you?” Elisa asked worriedly.

  “Ti arresteranno?” her friend, Greta asked, hardly containing her excitement now that the initial shock had worn off.

  “No, of course they won’t arrest me,” I assured them – but I confess to feeling apprehensive for the rest of the ride. I began to relax when we picked up Gaetana and her daughter and there was still no sign of flashing blue lights or police officers. While the girls had their ballet lesson, Gaetana and I went to our usual bar for a coffee. We were laughing over the incident when who should walk in but the two policemen.

  “Oh, I don’t believe it. They’ve found me.”

  “Don’t be silly. They just want an espresso. Act normally.” Gaetana always knew what to do.

  “When have I ever acted normally?”

  At this, we both had the giggles and the policemen glanced in our direction.

  “With a bit of luck they won’t recognise me.” I tried desperately to regain my composure.

  “Of course they won’t. How could they? You were in the car when they tried to stop you.”

  In fact, they didn’t and they left as soon as their coffee break was over.

  “Another time, just remember to stop if a police officer waves you down,” Gaetana suggested.

  “Don’t worry, I will.”

  Once again, we started laughing. The two of us together could never be serious for long. Not even over such a grave matter as eluding the Italian Police.

  12

  A Kilo of Patience

  Eating is a serious business in Italy. The first thing I noticed on my arrival in Piussogno when I sat down to eat with Michele’s family, were the two plates: a soup plate (used also for pasta) and a plate for the meat dish. I had been used to only one plate, for only one course but here it was very different. As the bells tolled midday, lunch had to be served. How I wanted to rebel and eat at 1pm.

  “Most Italians only drink an espresso coffee for breakfast so certainly, they’re ‘ungry by 12 o’clock,” Michele explained.

  We always had a plate of pasta followed by meat, vegetables or salad and cheese then coffee brought the meal to an end. No wonder Italians needed a siesta afterwards. Having eaten such a heavy meal, no one could go straight back to work.

  “Don’t you have a cup of tea in the afternoon?” I’d queried during my initiation to Italian life.

  “You only ‘ave merenda – that’s a drink with a biscuit or cake – if a visitor turns up,” Michele said. “That’s why we ‘ave another big meal in the evening.”

  I groaned. With my culinary attributes – or lack of – I’d certainly chosen the right country to live in. Sometimes, I really had a craving for a plate of baked beans-o
n-toast.

  One spring afternoon I saw Carla picking what I thought to be dandelions.

  “What’s she doing?” I asked Michele as we walked down to the disco to finish the cleaning after a busy weekend.

  “We always eat the first dandelions with a boiled egg. Certainly, they’re very good for you.” I glanced at Michele to see whether he was teasing me. Unfortunately, he wasn’t.

  “What, you actually eat them?” I wasn’t exactly looking forward to the evening meal.

  “Well, not raw. You ‘ave to boil them first.”

  “Oh, that makes all the difference, then.” I wondered what other surprises were in store for me. Having accepted the fact that rabbits and chickens were kept not as pets but as part of a variant to the menu, I still shuddered when I saw the skinned bodies lying over the garden railings ready for the pot.

  Although this has never been one of my favourite dishes, if the French can eat snails, then I can eat dandelions and their leaves…

  *

  “Mamma’s cooking Pizzoccheri today and we’re invited,” Michele announced a couple of days after we’d moved into our new house.

  “Oh,” I tried to sound enthusiastic but I found it a very filling dish and not one of my favourites. My mind wandered back to my debut of Italian meals and the day my mother-in-law had told us that she intended making Pizzoccheri for lunch.

  “What is it? Pasta by any chance?” I’d asked with tongue firmly in cheek.

  “The Valtellina is famous for Pizzoccheri,” Michele explained, completely missing the innuendo.

  “What’s Pizzoccheri?” I hadn’t heard the word before.

  “It’s a type of pasta made from Saraceno flour and comes in long, thin strands that are a greyish colour with specks. Look.” He picked up the packet to show me before continuing. “It’s cooked with potatoes and cabbage. You’ll love it.” He was practically drooling. He forgot to tell me that a generous helping of melted butter with fried onion or garlic is poured over it and a special type of cheese called Bitto is sliced and mixed with it. To finish it off, a liberal amount of parmesan cheese is sprinkled on the top. However, for once, Michele was wrong. As his sister handed me my plate, I didn’t quite know how I was going to eat it. The Pizzoccheri lay in a sea of butter and onion slices and the slivers of soft cheese fused together with the pasta made it lumpy and not exactly appetising for a novice. You definitely needed to acquire a taste for it. My mum aptly nicknamed it rubber bands and that’s what it will always be for us.

  *

  From the very beginning, I cooked English meals as well as Italian ones. It came in handy especially when we invited friends or family for a meal who had never been to England.

  “Cos’é questo piatto?” they’d ask sitting down to a plate of Cottage Pie.

  “Buono! Mi dai la ricetta?”

  If someone said it was good and asked for the recipe then I considered it a success.

  Blackberry and apple crumble with custard usually had varying reactions from:

  “No, grazie, sono sazio. Aspetto il caffè.”

  To: “Wow! Questo sì è diverso. Dove hai comprato la roba gialla?”

  Which roughly translated means: “No, thanks, I’m quite full. I’ll wait for coffee.”

  Or: “Wow! This is something different. Where did you buy the yellow stuff?”

  If my beef casserole didn’t turn out exactly as it should have, I could always say that we ate it like that in Poole. Hoping that any Italians venturing across the Channel would choose to eat in an Italian restaurant instead of sampling any British dishes I’d offered.

  As soon as Alex and Elisa could eat solids, I introduced them to Marmite soldiers which caused a sensation. While my children munched through their fingers of soft rolls liberally spread with butter and Marmite, anyone who happened to drop in, looked suspiciously at the offending food. Smelling the jar, they wrinkled their noses and shook their heads in mock horror.

  “Che puzza! Che cos’è?” To Italian noses, Marmite could be nothing but offensive.

  “It’s called Marmite and it’s very good for children,” I stated in my best Italian, daring any further criticism.

  Another speciality which provoked varied remarks was jelly. How could this weird, wobbly, colourful dessert be nutritious? Alex and Elisa loved both of these delights, though and I served them up regularly.

  My mother-in-law, Carla, suggested I gave Alex and Elisa a couple of dishes she’d given her children.

  “Michele e suoi fratelli sono cresciuti mangiando spesso pan cotto e cervello; fa bene ai bambini,” she told me.

  “Che cosa sono?” I was curious to know what appetising dishes they were. I couldn’t have been more surprised to hear her explanation.

  “E’ brodo fatto di carne o il dado e pane raffermo sciolto dentro.”

  I had no doubt that stale bread in a meat broth or with the equivalent of an Oxo cube had some nutritious value but when I found out the meaning of cervello, I decided my children wouldn’t be eating cow brain in the near future. Michele was very slightly built and not exactly tall and although it was unreasonable to assume his constitution had anything to do with his diet, I intended feeding my children the best of both countries. I gave Alex and Elisa cereals for breakfast and tried to keep to a staple diet but they also enjoyed English snacks such as scrambled egg on toast, jacket potatoes, and cheese on toast.

  Occasionally, Michele arrived home with a bag containing tomorrow’s dinner.

  “Mamma thought we’d like to ‘ave one of the chickens she…” he stopped mid-sentence, realising that if he wanted me to cook it, perhaps it was better not to remind me where the poor bird had been a few days ago.

  On my part, I deliberately tried to forget that I was salting and spicing one of my farm friends, nurtured lovingly by Carla, and considered it just another piece of meat. At such times, I couldn’t help remembering my old friend, Porky, who had been a piglet when I first arrived. He’d grown into a fine specimen of a boar and with a piece of rope tied loosely around his neck, I’d often taken him for walks – such was my need for a companion at times. I hadn’t foreseen his ominous fate, somehow totally ignoring the daily hints from the in-laws that Porky’s days were numbered.

  I had never considered for one moment that the pig I’d watched grow from a squealing, pink bundle into a gentle, lumbering adult would end up as pork steaks or sausages on our table. Needless to say, I declined Alberto’s kind offer to assist in the demise of my animal friend and a lesson in salami making and took myself off for a long walk.

  “I don’t think we’ll be keeping hens or pigs when we move into our new house,” I told Michele.

  “No,” he replied, understanding exactly what I meant. It was one thing to buy meat from the butcher but to actually go into the garden and choose your dinner – no, thank you. A clucking hen or gobbling turkey would be quite safe with us on Christmas Eve or any other day.

  Although I admired the way Carla made use of the land and farm animals, even stuffing pillows and cushions with the chicken feathers, I wasn’t ready to follow her example. My Englishness, combined with the fact that I was brought up in a large town, came through with a vengeance and I preferred to buy meat from the butcher’s and ready-made cushions from shops.

  *

  ‘I need to buy a kilo or more of patience,’ I thought to myself as I threw away yet another culinary disaster but after several dismal attempts at making maionnese for Russian salad, I gave up trying, opting to buy a jar of it instead – but not so with my béchamel sauce for lasagne. I persevered until my roux sauce was as smooth as any Master Chef’s.

  “It’s not lasagne, is it?” Alex asked, unbelievingly.

  “Yes, it is. And I know it’s taken me about ten years to perfect it but I think you’ll find it’s like nonna’s,” I said, cr
ossing my fingers.

  Three forks hovered, waiting for the other to try it first then their faces creased into astonished smiles.

  “Mum, it’s really good!” Alex said between mouthfuls.

  “It really is, Mummy!” Elisa agreed.

  “Certainly, it’s like mamma’s,” added Michele.

  Praise indeed from my husband and children. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the meat for spezzatino – a sort of casserole cooked on the gas stove and eaten with polenta.

  “Um, the meat’s a bit chewy,” Alex told me apologetically.

  “No, it’s very chewy,” Michele wasn’t known for his diplomacy.

  If I really put my mind to it, my attempts at cooking improved incredibly and I surprised Michele and the children when they actually recognised a typical Valtellinese dish on the table that they could also eat and enjoy. However, mealtimes usually involved an element of the unexpected – depending on whether the menu turned out to be edible or I had to revert to Plan B – the family never knew exactly what I intended preparing. Both Alex and Elisa grew up with the mantra: Don’t be like me, learn to cook! And they did. My sister is an excellent chef, so whenever we went to England or she came to visit us, the children watched her create appetising recipes in no time at all.

  “Have you got any courgettes?” Diane asked the first time she came over in winter.

  “No, you can only buy what’s in season here,” I told her, “and courgettes are ready to eat in the summer.”

  She wasn’t sure whether I was being serious or not.

  The arrival of supermarkets in our area in 1989 brought an air of innovation for several reasons: I had a better choice of fruit and vegetables all year; a wider range of products; items were cheaper; and shopping was quicker because the customer couldn’t have a long chat with the cashier. Mind you, if I happened to bump into someone I knew in one of the aisles, and if the cashier happened to understand the conversation between Elisa and me and confided that she’d been an au pair in Edgware for six months when she was eighteen, then I obviously stopped to chat and I could still take an hour or more to buy a couple of things on my list.