Sunday, July 29, 2007

stone fruit



Plums are a-plenty at market now. We get them in at the restaurant for plum tarts made with a baked pastry cream, a delicate finish to dinner. In 479 B.C. Confucius spoke reverently of plums in his writings and songs. In 65 B.C. Pompey the Great introduced plums into the orchards of Rome. We are, however, always on the look-out for native wild plums which are now considered an endangered and threatened species in Vermont. The wild plum also appears on the list for SlowFood's The Ark of Taste. It's known by many names: American plum, American wild plum, sandhill plum, Osage plum, river plum, sand cherry, thorn plum, wild yellow plum, red plum, August plum, goose plum, hog plum, sloe.

When the colonists first came to the east coast, the land was rich with wild plum, especially beach plum, which is still a prized treasure in places like Cape Cod. In late summer, foragers go out with pails into the sand dunes, going to old family spots, and favorite picking places to fill their buckets for jellies and preserves. In Vermont, one used to be able to find them on roadsides, riverbanks, woodlands, and at the edges of farmland. In the 19th century, wild plum produced succulent fruit every year. Now, in the 21st century, they produce every other year. Those hardy colonists used to serve the plums with wild game, but over time replaced them with European cultivated plums leaving what remained of the thickets of wild plums to the turkey, black bear, wolves, foxes, black-headed grosbeak, and ring-tailed cats.

We are lucky to have neighbors who have a prized and very old wild plum near their house, probably dating back at least a couple of hundred years. Last year we had a treasure trove of plums for tarts, for poaching, for eating fresh. Stewed plums with fresh whipped cream make a perfect summer dessert, and while we're hopeful to one day make this dish from fruit grown from solid rootstock in our own orchard, the European plum will always do.


Plums for Four
6 plums
butter
sugar
water, or red, white, or rosato wine
fresh whipped cream
Split 6 plums and remove the pits. Melt 1 teaspoon butter and 1 tablespoon sugar in a skillet large enough to hold the plums, and then put in the plum halves, cut-face down. Cook over medium heat for about 2 minutes, then gently turn the plums. If the pan juices are drying out, ad a couple of tablespoons water, or wine--red, white, or rosato--and cook another 5 minutes, or until the plums are tender and moisture is still in the pan. Remove the plums to serving plates or bowls, and reduce the juices to a syrup and pour over the fruit. Chill at the point--if desired, or serve immediately. Dollop with fresh whipped cream.

Friday, July 27, 2007

a fresh batch of anticipation

Last year we made, for the first time, a few litres of nocino, a traditional walnut liquer popular in Italy. And we just began this year's batch, which now sits macerating in the sun in four large jars in our living room. Deirdre began making rosolio several years ago using our currants, or our rose petals, and we have long had a fascination for the great variety of amari one can find throughout Italy, and so last year we finally managed to find the green English Walnuts required for nocino (from a farm in Michigan), and the results of that first effort were so encouraging and surprisingly delicious, we doubled this year's batch.

Having learned a little bit more in the intervening year, we made a few minor changes to the formula, a few additions, taken another one or two small leaps of faith. The returning stars from last year were all on hand: citrus peel, clove, cinnamon, mace, vanilla bean. But to each jar I also added a small quantity of our espresso beans, cacao nibs, some slices of ginger, and anise seed.



Then the green walnuts were cut up into quarters, and divided among the four jars, and the grain alcohol went in, and the jars were closed, and now are resting comfortably in the sun for 40 days. Then we will strain all the ingredients out of the alcohol, and add the four litres of simple syrup, and put everything up in our slowly growing collection of imported amaro bottles, and wait. Until christmas.

(Well, maybe there will be a preliminary taste test around Halloween. Just to be sure everything is proceeding according to plan...)

Thursday, July 26, 2007

will and twist



A dog day in summer. Sky heavy with humidity threatening rain, a shard of lightening, thunder rumbling somewhere far away. A visit to the cheese farm where we get a beautiful cow's milk ricotta and superbly aged caciotta from Jody and Luisa Somers at their Dancing Ewe Farm over across the border in New York. Jody learned to make cheese in Tuscany. Luisa is from Tuscany. While they are only making cow's milk cheeses right now, Jody has grown a herd of a hundred or so sheep for milking next year. In New York City, and at farmer's markets, they sell their miraculous cheeses, and delicious lamb.


Jody has two sheep dogs. He is a master with dogs. Think sheep dog trials, national ratings, sheep dog guru. First he had Twist, red and white and clever all over. She was a runt and a wreck with very little going for her as a puppy when he took her on. But within a few years, she was so well trained and so full of heart she was one of the top dogs in her category in the country. Will is the younger of the two and still learning. He's black and white and very handsome. Movie star dogs who will appear soon in an HBO movie based on the Jon Katz book A Dog Year. On this hot summer afternoon, Jody gave us a demonstration with Twist, Will and the sheep. We went out behind the cheese house that he built by hand, another story, and stood at the top of the big field looking out over the most pastoral of views. With a few clicks, whistles, and a very soft voice, he sent the two dogs to work. An incredible choreography of man and dogs: circling, running, herding, doublebacking, returning, calling, answering.

When the work was done, Will and Twist finished their day with a dip in the water trough, lapping water and cooling off. They panted and lolled, relaxed. But their ears were always twitching, waiting for Jody's voice, always ready for the next job.

Tuesday, July 24, 2007

festiva maxima


Peonies. Lush, artful, the epitome of summer. A bowl full of peonies is one of the ultimate luxuries. In the garden, we have deep, magenta peonies with a splash of yellow in the center. We dug them up from our mortgage officer Tommaso's garden several years ago and planted them in our fledgling perennial garden. He was moving, and wanted all his plants to find a new home. He was hopeful to inhabit his ancestral house in Italy, near Parma in the Emilia-Romagna. He would have roses near Parma. Maybe he would grow peonies there too.

We wait for June patiently. The peonies bloom in Woodstock early, then we have them at home in Barnard. I won't cut our peonies at home; they are too opulent and rare rising above the frill of ladies mantle and alongside the last of the bearded iris. Two years ago we ordered 22 Sarah Bernhardt peonies, the classic old-fashioned blush. We planned to underplant a hedge of Annabelle hydrangea that runs along the northside of our house. We were too late with our order, and we hoped they would arrive this spring instead. We're still waiting. It's time to find another source, so that we can cut them from home and not miss their lolling heads from the flower border because we will be rich in peonies.

In the season, we get several buckets full of peonies for the restaurant and home from a local grower, Hartland Flower Farm, or Harmony Farm as they are now called. They grow countless varieties with delicious names like Raspberry Sunday and Festiva Maxima. These are among our favorites, white petals flecked with candy apple red in the center. The farm holds an annual peony festival with flowers, food, and games for kids. When we still have coral pink blooms in the vases at the restaurant late into July, the patrons are in awe. At the farm they grow late blooming varieties that keep us in peonies longer than most. We show them off, flaunt them even.

At home, clutches of peonies are everywhere for as long as we can have them, and the rooms are fragrant with the blooms. Our two cats, Arlette and Janvier, a matched black pair, like to stick their noses deep into the centers. When the peonies have gone by, they will instead take in the roses.

Saturday, July 21, 2007

farm stand


Mid-summer in Vermont is the time of many first harvests: greens, strawberries, sour cherries, broccoli, and now zucchini. We picked beautiful dark green zucchini from Nick and Theresa's garden at Stony Brook Farm Stand. Theresa was outside roasting a pork with rosemary and garlic on her rotisserie, the scent magnificent. Guests were coming for dinner. Theresa not only has a very green thumb, she is also a very good cook. As a young woman she trained in a university hospitality program with a minor in international cooking. In addition to running the big farm when they were younger, she and her husband Nick have travelled all over Europe and owned their own restaurant. Now they garden, and cook for friends and family.

Theresa and I talked of the magic of the rotisserie (we have one in our stove at home) while Caleb cut greens and picked zucchini in the garden before us. We all agreed that a Sunday rotisserie chicken is divine with potatoes cooked in the chicken fat dripping from the rotating meat above. Theresa likes two little game hens side by side and stuffed with lovage on her rotisserie best. What better than roasted zucchini to accompany.

We've been serving a pasta with zucchini at the restaurant to take advantage of our sleek haul, and I've been pairing it with a fresh Falanghina from Campania for a white, or a Sicilian Syrah for a red. Falanghina is a southern Italian varietal that can exhibit Alsatian or more mineral qualities in the nose, but it always has a somewhat tropical profile and bouquet. Things like pineapple, banana peel, citrus, or even lush peach. The finish is usually defined by a pronounced minerality given that Falanghina from Campania is often grown in the shadow of Vesuvius. As for the red, the Sicilian Syrah is lighter and less smoky than many other Syrah. It focuses on a preserved-style red fruit, and a dry, elegant finish. Some revolutionaries say that Syrah is indigenous to Sicily, hailing originally from Syracuse rather than Shiraz in Iran. Only the dna testing will completely tell the tale. In any event, Syrah grown in Sicily has a different personality than Syrah grown anywhere else, and speaks eloquently of place.


Pasta with Zucchini
(For 4 cups of zucchini)

zucchini
1/3 cup olive oil
salt
pepper
grated Parmigiano or Pecorino

This is a simple recipe. Slice the zucchini in 1/4-1/8 rounds. If the zucchini are small, slice down the whole vegetable. If the zucchini are quite large, quarter, then slice. The width of the slices should vary. They are not meant to be uniform. This adds texture. Leave the zucchini slices on cookie sheets or another flat service over night so they give up some of their water. This prevents them from steaming themselves mushy.


When ready to cook the next day, preheat oven to 375. Place the slices in a roasting pan with 1/3 cup of extra virgin olive oil, salt and pepper to preference. Roast for at least two hours, or until done, done meaning that some have become golden brown, some crispy, but all very tender.


Toss with a short pasta like penne (we prefer a short pasta with this sauce, but spaghetti will work in a pinch) which has been cooked al dente. Finish with the grated Parmigiano or Pecorino.

Thursday, July 19, 2007

roadside two

The White Cottage is a local haunt. You take route 4 through our village of Woodstock and head west. With it's retro facade and red and white awnings, it's the classic roadside burger joint/clam shack, and can't be missed. Or shouldn't be. Open since 1957, its menu is a true expression of mid-century roadfood. Its tables are full from Memorial Day through Labor Day, and often well into September. The current word is that the owner is from Brazil, and several young Brazilians work the kitchen and order windows. A Brazilian flag hangs alongside the American. Because of the foreign exchange flair, you feel like you could be sitting at a breezy seaside spot somewhere else other than deep New England. (Or given all the other elements, you can still be in New England. Whichever you prefer.) They offer succulent burgers and dogs, as well as more modern considerations--a veggie burger, a ceasar salad. There are the classic clams, served fried whole-bellied or strips. To finish there is both soft and hardserve icecream, and banana splits. Take your tray down to the riverside and dine at a picnic table under the shade of a big maple. We often go for the burger. A word of advice: as long as we've lived here, through various short order cooks and owners, the medium burger is always medium-rare, medium-well is medium. On a good day, the fries are crisp and salty.

Monday, July 16, 2007

first harvest


Cherries. This is the first crop of the summer from our two small cherry trees. We planted them two years ago, and this year at least one flowered profusely in May, and now by July, those blossoms are already fruit. For several weeks we talked of getting netting to protect our small take from the birds, but we rallied too late. The birds have already feasted on a good portion. We picked the eight cherries remaining and ate them with some beautiful, fat cherries from a local orchard for lunch.

We are reminded of the cherry tree outside of the house we used to live in Italy. Old, tall, and elegant, come early summer it would be laden with this magical and juicy fruit. We would pick baskets full and become drunk on cherries, eating them by the handful in the afternoon shade of our balcony.

Cherries are delectable in many ways: in a pie, studded in a sugared flatbread, simmered into a sauce for sweet cream icecream. We like them best as they are, served in a bowl over ice to keep them and us cool on a hot day.

Sunday, July 15, 2007

sunday lunch


This Sunday lunch was at the restaurant. Our nights have been so busy and late that we've needed to come in earlier than usual to prepare for the evening ahead. Today, Caleb needed to be in early to make a Bolognese sauce with the veal raised for us at a local farm, as well as a fish stew called Cacciucco, an antique recipe from Livorno, made with mussels, shrimp, hake, bass, tomatoes. All stewed with trout heads for extra flavor in the stock.


So lunch was filet of trout, pan cooked with rosemary and white wine, a little omelet stuffed with a Roman sheep's milk cheese, roasted potatoes. We sat on our porch overlooking the courtyard and the main street. The sky was cloudy, the possibility of violent weather threatening again on the weather radio. We shared a glass of rosato made from Refosco, the big red varietal from the Friuli north of Venice and on the Slovenian border. Dessert was cheese and fresh sweet cherries.


Rosemary Trout

(recipe for each trout filet)

1 trout filet
flour

white wine
extra virgin olive oil
a small handful of sprigs of fresh rosemary
salt and pepper


Rinse filet under cold running water, pat dry.
Season flesh with salt and pepper.
Dredge filet lightly in flour and shake off excess.
Heat extra virgin olive oil in skillet large enough to hold fish. (We like cast iron. The flame under the skillet should be set to medium-high.)
While the pan is heating, make a slit the length of the fish through the meat, but not cutting the skin. (This is for the rosemary.)

Put the fish in the skillet skin side up.
Sear for about a minute in the hot oil.
Turn the fish over, lower the heat to medium-low, put some of the fresh rosemary in the slit. Don't skimp.
Splash enough white wine to cover the bottom of the pan.
Scatter the remaining rosemary across the pan to infuse the sauce.
Drizzle extra virgin olive oil over the fish.
Cook for 3-5 more minutes depending on the size of the filet and until cooked through.
Serve immediately with reduced pan juices.












Friday, July 13, 2007

walled gardens

We have always been slightly romantic about walled gardens, or sunken gardens, or secret gardens. Perhaps it was living in Italy that did it to us, or our imaginations taking hold of the countless stone cellar holes that tuck into our Vermont landscape. How lovely and surprising they would be full of roses and lilies and catmint.


We never expected to have a walled garden. When we bought our property high on a hill called Mount Hunger, our house was situated in an open meadow with broad sky and lengthy views. Our house and the field surrounding it could best be described as "full of potential." Things were really so bad that about a year before we even looked at the house, another friend of ours was told to meet her realtor at a "real find." Our friend drove into the driveway, parked for about thirty seconds infront of a ruined garage that was at the time the property's best feature, then turned around and drove out. She never even got out of the car.


How we came by this house and the trials and errors of how we went from the proverbial sow's ear and arrived at the current silk purse is another story altogether. It was the garage that led us to the walled garden. Unsuspectingly so I imagine. After a number of years of making several improvements to the house, the garage began to look less and less....well, less, and it became the eyesore that the house had once been. One winter, a new carriage barn went up in another, better location, and the old garage came down. We painstakingly brought down roof, walls, and windows. Made of all cedar, we knew that these bones could be recycled. Within another couple of years, the lay of the land where the garage had once been lent itself to the creation of a sunken garden, the stone wall made from the stone surrounding our property. Now, we are in the final stages. The wall is built. The old cedar from the garage has been employed for the raised beds. Lettuces, tomatoes, eggplants, zucchinis have all been started. Old bourbon roses have been procured. A garden bench given as a Christmas gift that once sat under an apple tree has been moved, its back against the wall. We wait for the pea gravel to arrive so that we may line the paths, then set a table for dinner in the new garden, and open a bottle of something sparkling to celebrate.

Thursday, July 12, 2007

a proper lunch


We are firm believers in a proper lunch. I'm sure it started years ago: a combination of living abroad and getting used to the mid-day break of good food and good wine mixed with the fact that we work five nights out of every week, so lunch becomes our sacred meal of the day. We eat dinner very late, after service at the restaurant when we all sit down together. It's a great dinner with discussion about the evening's work which eventually moves on to other conversation. We often taste new wines, or try a wine from the wine list to see how the bottle is currently drinking. We eat well. But we also know our evening is not done. There is still clean-up. There are glasses to be polished, silverware to be wiped down, bread to be made, floors to be swept. It is a working dinner with another hour or so of labor still ahead.


Two to three days out of the week, we also eat lunch at work. We try new dishes, or just want to be there to get a jump on the evening ahead. On Saturdays and Sundays, we eat lunch at home. This is when we truly indulge in what we consider a "proper lunch." Even though we still must go into work after we eat, we pay attention to the meal that we prepare and spend an hour--and if we are lucky more than that--relaxing and enjoying the results of our efforts. We make a point of setting aside the time. And on our days off? The best is when lunch is followed by reading and a nap as was the case Wednesday. After a morning of work in the new garden and in the humid fug of midsummer, precisely at noon, thunder rumbled, and lightening flashed. A wall of rain came our way, and lasted the rest of the day and evening (we have been plagued by rainy and volatile weather this past week.) A perfect reason to come in out of the deluge and pour a glass of wine and think about lunch.


We have been reading Richard Olney's Simple French Food, a terrific discussion on the cuisine of la bonne femme, the good woman, or the good wife. In Italian, we call it la cucina casareccia--the housewife's kitchen, or the housewife's cooking. Essentially the same translation out of the two languages. We chose a couple of dishes from the Olney book to prepare for Wednesday lunch: scrambled eggs with tomatoes and basil and leeks topped with a vinaigrette made with white wine vinegar, dijon mustard, hadboiled egg, and olive oil. We added fresh melon to our plates. As we had forgotten to bring home prosciutto, we opted for little fried bits of pancetta and sprinkled them over the fruit. We finished with fresh cherries and a raw milk blue. We drank a refreshing white from the highplains of the Veneto, a blend of pinot grigio and white tocai(not the Hungarian tokay, or the Alsation, but a varietal truly known as savignon verte and called tocai as that is the dialect name for the small glass it is served in the Friuli.)


Sleepy and full, we found our way to different couches, spread out with our current books, and read until our eyes drooped and we felt asleep to the sound of the rain on the roof.

Sunday, July 8, 2007

farmers' blood


This Sunday, a cool, cloudy, and humid afternoon, we stopped at a local farm stand called Stony Brook Farm on the way into work. Last year, the owners of the farmstand, Nick and Theresa, provided us with beautiful produce and honey for the restaurant. This was our first visit of the new season. Nick and Theresa used to live in the old farm next to the plot of land that they now work. There, they farmed for years and raised four children. Of retirement age, they leave our long, hard winters and spend the season in Virginia, then return for summer in Vermont to grow their favorite vegetables and herbs. They just can't wash farming off their hands.


Nick and Theresa have taken over a few acres that they plant with old-fashioned varieties like Brandywine tomatoes, pole beans, yellow wax beans, basil, rosemary, mint, lovage, broccoli, summer squash, sweet corn, beets. They have one lattice of beans grown from Theresa's family seeds, at least a hundred years old and passed from generation to generation. They are called Uncle Ernie's beans because Uncle Ernie grew and nurtured them, and Nick thinks they are the predecessors to French green beans. Theresa's family has been in the States for a long time and have an English name, but we all thought perhaps their roots were once Italian, or even French.

We picked new basil and admired the beet greens and lettuces, arranging to procure them for the following week at the restaurant. We coveted the zucchini and squash blossoms, imagining them stuffed with ricotta and lightly fried, but Nick said with a slight smile he wouldn't have any zucchini if he let us have all the flowers. They showed us pictures of the piglets up the road raised by their son Danny--a blend of Land and Yorkshire. Some were White Sows. One of the sows had given birth to seventeen piglets, and even though she lost a few, Nick said she still had fourteen. The only problem was that she only had twelve dinner plates. We arranged for Danny to raise one of the pigs for us to have later in the year at the restaurant, plans for curing prosciutto and lonzino hatching in the kitchen of our minds.

Thursday, July 5, 2007

holiday


It rained on our fourth of July. All afternoon and evening, the rain fell steadily, making for an unexpected kind of summer holiday. Our friends Sean and Kelly and their daughter Isabel came to visit for the day. Sean and Kelly own the lovely Restaurant Alba in Malvern, PA outside of Philadelphia. They offer a cuisine inspired by fresh ingredients almost exclusively from local farms and artisans. The five of us drove the winding route up to Warren, Vermont where we watched the matinee of Circus Smirkus, an old-fashioned circus presented by performers all under the age of eighteen. Tumbling, dancing, high wire, juggling, trampoline, trapeze, and clowning were all woven together in a detailed and engaging pie-in-the-face kind of narrative. We ate hotdogs and popcorn, then came home to light a fire in the fireplace and slowly wend our way through our holiday menu.

We began with white sangria perfumed with fresh white peaches, fresh orange and grapefruit juice served alongside salametti, cornichons, and a favorite dish made with fresh goat cheese, mint, olive oil, and dried figs served with bread and crackers. Dinner featured grilled vegetables, mixed cured meats, and spelt pasta glistening with a basil pesto that Sean had made from a neighbor's basil patch. He and Kelly brought two wines they had procured from the Piemonte in northern Italy this past fall when they were invited to attend Slow Food's Terra Madre, a fresh and lively Dolcetto d'Alba, and an elegant Barbaresco. We finished with plump apricots and a fragrant and silky local cheese that they had also brought up from the restaurant, Birch Run Hills Farm raw milk Blue. Isabel flitted from table to coloring book to chair. The evening ended not with fireworks in the sky, but in stead with espresso, schiaccetra, a honeyed Ligurian dessert wine, and our own nocino made from a concoction of green walnuts, vanilla bean, cinnamon, and citrus peel.

White Sangria

1 bottle white wine (Chardonnay, Chenin Blanc, or Trebbiano work well)

juice of 1 orange

juice of 2 grapefruit

2 white peaches, diced

2 limes

sparkling water to taste

We make our white sangria, a very refreshing contemporary version of traditional sangria, with a pitcher full of very cold white wine. Add the fresh juices of one orange, and two grapefruit. Dice two white peaches and toss in the pitcher. Prepare wedges from two limes and squeeze the lime juice into the pitcher then add the wedges. Stir with a long wooden spoon. Add plenty of ice and enough sparkling water to add fizz to the concoction.

the volunteers


At the edge of our field under a maple tree, we found two stray digitalis, or foxglove. Tall white spires with red speckles on the inside of the flower. We've tried to grow foxglove in our garden in the past, and for a couple of years, we had great luck with them nestled tight between the Therese Bugnet roses and the orange lilies that we transplated from the roadside. Then, they disappeared. It's as if the two foxglove that we once had volunteered to move elsewhere, got up and walked across the field to this shadier bed.

On Tuesday evening, the sun slanting across the grassy meadow, we walked down our dirt road with a shovel and a pail down to the far side of our property where a brook runs in the spring. We dug out the foxgloves gingerly, with only a little remorse for wanting to move them from this surprise location. For half a minute, we wondered if we should leave them here so pretty at the far entrance to the meadow. No, we reasoned, they would only get lost in the treeline here, and would be much better admired in the garden. Once we were resolved, we walked them back down to the house, planting them in the garden near the German rose, the orange lilies, and the now spent bearded iris. We contemplated their name, foxglove, and could imagine the inspiration perfectly. The petals of the flower do look like slender little white gloves fit for a fox's paws hung out to dry on the tall green stalk of the plant. How can we not imagine them gracing the fleet-footed foxes that cross the road after midnight on our drive home from the restaurant? Perhaps, our foxgloves did not volunteer to move at all, but in fact, belong to the local den of red fox who found a preferable spot for their floral laundry.

Monday, July 2, 2007

roadside

One of our favorite things to do is take a drive on a hot summer day and stop along the way at a roadside eatery. There is a fine art to frying fries and clam bellies, grilling hot dogs and hamburgers, composing lobster salad, or preparing whatever the local versions might be (grilled octopus and fresh sea urchins on the Adriatic, bar-b-que in the American South, tacos in Mexico, parilla, or slowly grilled meats in Argentina). We love to sample local and regional artisans wherever we may be traveling, at home or away.

Just recently, we found ourselves in Castleton, Vermont on a very hot, hazy afternoon hankering for a little local chow. We pulled off the road at the Castleton Snack Bar and ordered up footlong hotdogs with fries (a much better deal than two regular hotdogs). The air was heavy, and the sky was getting dark with big fat rain clouds. We sat at a picnic bench under the shade of a larch tree next to an elderly couple eating an early supper of burgers and onion rings. Our order number was called and lightening forked the sky. Our hotdogs were served on toasted and buttered buns with sweet pepper relish flavored with a spicy kick, and pickles. With the fries we were offered vinegar which comes in a spray bottle, the kind you might see in a hair salon. Take the vinegar. Misted over the fries with plenty of salt, the vinegar provides a little structure to the usual snack shack fry. In the field across the two lane road, two deer ate their own version of roadside dinner. We ran to the car as the thunder cracked over our heads, a sheet of rain and wind moving towards us out of the west, and drove home keeping ahead of one storm, but plunging headlong into another.

Sunday, July 1, 2007

sunday morning from Morocco


Last Sunday, friends came to visit for the morning. It was one of those blue sky days, the kind that takes your breath away. We toured the gardens, marveling at the opulence of the roses, some found on the property, others collected over the years, and at the absurdity of the peonies, ours a deep wine red with yellow centers. Our garden is a bit sauvage, particularly wild with mint: nepeta, or cat mint, common mint, and spearmint. Our friend Sheryl told us of a fresh mint tea they drank in Morocco this winter. We cut a handful of common mint and spearmint and poured hot water right over the fresh leaves and stems in our teacups. We spent the morning talking of exotic tastes, hot weather, and winter gardens. Now, we are serving fresh mint tea from our garden at the restaurant (osteria pane e salute), the succulent green leaves making a fragrant bouquet for the end of the meal.

mission statement

In Italian, fuoricitta means "out of the city", and draws on the double meaning of all things outside of the city, as well as things coming from the city. We like the notion of the intersection of rural and urban. Our life and the work at our restaurant osteria pane e salute takes place in the country, and many of our ideas are informed by our rural location, but we also take great inspiration from the city and its urban energy. This site will be shaped by what we take out of the city and find in the country: food, wine, gardens, design, landscape, home--all that comprises what we think of as la dolce vita....

*photos of Schenardi, the uber chic gelateria and bar in Viterbo, Italy alongside a table set for lunch in the walled garden of the ultimate country house in Sutri, a small village outside of Rome.