Billy Goats Yumm!

From the terrace, I'm hard-pressed to find a bit of wild, untouched, land as I gaze up the valley wall. Italians have been cultivating this part of the world for centuries and have terraced the entire entroterra. We (speaking as an Italo-Americano) can't leave nature alone; we must tame and sculpt and primp each plant until it wields to our will! In front of our San Francisco home we had  a unruly New Zealand Christmas Tree (bush on a stick) which tore up the sidewalk twice and was always dropping something to sweep-up; daily! Being Italian, I sculpted it into an Olive tree one day and maintained its fronds for years!

The Brits call it a "strimmer," Americans prefer "weed-waker," and here it's called a decespogliatore! (best guess spelling!) Each morning eager contadini fire up their strimmers (easier to spell) and begin their "dance to tame nature." The erbe are then piled, doused with an accelerant (gasoline works just fine), and burned! It's hard, backbreaking work, keeping one's land "clean," but there is an alternative just as effective at getting rid of erbe (and any other plant within their reach), cheap, cute, and delicious!

For as many years as I've been coming to Ceriana there have been a minimum of three goats "cleaning" a portion of terraces across from me. Some years they're white, some years they're brown, sometimes black. I can spend hours watching them as they frolic about; munching their way up and down the terraces. Their bleats are pleasant reminders that we're not in a city anymore. Sometimes they sound a bit distressed in the morning and I "bleat" back--that seems to calm them. I love the goats, they're a constant in my life now; but one thing's certain, every time I come here I notice that the goats who entertained me last year have been replaced by a brand new cast!  Where did last year's goats go? Do goats have that short of a natural life span? I've heard that you can "rent" goats to "clean" your land. Not in this case, for when his land is cleaned and there is nothing else for his poor creatures to eat, this kind contadino, serves them huge amounts erbe; coming from somewhere other than his clean compagnia. It's not really that much of a mystery. . . especially if you've gone to any of the feste in the Piazza Marconi!

Nearly every summer weekend night, the grills in the square are fired-up and brought to the proper temperature to cook up the famous Souissa de Serianaca  and a delicious "meat-on-a-stick" selection called "Rostelle!"

Now, I've got to admit, the first time I ate rostelle I asked, "is it beef, or lamb?" It was doused with a bit of oil and herbs and was delicious, so delicious I wasn't shocked when they told me I was eating goat. I'm told that the "dish" was introduced to this region by Southern families who settled in this area during a bit of a mass-migration in the early to mid-20th century. Rostelle certainly was an instant hit! Cerianaschi and Cerianese alike are passionate about their "goat-on-a-stick!" At le feste they're willing to stand in a long purchase line where they receive a hand-written ticket with the a number representing the number of rostelle they wish to bring back to the common tables--it's not unusual to order dozens at a time. The happy ticket holder then walks across Piazza Marconi to the adjacent Piazza Rubini; his jovial mood quickly plummets as he approaches the grills and pushes to the front of an enormous crowd. That's when the real chaos begins. It's difficult to hand over the ticket because of the over-animated and over-gesticulated argument ensuing:  "who was here first" and "who's been waiting longer" and "that's not the way I would organize this" and "not her again, she's so slow" and "why should I wait. . .  I only want 12?" Eventually the ticket is taken, it's pierced by one of several nails attached to a long board. There is a system but no one has yet to crack the code! Eventually the order is filled, the rostelle are piled on a plastic plate, doused with sauce, or not, and handed over. Everyone waking back to the square wears the same smile and feels, a bit, victorious!  

   Wait. . . are those the same goats I saw yesterday?