In this blog, I’ve made a conscious choice not to write the verbal equivalent of a TWA poster (yes, it’s an old example, in fact, I’m hoping a few readers have no idea what a TWA is). Those posters with their iconic views promised an Italy filled with glamor, poetry and romance. I don’t want to dismiss that entirely, it’s just that life here, like anywhere in the world, is not without challenges; however, life’s challenges here are often quaint and perhaps a bit; well, romantic.
Take for example the grape harvest (la vendemmia). Most Cerianaschi have several compagne or lands that they cultivate. Along with their orti (vegetable gardens) many possess olive groves (oliveti), in one or several locations, and sprawling vineyards (vigne), usually in one location but on several terraces or fasce. The vineyards are the most prized of their lands and, usually, take the most tending. Pruning, tying, burning, spraying, worrying and complaining about their vineyards is serious business here and most Cerianaschi make it sound like a thankless, lonely job. Ultimately this endless toil and woe leads to the harvest; whereas the work mentioned above is done and complained about by one or two contadini, la vendemmia demands: “all hands on deck!”
I was invited to my first vendemmia by a friend whose boyfriend’s family makes some of the tastiest wine in Ceriana. Work was to start at 8:00 a.m. sharp and a delicious lunch, prepared by the boyfriend’s nearly ninety-year-old mother, was to follow. The lunch was the lure for me; I’ve tasted Rina’s cooking before!
We, the workers, were first guided up to the highest terrace of their land and instructed to pick only the reds. Huge bins, I’d say the size of microwave ovens, were distributed, and with pruners in hand, we each chose a row and began. Once a bin was full it was carted off and an empty would appear. The youngest and strongest of the workers became the bin-porter and with six others picking and filling bins, our young porter never had a moment’s rest. We worked our way down the terraces towards the rustico where a focaccia break took place. After this brief respite we continued down to the lower terraces. We picked and picked and the bins were loaded into a waiting Panda and taken off to a cantina where the grapes were given the rough crush. By 11, the red grapevines were stripped of their produce, all except for a few, whose stalks were wrapped in newspaper—we were asked not to pick these vines; a mystery? yes, but I was too tired to ask why.
Lunch was delicious, Rina made a lasagna and her son-in-law braised wild boar (cinghiale—and if you’ve read my previous blogs you’ll understand the next line)—revenge is sweet indeed!
My second vendemmia, just yesterday, came about rather suddenly and not by direct invitation. We’re having our roof redone and one of the workers was talking to a neighbor on a terrace across from ours. To the worker she ranted and raved that I’d helped other Cerianaschi with their vendemmia but I had never offered to help her; so he volunteered my services. I guess he figured, since I’ve been sitting around doing nothing but watching the work progress, that I'd love the opportunity to get out of his hair . . . I mean—the house, of course!
So let’s keep score: two vendemmie less than a week apart; two vendemmie, yet two very different experiences.
The two vineyards were as different as could be; whereas, the first was well kempt with all the grape clusters well exposed and dangling at nearly the same, workable, level, the second vineyard was overgrown with weeds and brambles; bunches of grapes were intertwined with all sorts of flora and each bunch had to be teased out of its growing place. Oh, I picked my share but I, being the youngest of this vendemmia, soon became the porter. My neighbor didn’t have bins to port, but rather used plastic bags once holding manure—they were cleaned of course . . . I think.
There were five of us working: two guys from Sanremo were stationed at the rustico crushing grapes; two pickers, both neighbors of mine; and yours truly, the porter!
The pickers worked amazingly fast, obviously experienced at finding grapes in the rough. Filled bags were left for me to find amongst the vines et al. The bags weren’t always easy to find, and I’m still not sure I collected them all. At one point I looked down a row to find that I missed a bag amongst the brambles; as I got closer I discovered that what I thought was a overly filled bag turned out to be the ass-end of a pet goat.
There was no easy way down or up from one terrace to the next, but somehow all of the grapes ended up at the rustico for processing.
Like my first vendemmia, the second included a lunch. As we approached the table one of the “crushers” grabbed a few tomatoes from a vine and a handful of basil and made a delicious salad as an antipasto. Our hostess came running from the kitchen, yelling and screaming that he’d spoiled her entire menu. At this point in the day we were all conditioned to her mad rants and raves, so we kept on enjoying the tomatoes. What came to the table was a primo of homegrown cauliflower in a béchamel made with fresh goats milk followed by a fricassee of rabbit, fresh killed.
While I was glad to devour the cinghiale at the first vendemmia, I must admit, at my second vendemmia, I had a hard time downing the rabbit whose direct descendants, just an hour earlier, were carefully watching me as I hauled bag after bag past their hutch.
Oh yes . . . red wine was served with the boar and white wine was served with the bunny.
