Keep Off The Grass!

I remember reading a short story in Jr. High called, “Leiningen Versus the Ants.”  It spoke of a horrific encounter between a farmer and a colony of ants overtaking his land.  I remember Leiningen digging ditches and filling the ditches with petrol then setting them ablaze.  I don’t remember who won the battle; the ants or Leiningen, but I remember thinking about Leiningen last fall when my winter garden was destroyed; not by ants, but, by boars (chingiale)! 

I am currently planting a spring/summer garden and simultaneously planning a fence-building project, which should help keep the “big guys” out of my garden! 

Rich and I have been diligent in our effort to create a garden out of a long neglected terreno.  He’s become an expert dry-stone wall builder and I’ve mastered the rototiller; we’re both paying the price of this education in sums of sweat and pain. We’ve become very good at convincing each other that the result of this toil will be worth every ache! Funny how “acre” and “ache” sound so much alike!

Next to our baracca (shack) we were once shown the whereabouts of our septic tank and warned where we shouldn’t dig too deeply.  It’s a triangular bit of land which spends part of the day shaded by a huge bay-laurel.  Since we cannot plant anything substantial there it’s a perfect spot for a lawn, or what the Italians call a prato inglese – the term itself means “English field” and when an Italian pronounces “prato inglese,” it accompanies a facial expression which suggests, “what a waste of land, time, and water!”

Using the rototiller (motozappa) and heeding the advice of the former landowner, I simply broke the surface of the area making it easier to grade.  After raking, to fill-in the hollows and level the high spots, I used a water-filled roller to compact and smooth out the land. 

The next morning I faced a selection of lawn seed at the “Home Depot equivalent” and chose one called Prato Rustico, which in my mind would be more acceptable to my Italian neighbors because of the word rustico in its title – yet, I’m sure they’ll still shake their heads as they round the corner in their apes and behold my prato!  I was anxious to get home and have this planted by lunchtime.

Following the instructions to the letter, I raked the plot to loosen the surface, distributed the seed and covered it with six 50 liter bags of top soil.    I “moderatamente” watered the area and hoped for the best.  The instructions suggested that the area be watered to a depth of 2 to 3 cm each day until the sprouting grass reaches a certain height and then I could decrease the amount of water.  There are also instructions on when first to mow the grass; however, I saved that part for future reference.  I left the compagna with a great sense of accomplishment and pride.  I imagined the barbeques we’d eventually have and the cool shaded patch of lawn inviting us to stretch-out for an afternoon read or nap.       

Walking to land the next day, the issue of fencing was again clouding my mind.  Now that we’ll have a lawn, we’ll need to get going on the boar proofing, lest they destroy our perfect picnic spot!  One thing leads to another after all.

Upon arrival, Rich went off to his walls to fill-in the chinks with small bits of stone; I immediately attended my newly sowed lawn.  As I turned the spigot and watched the hose twitch as the pressure built, another movement caught my eye.  It seemed too bizarre to be true because at first glance the entire surface of my future lawn was undulating.  I’d yet to drink my daily quota of vino, so I wasn’t tipsy and even though I’d left my glasses at home, it wasn’t a bit of blurred vision that was causing this wavelike motion—surely it was an illusion of sorts, like the mirages one sees on a hot highway.  On my hands and knees for a closer look, I was horrified when I encountered the source of this illusion.

I had become a latter-day Leiningen as I beheld legions upon legions of ants marching as ants do; and each one of them holding in their pinchers one perfect prato rustico seed.  Thousands and thousands, rank after rank; they were carrying off the seeds in one direction and after presenting the spoils to their queen, back they came eager for more.  Thousands of seeds were disappearing right before my eyes. I screamed for Rich to witness what couldn’t be happening.  Could they possibly carry off all the seeds I sowed?

Following the direction of the seed laden critters, Rich and I discovered the entrance to their lair and decided that a good stream of water and a good soaking of the area should solve the problem and stop further degradation.  I blasted the hole with a full stream from the hose and then proceeded to spray the entire area with more than the recommended “moderatamente” amount.  I’ve heard of ants ruining a picnic but it was absurdly ironic for them to destroy a future picnicking spot!

The water did nothing but cause a temporary work stoppage.  Soon they were back to work and (perhaps I’m exaggerating?) making up for lost time!

The next day we returned to the store to seek out a more drastic solution to our little invasion.  Self, the “Home Depot wannbe,” had many solutions to our problem, which reassured me that we were not the only ones in Italy with ant issues. However, after reading the directions, contents and warnings of several anti-formiche solutions, we decided to take a more earth-friendly approach; after all, we were planning on eating the produce grown in close proximity to this lawn. Rich had heard that ants cannot digest cornmeal; yet, they’ll eat it anyway and take it to their queen.  After a sip of water they’re supposed to explode.  Being a sceptic I did a little bit of research on the internet and, sure enough, Rich was right! Cornmeal! It was worth a try. 

Yesterday I drove out to the land with a 1000 gr. bag of polenta.  I heaped a ring of cornmeal around the hole of the anthill and poured some in the cracks of the cement around the baracca where I’d seen ants once before.  Thinking that it certainly wouldn’t hurt the “seeded” area, and wondering just how much grass seed was left anyway, I broadcast the remainder of the bag on what will be a prato inglese someday -- dammit! Was it just my imagination or did a see an ant or two drop his grass seed and make a beeline for the cornmeal?  Will it work? Chi sa?

Today, I’m writing this and have yet to work up the nerve to see just what’s going on in our cursed blessed compagna!

Maybe the neighbors will accept this?

For All The Saints

I'm old enough to remember when national holidays were celebrated on their proper days.  Lincoln's birthday was always February 12th, Washington's was February 22, Columbus on October 12 and Veteran's Day, November 11; as a kid this meant NO SCHOOL!  Banks and other businesses would close too, after giving their clients plenty of warning by posting signs in their windows a couple of days prior the event.  If a holiday fell on Saturday or Sunday well. . . tough luck kids, sorry gang, back to the regular grind!  


(Holidays with underlying religious themes were always surrounded by either a one or two week school vacation and hopefully, if you chose the right god, your holiday was surrounded by "time-off!")


With the invention of the Monday holiday, everything changed. No more whimpering employees and schoolchildren feeling short-changed when a holiday fell on a Saturday or Sunday. Everyone was now guaranteed a day-off and all was fair and equal. 


Yesterday was Martin Luther King Jr. Day (observed) and the only U. S. National Holiday honoring a non-president.  Dr. King was born on January 15 but he, like Lincoln and Washington, was assigned a Monday position to create a three-day "weekend." 


Celebrating someone special's "special day" is a wonderful way of honoring that special someone; moving that "special day" is a way of honoring the needs of the celebrants. That model seems to work well back home, but that would never fly here!

San Antonio, Levina (IM)

Yesterday was Saint Anthony of Egypt Day and to an Italian that means "January seventeenth."  Regardless of where in the week January 17th it falls, it is always a holiday.  A national holiday? no, does everyone celebrate it? no, but if you're named Antonio, after the saint, or if Anthony is the patron saint of your town, it's a holiday and your employer will just have to deal with it! 


And so it is and forever shall be.


San Antonio is not the patron saint of Ceriana; however, every January 17th a few dozen Cerianaschi and Cerianesi make an hour's drive to the small town of Lavina to help the locals celebrate its patron saint, St. Anthony.  This "pilgrimage" literally doubles the population of Lavina.  


I'm told that this tradition started decades ago when a Cerianese woman, born in Lavina, was concerned that a dwindling population there would soon forget their rituals.  She sang with Ceriana's women's choir, le Mamme Canterine and, as a fellow musician, she enticed our band members to play in Lavina by organizing a luncheon for them.  Still alive, but now unable to participate, I hear she was a wonderful hostess who would entertain her "guests" with a, sort of, cabaret well into the night!  

To this day, an ensemble consisting of members of Ceriana's band and, I assume,
 what's left of Lavina's band, leads the procession of the Saint and provides music throughout the day. 

Like many traditions here, Saint Anthony's Day in Lavina is a blurred mix of the "sacred and profane." Although yesterday's event included two masses and a solemn procession I suspect that most of the celebrants were, at least, equally interested in nourishing more than their spiritual appetites.

The Lunch, il pranzo, started with a different kind of procession-- a procession of "small plates," gli antipasti.  


--Before continuing I'd like to share what I've learned about the word, "antipasto." "Pasto" is the Italian word for "meal" and "anti" is Latin for "prior to" or "before."  Therefore, "antipasti" (plural) are things consumed before the main meal.




The Lunch, il pranzo, started around noon with, gli antipasti:
                                                                                                              

1. Vegetable tart (la torta verde)
2. A cheese filled fried raviolo
3. A puff-pastry filled with truffles and garlic
4. Salame and marinated olives
5. A cod-filled fritter (friscioi)
6. Sliced veal in tuna sauce (vitello tonnato)
7. Fried frogs--whole (rane)

After an hour of antipasti we were treated to the primi piatti, or "first plates".  In restaurants you'll see "i primi piatti" on the menu and usually one chooses one primo piatto; at this banquet we were served three primi piatti:

1. Risotto con quattro formaggi (Rice with four cheeses)
2. Ravioli al ragu
3. Tagliarini al pesto

The third hour of lunch consisted of three "second plates,"
i secondi:

1. Roast veal with potatoes (vitello arrosto con patate)
2. Braised goat with beans (capra e fagioli)
3. Fried eels (anguille fritti)

The sweets, and there were three, were served on a single plate. 

• tiramisu
• millefoglie
• semifreddo

At last, coffee.

"croak"

Start to finish, lunch took about four hours to complete and, at this pace, it's not impossible to consume all of the plates listed above, although I must confess I "passed" on a couple of the; shall I say, "slimier" items.  Of course, the red wine flowed and I drank my share.  




Next year (and I've already marked my calendar) St. Anthony's Day falls on a Tuesday. 


Imagine what the conversation would be like if you had to ask your boss for that particular day off.   Her side of the conversation would sound a bit like . . .


"You say you'd like the day off . . . for what? . . . a religious observance? . . . I see . . . . St. Anthony. . . where? . . .Lavina?. . . do you think you could just go to Mass and come to work late? . . . oh, I see. . . and you play in the band . . . a procession . . . uh huh . . . oh, a luncheon follows . . . well, maybe you can come in after lunch and work late . . . it's a four hour lunch? . . . I see . . . 

Home again, home again jiggity jig!

I've heard that, "home is where the hearth is" and if that adage is correct then we've been homeless since selling #10 Cumberland Street. 

Our last true hearth!

We went "home" for the holidays for first time in our lives and, to be frank, it was a bit surreal; being "home" yet, not having a place to call our own. 


We had an eventful time staying with friends and relatives and everyone's hospitality was indeed top notch! We were; however, constantly reminded that we were indeed not home but, rather, in a locale we called "home" for many many years. 

Delma and her boy, Rich!

The first week of our visit was hampered by a nasty flu which limited our visiting time and challenged both of our "must-do" lists. The rental car sat parked for the first three days until we felt well enough to drive it to the storage unit where we would "pay our respects" to our "homeless" household items. 


Our mission, that morning, was to take home [there's that word again] some items to make life in Ceriana even more fabulous, but when I raised the rolling metal door, a pall fell over me, darkening my already miserable mood. There, surprisingly neater than I remembered, sat our things; our stuff; our cantlivewithouts; our impulse buys! The few items I had on my "take-home" list were buried deep in a stack of treasures each one triggering a memory, or, a mystery; as in, "why did we keep that?" 


On Rich's "must find and take home" list were the "oxygen" pillows we paid a fortune for and which greatly reduce one's snoring. I, on the other hand, was after my collection of Voightländer 35mm cameras--I have a romantic attachment to heavy german mechanical things. [I still intend to blog about shipping over our Benz!] 


Ill, overwhelmed and slightly depressed, we returned to the rental car with two items: Rich with a hoody, and I with a leather jacket, now too tight--must have shrunk!


                                


We went on with our holiday: Christmas Eve at my sister's in San Jose and a Christmas Day Drive to Rich's brother's in San Diego. Good people, good food, good times! We returned to the Bay Area to prepare for our departure.


Our last two days home were spent checking the last few items off our respective "lists." We saw three movies, sorted out various computer problems with third party apple™ geeks and had one last burger.


                              


I'm happy to report that after a third visit to Public Storage we left with the following: two oxygen pillows, four german cameras, a socket wrench set, Rich's favorite sweater, my STRS paperwork, and a half bottle of Howards® feed and wax--"Really?"


I returned the leather jacket to its grey bin.




    ◊      ◊      ◊      ◊      ◊      ◊         

And now we're home again surrounded with the old treasures we've acquired when purchasing this 800 year old house and a few new items from our former lives back. . . home?






Time to get crackin' on the old armoire with the Howards® and some "0000" steel-wool.

Turn your head and cough!

The Italian Healthcare System is ranked 2nd in the world. Impressive, yet I'm not sure what it means. It seems everyone gets what they need out of the system.  They get to choose their own doctor, receive treatment, obtain meds, undergo surgery, etc., all courtesy of the Italian Government.  I haven't used the system yet, but today I signed myself into it.  No exam, no questions, I just handed over my Codice Fiscale (SSN) and my Carta D'identità (ID), chose my doctor and signed my name twice.  I received a print-out of my Doctor's hours and a temporary health card; the plastic one arrives by mail within a month. 


Then, it hit me. . . 


I'm not working; I have no income; no job; no job prospects; I'm waiting for my state teacher's  pension to start in July 2012, yet, my healthcare is covered by merely claiming my Italian heritage through  jure sanguinis and becoming a citizen. 

The Boys in Rome

You won't hear many complaints in this blog about life here or there,  even though there's always something rubbing me the wrong way or amusing me to no end; it seems that much more can be learned from what works well--either here or there!  A nation's challenge is applying the knowledge of "what works" as needed, so that all may benefit from what is good and right!


Bravo Italia!

Sister Supermodels

Thanksgiving comes early!

Mom's Arrival in Nice

Mom's been here since October 22nd and we've had a great time so far.  We shopped in Sanremo on the 23rd and attended the Chestnut Festival on the 24th.  We drove in the scioneri to La Spezia on Monday to pick up our car which just arrived after a four month transatlantic crossing; the crossing didn't take four months, it's just that the shipper's estimate of 45 days, door to door, was a bit optimistic (a subject I'll blog about when I calm down enough to be objective).  She had her hair done at a local parruchiere on Thursday and shopped for a jacket at the only clothing store in Ceriana.

Hot Stuff!

Salute!

Festa di Castagna

Early in the week she mentioned how nice it would be to plan a few dinner parties, most especially one for the Zappia family, our home's previous owners.  The Zappia's threw a bash for us three years ago and mom wished to thank them with a dinner at our/their old home; not just any dinner but a traditional "American Thanksgiving Feast!"

Since Italians don't celebrate Thanksgiving; in fact Pino had never heard of the holiday, it didn't matter that we'd planned the event for Saturday October 30th.  Mom and I decided to keep the menu as traditional as possible with the exception of her stuffed zucchini and onions she learned to make from my Ligurian grandmother and which are, arguably, as good if not better than the one's Giovanna makes right here in Ceriana.  The verdure ripieni were our only antipasto and the only Italian dish of the evening.  The Zappia's gobbled them up with gusto; a sign that they were authentically Ligurian!  I announced that there'd be no primo and that the rest of the meal was, "an authentic 'American Thanksgiving Feast!'"

Creating this "american tradition" was anything but easy out here in West Italy!  First step:  tracking down the star attraction! 


I've never seen a whole turkey displayed in a butcher case here. Turkey breasts and legs are always available and I've seen ground turkey but I wanted to present a whole roasted bird with stuffing pouring from its cavity. . . "cavity" is such a polite term isn't it? Long before mom's arrival I had planned to have a little turkey dinner before she departed on November 22nd so I asked the macellaio at Ekom if he could obtain a whole turkey (tacchino intero), "volentieri," was his reply, "come vuole" . . . basically "no problem," "whenever,"  "order today we'll have it tomorrow," etc., etc., etc!  He then asked, "quanti chili, otto. . . nove?" After a quick calculation, eight or nine kilos would be a perfect size with plenty leftover!


When the day came to actually order the bird, the friendly enthusiastic butcher had been replaced by a less encouraging gentleman who suddenly imposed a minimum 13 kilo size to place an order. My mind went immediately to turkey-hash, turkey-soup, turkey-Tetrazzini and who knows what else to do with leftovers! Worried, but it didn't show, I replied with a cheery, "va bene!"  That was Wednesday. We arrived at 10 a.m. that Saturday to pick up the bird, our bird; the only whole turkey on the entire Riviera, it weighed-in at a whopping 16+ kilos; almost 36 pounds!  We were instant celebrities as we wheeled the body through the crowded Ekom shop and out into the parking lot towards our elegant Panda/Scioneri;  I, worrying all the way, "is this gonna fit in the trunk?"


Mom laughed all the way up the scorciatoia as I attempted to discuss the task of cooking this monster.  I fixated on the presentation while Mom, between chortles, was being practical and suggested cooking half the bird or maybe just the breast.  When we reached Ceriana I dropped Mom and "Tom" at the square and drove off to find parking.  As I approached Mom and her "companion" sitting patiently on a stoop, I broke out in a cold sweat. Surprisingly, we managed to carry the corpse down all the carrugi without being noticed.  I mentioned the cold sweat because I fully expected to be stopped by curious Cerianaschi along the way and I wasn't prepared to explain the absurdity of our plan.

Bob and Tom

In the kitchen, finally, I heaved the behemoth onto the cutting board and immediately started massaging and manipulating its huge rigamortised legs hoping that I could set them into the "position" we all know and love.  This was a stubborn bird; a very naughty, stiff, and stubborn bird. The damn legs wouldn't budge from their sprawled pose no matter how forcefully I pushed his missing head against the backsplash!


And then, an epiphany. Even if I could achieve a fully dressed and trussed turkey, this particular specimen would never, ever, under any circumstance, fit into an Italian, Nardi oven.  I collapsed under the pressure and reluctantly grabbed my steel and sharpened my boning knife.


Sometimes being a son-of-a-butcher is handy. I boned-out the whole breast and butterflied out some thicker portions into flaps to flatten the thing.  Next, I placed the stuffing onto the center of the breast and rolled the breast meat around the dressing.  I then excised the skin from the turkey's back and used it to help close the stuffed breast as I tied it with butcher's twine.  Fresh herbs from the terrace, salt, pepper, olive oil and butter and channeling Jacques Pepin and Julia Childs the whole time, my capolavoro was ready for the Nardi!

Mom, Bob and Frankenbird

I could have blogged about the pumpkin pies I baked (try to find canned pumpkin in Italy) but, in fact, turkey is the main attraction on our most American holiday--Happy Thanksgiving!

You Deserve A Break Today . . .

You see them posted along the SS1 in coastal towns miles east and west of Sanremo. At first you think, "there's one here, too?" then you realize it's just an ad for the “one and only” in Piazza Colombo. Once in Sanremo it's hard to miss, especially with a larger than life Ronald greeting visitors at the door! The first and famous one in Rome is, at least, respectfully hidden a few paces to the right of the Spanish Steps, but the one at the Pantheon is boldly opposite the great dome--to be fair, that location and dozens of others started out as a Burgy, the Italian answer to American Fast Food. Eventually, Burgy was "made an offer they couldn't refuse" by Ray Krok and his boys; all Burgy locations either succumbed or converted. Americans have their mafiosi too!

I ask, "why?" Why do Italians want American fast-food when they have some of the best fast-food and have had some of the best fast-food long before Ray and Ronald ever flipped their first burger? 

In Sanremo, just off the Piazza and just a few places beyond that “other place” is la Tavernetta the best focaccia in the world--sorry Liguria Bakery in North Beach, yours' used to be this good! You go in la Tavernetta. . . elbow your way to the counter. . .they ask you what you want and if you'll be eating it, "subito?". . . they hand it to you on a plate or piece of paper. . . you eat it. . .  usually you order more. . . you eat that. . . then you pay!  Fast-food?  It's even "Faster-food" than fast-food because you eat it before you pay.  Why take up all that time paying while the food is cooling off? And who wants to handle money before you eat with your hands?  Fast-food?  The Italian's have it down!  

Here it's Focaccia, Farinata, and Torta di Verdure, in la Sicilia it's Arancine and Cannoli. Each region has their special variety of fast-food and all of it can be consumed on your feet, and before reaching for your wallet!  Italy is fast-food heaven!

On the other hand . . . 

The next terrace over from ours is owned and occupied by Beppe and Marisa from Bra. Bra is located in Piemonte and is on our list of places to visit! Besides being a beautiful Baroque town, Bra distinguishes itself as being the headquarters of the "Slow Food" movement! In a nutshell (pun intended), Slow Food promotes excellent food and drink; grown, raised and prepared by traditional means in an effort to sustain food products threatened by convenience foods and industrialized farming. The movement has reintroduced varieties of vegetables, fruits, meats and cheeses our grandparents ate. If you've eaten "heritage tomatoes" you've eaten Slow Food.  It's beyond organic and it started here.  It's delicious but it takes time, lots and lots of time, like a good polenta! 

If you've made polenta, real polenta and not the kind that comes in tubes, you know it takes an ample amount of work. Boil the water with a fist-full of salt, whisk-in the corn meal then stir continuously for 45 minutes. Use a long wooden spoon to avoid the burns that bursting bubbles of polenta can cause. Pour it out and enjoy in countless ways! We, the Ghiorzi's,  pour our polenta out onto a board and let it harden, then, cut into squares, we layer it with sauce and cheese and put it in an oven to bake (polenta al forno). There are instant varieties of polenta and there is a "microwave method" I've used many times, but there's nothing like the slow-stirred kind. I think la polenta is proof that Slow Food is a good thing!

Italian food culture is complicated, it's a culture of contrasts. Fast-food vs. Slow Food; the two can live side by side as long as the ingredients are top notch. Ironically, Italian fast-food is often prepared with Slow Food ingredients and techniques--the only thing "fast" about it is how it's eaten! There's nothing like grabbing a piece of focaccia or an arancina and gobbling it up subito. . . and. . . there's nothing like savoring a slow-stirred polenta! Goodbye "microwave method" I'm in Italy now where we "eat first-pay later" and take our time when it matters most; "hand me the spoon Ma, it's my turn!"  Unless you have one of these . . . 

God bless Italian ingenuity. . . it's not about saving time it's about having more time to prepare more! Buon Appetito!

Before and After. . . a garden update!

I haven't blogged for a week or so. . . ' been too depressed.

Beans Before

I planted my Fall/Winter garden in August in part to have fresh vegetables for the winter, but most importantly, to see if I could! Here we are in Italy and that's what Italians do; they plant their orti and eat fresh verdure! We priced a motozappa (roto-tiller) and decided our budget couldn't handle it so, with hoe in hand, I turned the earth myself. . . just a plot or so a day. By the end of the first week our land looked more like a grave yard than a garden. I then sowed my beans and broccoli, my lettuce and celery, my zucchini and cabbage and four baby artichoke plants, and all was well. With gentle daily watering the plants sprouted and turned their little green heads to the sun! Our beans worked their way up the poles; the lettuces began forming heads; the zucchini were outgrowing their plot and had to be thinned. I was re-learning about nature and how she works and a feeling of contentment dawned.

Cabbage Before

Artichokes!

Now that the garden was established I turned my attention to the mechanics and hardscape of the land. There were drystone retaining walls to rebuild; walls that had fallen a century or two ago. We had eroding and ever-lengthening slopes to address or we'd lose part of the upper terrace to the lower terrace. I rolled up my sleeves and dug out a few stones then convinced Rich to join in the fun!  In a few days we had a good start on a section of wall between two ancient and still-standing parts. We argued about the best ways to build this wall but, regardless, the work steadily progressed. We were pleased and Rich was a little less "overwhelmed" with the all work a terreno requires. Things were starting to take shape, we were proud of our accomplishments!  We took a break from the garden during a rainy couple of days and focused our attention on the "fresco" work in the guest room of Casa Zappiana.

tap tap tap!

While we were happily "chipping away" at our guest room some uninvited "guests" were "chipping away" at our garden!

&                               &                             &                      

Finally, the weather cleared and we decided to clear our dusty lungs with some country air. We drove out to the land with no specific agenda; perhaps a bit of weeding, or wall building, or both! On the drive we had convinced ourselves that our plants were happy in their beds and we shared our anxious desire to see if the rain and run-off might have toppled the restored section of wall. We hopped out of the Scioneri and I rattled the chains and unlocked the padlock of our "sturdy, but needs proper hinges," gate. I surveyed the land and . . . ,"oh!"  "Oh!"  The wall was in place all right; those rocks were heavy, they didn't budge, but the garden. . , "my garden. . . oh!"   "S**t!"    "Oh!"   "Son of a f@#$%@#$%^!" "Damn cinghiali!"   "I broke my back for this?"   "How 'n-the-hell did they get in?"   "Damn those cinghiali!"    Etcetera.   Rich quietly picked up a few of the scattered plants and re-earthed them knowing that there was nothing he could say to quell my temper and stop my toungue.  Okay, perhaps I'd exaggerated a bit, the damage was not that bad. . . that day!

Beans After 

I had heard about the ruin that boars can bring but somehow I thought our perimeter was secure and, knowing how Italians like to "embellish" their stories I guess I always thought, it can't be that bad!  It's that bad! Obviously not satisfied with their first visit the boars came back again and again, night after night, "rooting" only where the ground was soft and moist, i.e., my planting beds! Battle lost, Rich gave up replanting the scattered remains. In the end the beasts had destroyed the entire lettuce and zucchini beds; the artichokes were no more; the cabbage patch succumbed on the third day; they left one bush-bean plant and gingerly destroyed the pole beans without toppling the flimsy poles I rigged. I'm still marveling about how they managed that, did they think I wouldn't notice? Smart bastards!

Cabbage After

                                                                        

Artichokes?

At this point we've decided to work only the  hardscape of our garden. We need to complete our walls and address the erosion issues. We plan on mending fences (not with the cinghiali) and replace our gate hinges. I'd like to put in an irrigation system with timed watering when, eventually, there's something to water.  There's some work ahead and I suppose winter's the time to do it. Winter's also the time to enjoy cinghiale . . . in a stew!

Through it all the wall grew . . .

Wall Before

And now!

End of Spring

29 Settembre 2010