I'm Tamsin Hickson, I live on an olive farm in Le Marche in Central Italy with my husband, sons, father, cats, dog, chickens, ducks (until Christmas). I usually write on Mondays and Wednesdays and Fridays.
recipes
-
Chocolate banana bread
I hesitate to give you this recipe. Introducing it to teenagers can be dangerous, Sam has to know that there is a loaf in the house or he starts to hyperventilate, fearful that starvation and famine lie just around the corner. He eats two slices for breakfast, another after lunch, and a final slice after [...]
Italian
-
Headmistresses, or the secret of eternal youth
“Hey, dear!”
Two small words, but enough to strike dread into the hearts of all 600 teenage girls at Rustenburg Girls High School in the seventies. By the time we heard them, delivered in a hoarse whisper, it was too late. Miss Thomson’s crepe soled shoes meant she moved with lethal silence along the [...]
|
 Last night, in anticipation of a much awaited visit of a beloved cousin from North America, I ventured into the attic, a vast space which occasionally serves as a second spare room. Cleaning it was not enhanced by my discovery that the cats have found an excellent use for the space right under the eaves (accessible only by crocodile crawl): for acts of unspeakable violence performed on feathered creatures.
In the attic my minimalist fantasies collide with reality, leaving my self esteem in cobwebby shreds. This week may have been a bad time to tackle the task, given that I’ve lurched reluctantly from one half century to the next. Reeling from the shock that my firm intention to stay young and glamorous forever has been so hideously undermined I felt waves of irritation at the boxes of detritus that accompany a settled life. But as today also marks the tenth anniversary of my first arrival in Le Marche we’re going out to dinner aned I will make a determined effort to forget my abortive early morning foray to the Mogliano tip, which was of course closed, today being neither Tuesday, Thursday nor Saturday.
 Looking through my inadequate photographic archives of our lives in Italy (two hard disks destroyed by lightning storms have resulted in our having a rather abbreviated history here) I found this photo of the boys and I setting off for school on a spring morning in 2007. Writing a guest post for my lovely friend Katrina’s blog, 0 the 1, on the subject of moving I was shocked to realise that I have now lived for longer in this house than any other.
I couldn’t resist showing you the contrast with the same view taken last summer. I love the way the unique construction of our barn gives my family a touch of Grapes of Wrath, emphasized by my father and Jasper’s choice of car as seat, whilst my brother David’s family have a brave frontier look to them. Aldo is clearly the man of the land, taking a brief rest before going back to his honest labours. They were actually all waiting to say goodbye to Sam’s girlfriend on her way back to the UK. Within a few hours she was back with us all again but that, of course, is another story.
 You can read my manual for moving here. Katrina is a talented filmmaker and observer of life and her blog 0 the 1 is full of visual treats.
“How is the whole Italian politics thing going?” Jasper asked me this morning on the way to his bus. He casts a benign eye on all those of my projects which don’t involve exploitation of teenage labour and I’d like to have told him that I understand everything, before he leapt out of the car.
But I’ve been too distracted by our household politics to devote much time to the Italian press this week. A recent post about marriage by a new discovery on the internet, class factotum, neatly sums up part of my problem. In my foolhardy youth I prided myself on being capable of undertaking all jobs in and out of the house and it took me years to discover what a mistake this was. Not only do husbands like to be left a few areas of excellence but a little feminine helplessness leaves me more time to perfect skills I really care about, sitting under a tree with a glass of wine and a book being top of that list. So in my second marriage I have become adept at what I believe is known as “learnt incompetence”. This was going very well for me until Aldo’s knee began to give in. Six months later I am beginning to realise that this may be a real problem; which is where things get political.
After Aldo came into our lives and saved my sons from an almost vegetarian diet, I gracefully and not very gradually handed over the strimming and mowing, forebearing to mention who had been doing it before he turned up. It would be tactless for me to reveal, six years later, that I am perfectly capable, yet if I don’t take over his knee will continue to get worse. Of course there is always the third option, the young labour force in the house, but they are usually resting and any attempt to rouse them into activity requires more effort than doing the work myself. So, anxious not to let the grass grow untrammelled under my feet, I’m off to the bar, to find out how Italian politicians would solve the problem.
 I was in Macerata this morning and instead of focussing on the market stall that sells designer clothes at knockdown prices I became obsessed with photographing poplar seeds – of all the things I’ve tried to photograph over this years this may be the least rewarding as well as the most absurd. But it billows around us for two weeks in May, giving houseproud women a hard time (two were overheard this morning comparing notes on ways of cleaning it off their doorsteps – like vacuuming dustmotes but fluffier) and setting off my hayfever. The photograph above incidentally features my favourite building in Macerata, but it was the swirling clouds that I wanted to capture – reduced here to disappointing tiny white dots. And even through the air is filled with it, only diaphanous traces have caught on our trees.
or so said Samuel Wesley back in the 1600′s. I’ve written a guest post for Highland Fashionista, (you can see it here) on style, clothes and living in Italy and I had to find a photograph to send Kirsten. Bearing in mind Oscar Wilde, “One’s style is one’s signature” I picked up my camera and had a go at self portraiture:
before I noticed the symbolism of the wilted Philadelphus blossoms (my fiftieth birthday is looming and while I try to remember Brigitte Bardot’s positive attitude “It is sad to grow old but nice to ripen” I keep seeing portents all around me) so I moved outside:
Putting aside my vanity (“I have often wished I had time to cultivate modesty” said Edith Sitwell in early 1900′s “But I am too busy thinking about myself”) and facing the fact that neither of these illustrate my style I opted for a wedding photograph, with the advantage that it was taken in 2008 (back when I was still young).
 In May every year I have some version of this conversation in our local pharmacy.
“I need some citric acid, probably a couple of hundred grams.” At this point it’s just me, and the pharmacist.
“It’s that time of year again! Remind me what you want it for?” asks the pharmacist.
“Elderflower cordial,” I say, “I gave you some last year to try.”
“What are you doing with the Roccolo?” The Senior Pharmacist, owner of the pharmacy, a portly gentleman in his eighties, waddles through. “I was there yesterday. What destruction!”
(The Roccolo is the name of the tiny hunting lodge on Keith’s land, which we have knocked down to make way for his new house.)
“It is at least forty years since I’ve been there,” he adds accusingly, “imagine my shock to find it the site of a massacre!”
“Well yes,” I say, knowing his passion for the countryside in general and the history of Mogliano in particular, “unfortunately it was impossible to build a new house without cutting down a few trees. Goodness, I think I need at least twice that quantity of citric acid.”
“Tamsin, I was hoping to see you,” the Senior Pharmacist’s daughter, also in official white coat, joins her father behind the counter, “my husband wants to improve his English.”
“Does he want beginner English?” I ask, ignoring the faint clicking sound coming from her father as he chews his dentures, eyeing me narrowly, “Or conversational?”
“This much citric acid then?” The pharmacist returns from the basement.
“What does she want it for?” inquires the customer behind me.
“She makes a drink out of it,” explains SP’s daughter, “with elderflower, her son told me all about it.”
“That’s great, thank you,” I really need more but I can always come back another time…
“There was a beautiful avenue of pines leading up to the lodge,” the SP is not going to be distracted that easily. “Of course the lodge fell into disuse when hunting small birds was banned, back in the sixties… or was it the fifties?”
“I believe that in the Ukraine they use it to poison moles,” puts in customer no 1, who’s been quietly musing on the many strange uses of elderflower.
“I also need mosquito repellent” I get my wallet out of my bag. “We managed to save seven of the pines,” I turn to SP, “as many as we could.”
“If you could write down your phone number I’ll ask my husband to give you a ring,” the SP’s daughter hands me a pen and some paper, “do you teach one to one?”
“Mosquitoes already?” asks customer no 2 from the queue behind me, “But surely there isn’t any water near your house?”
“There’s that small stream at the bottom of her valley,” points out SP, brightening up at the thought of our suffering, “it used to run freely but it’s stagnant now.”
“I’d go for the repellent in the yellow bottle” suggests customer number 3, “my children find it very effective. So, what exactly do you make with citric acid?”
Recipe here.
 Yesterday was yet another holiday, May Day, and Aldo started asking for inspiration for lunch at eight thirty. I’d just finished my first coffee and was toying with the idea of taking my book outside to sit under a tree and as far as the menu for lunch was concerned my mind was one big vacuum. He repeated the question at ten, and then at eleven thirty, at which point I asked when, exactly, I’ve ever had an interesting idea for lunch? Or, for that matter, for supper? Thinking of meals is not my strong point, but I do lay a good table and I was interested to read Andy Warhol’s thoughts on table laying and other matters:
“Either once only, or every day. If you do something once it’s exciting, and if you do it every day it’s exciting. But if you do it, say, twice or just almost every day, it’s not good anymore.” (quoted by Gretchen Rubin on her Happiness Project)
In celebration of the exciting nature of table laying I’m going to make new summer table mats in red and white gingham with green backing, (already condemned by Jasper as “too colourful”), an activity which I hope will excuse my lack of interesting suggestions for tonight’s supper.
 Whenever I ask someone if I can interview them the request is met with an embarrassed laugh, and a shifty sideways look: “get me away from this woman as quickly as possible”. But when I did the shopping at market this morning I felt some explanation was required for the presence of my camera.
 A local friend told me some years ago to do try this particular stall and indeed I’ve never been disappointed. The father and son who run it live in Petriolo, the next village to ours. The son said it would be better to talk to his dad, who has been selling fruit and vegetables for the last twenty five years so whilst I bought fresh asparagus, apples, strawberries and fennel I found out about their lives, their working day that stretches from five am till after midnight.
 Some of the markets that they go to are an hour away in the mountains, when their working day begins even earlier, at four am. Markets are still the local choice for buying fresh produce and we shook our heads together over the mistake of shopping for fruit and vegetables in supermarkets, where it has often languished for days in warehouses.
 I was told to put my asparagus into water to keep it fresh. “Don’t worry,” I said, “My husband is a local man, he is in charge of the kitchen.” At this point my interviewee livened up, leaning forward intent to find out more about me. “I don’t know your husband,” he said, “But his brother had the salami and cheese stall opposite me for many years at the market in Castelraimondo.” My husband’s brother Giovanni retired some time ago but he’s retained the market voice, addressing us as though we need to be convinced to buy his cheese or taste a new special ham.”Eat!” he says commandingly, and I always do. 
 in the hands of spring, That strapping dairymaid.” Boris Pasternak, ‘Zhivago’s Poems‘
I’m glad that Pasternak agrees with me. With nightingales finally tuning up and nature putting out with such enthusiasm all around, I’m too busy watching and admiring to find time to work.
 In case anyone was wondering what we get up to in Mogliano on the 25th April, the photograph above tells it all. I was hoping for an historical re-enactment, at the very least a row of elderly men in medals, to celebrate the anniversary of Italy’s liberation from Nazi Germany. If you squint into the distance you may spot five men clustered outside our bar. They may be solving the problem of world peace, but they aren’t a marching band. Leaving Dad and Jasper eating brioches and drinking cappuccinos I went into the heart of town, where all I could find were two rather dispirited Jehovah’s Witnesses on their way home.
 I asked several of my students why the 25th of April is a holiday and after telling me with great vivacity about their picnicking plans they looked rather blank. “Unification?” suggested one, whilst another managed to remember it had something to do with liberation. From what, I asked, but there was no more information forthcoming. The only notices I could find were these in the butcher’s window, below, advertising the twenty fifth anniversary of the blood donation company (business? charity?) and a poster encouraging us all to partake in the Mogliano Marathon on the 1st of May, yet another public holiday. Now, there’s a date that everyone understands. A holiday commemorating all of us, the workers, is easy to remember.
|
rural life
-
(Not) the wrong kind of snow
Snow was predicted for Wednesday night last week and in anticipation Jasper’s school announced that it would be closed on Thursday, leaving him (I hope…) with an uneasy sensation of guilt when we woke up to find the world merely wet. But Thursday night didn’t disappoint and since then our lives have been [...]
family life
-
Daydreaming
When I lived in London, before I had children (the boys tell me a lot of my stories have this sense of built-in anticlimax – long ago things were exciting…and then I had you) I felt something was not quite right. I couldn’t put my finger on it – I loved London, enjoyed my work, [...]
|
Last night, in anticipation of a much awaited visit of a beloved cousin from North America, I ventured into the attic, a vast space which occasionally serves as a second spare room. Cleaning it was not enhanced by my discovery that the cats have found an excellent use for the space right under the eaves (accessible only by crocodile crawl): for acts of unspeakable violence performed on feathered creatures.
