Nonfiction |
Provence and Tuscany: Homegrown Contentment
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I’ve often heard it said that Provence is France’s Tuscany, or, depending on the leanings of the speaker, Tuscany is Italy’s Provence. There’s some truth in each of these claims, but as I recall my experiences in both, distinct Tuscan and Provencal characteristics begin to emerge that decry their being compared in so cavalier a manner.
Let’s start with the people. I’ve never indulged in the American passion for French-bashing. I take away from my experiences with the French what I bring to them, respect and acceptance of our differences, always rendered with that basic Gallic requirement—courtesy. Is there a lack of exuberance in our relationship? Yes. Are the Tuscan hills alive with exuberant Italians? Yes, but this is what we expect from Italians and our defenses are down, our arms are open to their embrace. Is one approach better than the other? No, it’s just the way it is, and always will be and there are rewards in each scenario. While Italians, in general, are more laid-back, easier to live with and to love, the French have the edge on elegance. The lush landscapes in both Tuscany and Provence are breathtaking. Driving through fields of fragrant lavender planted with precision in the French countryside, or through acres of wildflowers that grow when and where they please along Tuscan back roads, is equally delightful. They point to another cultural difference: The French leave little to chance; Italians are more likely to let Mother Nature do her thing. A visit to a Provencal or Tuscan marketplace verifies that both these philosophies produce wonders. I had visited the market at St. Remy in Provence, where tubs of olives in infinite variety stretched the length of the marketplace and baskets of spices in muted tones of ochre, umber and sienna reflected the earth that had produced them. I had tasted charcuterie from bins of lusty sausages in flour-white skins and pâtés in mosaic designs. This is where I was introduced to chevre, spread on a crust of country bread, offered by a vendor who insisted I try it. Eaten under the Provencal sun with the cheese man waiting my reaction, how could I not love it? Would goat cheese ever taste this good again? I entered the famous San Lorenzo market in Florence with comparisons of the two markets in mind. While St. Remy is laid out in an orderly fashion, the initial impression of San Lorenzo is one of culinary chaos. One’s senses go on full alert; the sights, sounds and smells are riveting. On the first floor, butchers proudly display skinned rabbits and cinghiali--the wild boar heads encountered eye-to-intimidating-eye at every turn. The stench of freshly-butchered carcasses assaults in one area, while the tantalizing aroma of chickens spinning on massive rotisseries makes one’s taste buds tingle in another. Vendors shout out the quality of their provisions, encouraging shoppers to sample—“Senora, assaggiare questo formaggio!” and I did taste, everything that was offered—a shaving of pecorino cheese with truffles, a paper-thin cut of prosciutto. Upstairs, the extraordinary produce of this country’s farmland was displayed like a work of art. I was sure I’d never seen anything quite like the abundance spread before me. Then I remembered the market at St. Remy. |
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The shoppers who ply the market stalls in both Provence and Tuscany are as discerning as patrons of the arts. Keith Floyd, the British food and travel writer, put it this way: “Watch a French housewife as she makes her way slowly along the loaded stalls searching for the peak of ripeness and flavor. What you are seeing is a true artist at work, patiently assembling the materials of her craft.” Make that an Italian housewife, and the same observation applies. There is one major difference between marketplace behavior in Italy and in France. It’s okay to pick and pack the produce of your choice in Tuscany; not so in Provence. A stinging “Madame, ne touché pas!” will freeze your arm in midair as you reach for that tempting, plump peach.
If the love of food and cooking is a blessing, I believe the Provencales and the Tuscans are equally blessed. They are both rooted to the earth and its bounty and devoted to gathering family and friends and sharing that bounty. They never outgrow the family circle, centered around a table laid with food that is locally grown and cooked at home. Their cuisine is the heart of family life and, in Italy even more so than in France, is the magnet that pulls roaming family members home. This culture of contentment has been carefully preserved and handed down, family to family, generation to generation. Being the child of Italian immigrants who carried their culture to America, I was born into this tradition and rejoice in living it again when I’m in Italy. It takes me back to my beginnings, to all those gatherings at dining room tables in Brooklyn, to all those times when family had been called home to celebrate an occasion, and each other. |
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Find your passion and follow it! - Oprah Winfrey.
Cathy Fiorello’s passions are food, Paris, and writing. A morning at a farmers’ market is her idea of excitement and visiting Paris is her idea of heaven. And much of her writing is about food and Paris. She worked in publishing in New York, freelanced for magazines during her child-rearing years, then re-entered the work world as an editor. She moved to San Francisco in 2008 and published a memoir, Al Capone Had a Lovely Mother. In 2018, she published a second memoir, Standing at the Edge of the Pool. Cathy has two children and four grandchildren. Her mission is to make foodies and Francophiles of them all. Vertical Divider
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