Dear Olivia

by Mary Contini

  This book is dedicated to

  Vittorio Fortunato Crolla (1915–2005)

  who lived his journey

  in love, courage and hope

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Recipes from Fontitune

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Edinburgh

  Acknowledgments

  Further reading

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Recipes from Fontitune

  Note: all recipes serve 4

  Pan’, Sal’ e Olio

  Bread, Salt and Oil

  Zampone e Lenticchie

  Stuffed Pig’s Trotter with Slow-Cooked Lentils

  Lenticchie in Umido

  Slow-cooked Lentils

  Brodo di Pollo

  Chicken Broth

  Costolette

  Roast Pork Ribs

  Misticanza

  Spring Herb Salad

  Sugo di Fonteluna

  Italian Sausage Tomato Sauce for Pasta

  Cacciocavallo alla Brace

  Grilled Cacciocavallo Cheese

  Patate e Finocchio al Forno

  Roasted Potatoes and Fennel

  ’Sagne e Fagioli

  Pasta and Bean Soup

  ’Sagne

  Lasagne Pasta Sheets

  Baccalà All’Aglio e Olio

  Salt Cod with Oil and Garlic

  Pizza Farciti con Scarola

  Pizza Stuffed with Greens

  Verdure

  Greens

  Frittata con Pasta

  Frittata with Pasta

  Dear Olivia

  I have often told you about your ancestors who were poor shepherds from the south of Italy. They emigrated in the early 1900s and chose to make Edinburgh their new home.

  Your father’s grandfather, Alfonso Crolla, opened a shop in 1934, when his own daughter, Olivia, was eleven years old, the age you are now.

  Over the years I have heard many stories about their experiences, what kind of life they left behind, why they were forced to leave Italy and how they chose to settle and raise their families in Scotland.

  I have heard stories of courage, faith and love; of prejudice, disaster and loss. Moving and inspiring stories of hardship and determination, success and failure, tears and laughter. Now that so many of your ancestors have gone, I have recorded the stories in the words that they told me, to pass them on to you. So that you can get to know them and understand the sacrifices they made for your future, I have pieced together their experiences and have tried to imagine what it must have felt like and how life would have been.

  We have inherited an ethos of work, a glorious heritage of family and food, and most importantly a faith in God. This is the final piece of the jigsaw, the untold part of your heritage that illuminates the past.

  Their example will help you to be strong and honest and to realise that you must never judge a person by religion, race or appearance. You must resist prejudice and always search for the truth.

  I hope their story will inspire you to be optimistic and hardworking, and to reach for great things. I want you to learn to love and respect them and be as proud of them as I am.

  All my love

  Mummy

  1

  Fontitune, Italy

  16 January 1913

  It was pandemonium. The pig was running crazily around the piazza. Women were running behind it grabbing at its tail. Children screamed with delight as it snorted and barged at their aunts. The women, skirts tucked into their aprons, squealed as the pig charged towards them. Ass, cockerel, hens and goats all joined in the cacophony of excitement.

  Maria stood decisively, rope in hand, and assessed the situation. Without a hint of doubt she yelled at the pig.

  ‘Aaaiiihh!’

  She threw down a handful of acorns. The pig stopped in its tracks. Then it immediately buried its face greedily in the nuts. In a split second Maria stepped forward and with a flick of her wrist expertly slung the rope over its head. Before the pig could react, Maria tightened the noose and pulled the rope round its snout; the pig was caught.

  The children cheered.

  ‘Zia Maria is the winner! Zia Maria is the winner!’

  ‘Brava! Brava! Bellezza Zia Maria. Bellezza!’

  Zia Maria had guaranteed their feast tonight.

  It was the middle of January, just after dawn, seven days since the full moon. It was a good omen. On the mountains all around, the snow glistened gloriously in the early light. The rays bounced off the ice creating the illusion that the whole valley was on fire. It was bitterly cold. The last stars waning in the sky promised a clear day: a perfect day for slaughtering the pig.

  A huge, blackened, cast-iron pot of boiling water was securely balanced on the fire. The women had prepared the bonfire before dawn so that the water would be ready on time. Maria told the older children to drag the protesting pig to the post and tether it. She tied its snout and mouth shut, muffling its squeals. The pig was not happy. Powerful and fat, black and glossy, at well over a hundred kilos, it preferred not to be manhandled by a woman and a bunch of kids.

  Maria was apprehensive. The men had not yet come down from La Meta. They were needed to despatch the beast. Tadon Michele could manage but he was not as strong as his son Alfonso. She moved away from the scuffle and went to look for Alfonso.

  Maria Crolla c. 1913

  Alfonso Crolla c. 1913

  She was a handsome woman: tall, with strong, broad shoulders, a round face with dark, sultry eyes, and glowing, olive skin. Her thick, dark hair was parted at the side and bundled high on her head, covered with a red kerchief. She was heavy with her first child. At twenty-four she was resilient and resolute. Maria would make a good mother.

  The rope round the pig’s snout broke. The children scattered, terrified. The pig squealed, its shriek echoing around the mountains, ricocheting from hillside to hillside. In this the pig made a mistake. Its clamour alerted its executioners.

  The three brothers, Alfonso, Pietro and Emidio, were already on their way down from the mountain when they heard it. They had spent the last few nights on the meadow half-way up the mountain, il Prato di Mezzo. They laughed and called back to the pig in fun, projecting their voices to make them echo down to Fontitune.

  ‘Non ti preoccupare, porchetta bella! Andiamo!’

  The men quickened their pace. Taking the lead, Alfonso strode out quickly and came round the bend ahead of his brothers.

  Alfonso was tall and striking: a fine-looking man. He walked straight-backed, his head held proudly with an air of authority. His jet black hair flopped over his broad forehead. He had a long, aquiline nose with a glorious dark moustache that decorated his soft, sweet lips. His deep,
smoky brown eyes appeared to brim with emotion as if tears would well up and spill over at any moment.

  He was dressed in shepherd’s garb, with a roomy brown smock belted in at the waist over loose-fitting trousers. His legs were covered with white linen rags, tied criss-cross with leather straps that secured goat-skin soles under his feet. The footwear, le ciocie, was the same as that worn by shepherds in these parts for centuries. A thick sheepskin was draped over his back, with his bagpipes, zampogne, slung over his shoulder.

  As she caught sight of him, Maria’s heart leapt. She was always disconcerted by her reaction to him. She sighed. Wasn’t he handsome? Of the three brothers, Alfonso was the strongest, the leader.

  ‘Che bello,’ she thought to herself. She raised her arm to attract his attention. ‘Alfons’! Alfons’! Vieni ca! Vieni ca! Come on! The pig’s ready! Forza! Forza! Hurry up!’ she called up the hill, her hand cupped at the side of her mouth.

  Catching sight of her, Alfonso smiled. He loved her very much, this new bride of his. He walked towards her. As she called again, he slowed down and halted. He was in no hurry. He wanted her to come to him. He wanted to watch her move towards him. He just wanted her.

  Maria reached him, exasperated that he had stopped. Her brows furrowed. ‘Alfons’! What are you playing at? The pig’s ready. Can you not hear its screams?’

  Alfonso wasn’t thinking about the pig. He put his hand over her mouth to quieten her and drew her towards him. She pulled her head back, embarrassed at his actions. Anyone might see. Ignoring her protests he kissed her strong and hard with all the passion of a young man insanely besotted. Unable to resist, she relented and kissed him back.

  Immediately he felt her submit, he pushed her away playfully. He just needed to know that she wanted him, that she felt the same fire in her soul that he did. He needed to know that he was in charge. She could wait. He put his arm round her waist and turned towards the village.

  Further back up the road his brothers had seen everything. They had lingered behind laughingly, allowing the lovers some privacy.

  Alfonso called again, his voice echoing around the hillsides. The small crowd struggling with the pig heard him and cheered and clapped.

  Finalmente! Finally Alfonso was coming. Now the fun would start.

  As soon as he arrived, Alfonso set to work. He threw off his sheepskin and pipes and grabbed the large cloth his sister-in-law handed him. He tied it securely round his body, high under his arms. The women threw some fresh straw under the pig and positioned a flat skillet at the ready. Taking the knife from his father, Alfonso stood astride the pig, held it down with his legs, pulled its head back with the rope and, without giving it another thought, slit its throat.

  The pig shrieked in protestation. Its blood spurted out over the cloth and splashed down over Alfonso’s sandals. The pig writhed in fury, but soon, weakened by the shock and loss of blood, it fell to the ground. The climax was over.

  Emidio secured the pig’s hind legs. ‘Tira! Tira! Pull!’ Together with the other men, he pulled it up by the rope and tied it to the post. They dragged the skillet under the twitching carcass as the blood dripped from its throat.

  Tadon Michele nodded his head. ‘Bravo, Alfonso, figlio mio. Not a bad job.’

  The children had stood transfixed, terrified to watch, too fascinated not to. Now they erupted with glee, shouting and dancing around, they cheered and clapped, relieved that the job was done. As the sun warmed them from the early morning chill they sang with delight.

  Once all the blood had drained from the victim the women worked quickly and scrubbed the pig clean. With buckets of boiling water and stiff brushes they scoured at the bristles on its black back, removing as many of its coarse prickly hairs as possible. A red-hot poker from the fire was used to singe off stray hairs in its snout and ears.

  Two trestle tables had been set up in the piazza. The pig was laid out on its back. With his sharpest knife Tadon Michele slit its belly from the cut in its throat right down its flank to reveal its steaming, pungent innards.

  ‘Mannàggia! Che puzza!’ The children held their noses and ran away screaming, chased by their mothers attempting to clip them across their ears for swearing.

  Emidio pulled the innards out into a ready pot: intestines, bowels, bladder, heart, lungs and spleen. Maria and Filomena, her mother-in-law, took them to the well and rinsed them again and again in a tub with constant changes of freezing cold water. When the intestines were clean they rubbed them with some vinegar then dusted them with ground corn flour, and hung them on a string like washing to dry out.

  Maria sorted everything else out, cleaned it and laid it on the table: the kidneys, liver and heart, the spleen, lungs, stomach and bladder. Every part would be used. Nothing would be wasted.

  Emidio hacked off the trotters and gave them to Filomena and his mother to scrub, the nails to be manicured clean. They would be stuffed with minced pork flavoured with ground pepper, cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, mace, bay and thyme. The four trotters would be hung to cure for several weeks, making delicious zampogne. All the while, as everyone was working, the odd cuts of meat, fat and skin were chopped up roughly and ritually tossed into another huge wooden tub; this mixture would be made into sausages later in the afternoon.

  By now the sun was high in the sky. It was still intensely cold but no one noticed; they were all working attentively, finishing their jobs. It would soon be time for pranzo.

  The pots and skillets were balanced on a brazier on the smouldering embers of the fire and the cooking began. In no time the air was filled with the appetising aroma of grilling and crackling, of spices and herbs. The noise and smells and bustle gave the piazza an air of festivities, a feeling of tradition.

  The pig needed to be butchered. First the head and tail were severed and placed in a bucket of brine to soak before being cooked the next day. The carcass was turned over and, with an axe and hammer, Tadon Michele cut the animal in two.

  He separated the cuts with the patience and precision of a surgeon. The front legs and haunches were set aside to make the prosciutto: deep-pink firm flesh covered with a thick white layer of fat. A room at the back of one of the houses had been prepared to dry the hams. The chimney had been blocked so that some of the smoke from the fire would linger, adding flavour to the prosciutto. The dry, cold mountain air circulating from the narrow slits in the stone wall created the perfect ambience for the hams to dry.

  Over the next few weeks Pietro would frequently massage the pig’s legs with salt as the hams slowly dried and cured. When they were ready he would wash them in warm water and mould them with his strong muscular hands to shape the prosciutto into its familiar form. To protect the top of the ham at the bone, he would seal off the flesh with a plug of suet mixed with salt, the sugna. Pietro followed the age-old rituals with passion.

  Next, Tadon Michele cut the ribs, the shoulder and the fatty underbelly to make pancetta and bacon. All the extra fat was to be rendered down to make lard, rubbed with salt and herbs: exquisite cooking fat for the coming months.

  Maria and Filomena carried the skillet with the solidified blood over to the fire. Maria watched as her mother-in-law mixed in herbs and spices and added the mixture to onions that had been cooking on the brazier. They were preparing Alfonso’s favourite, sanguinaccio, the blood pudding.

  Alfonso came over to keep an eye on the proceedings. ‘Now, Maria, cara, you need to learn how to make this just like my mother.’

  He put his arm round his mother and kissed her cheek lovingly. ‘You teach her well, Mamma, otherwise there’ll be trouble for you both.’

  Just as Maria was going to answer him, without warning the cannon boomed out across the valley. It was fired every day from the Castello in nearby Picinisco to call the field workers all over the valley to eat. Today the inhabitants of Fontitune would all eat together in the piazza. Already some scraps of pork were sizzling on sticks on the fire. The appetising smell mingled with those of the garlic frying, the fa
t rendering and the blood pudding cooking. The stench of the pig’s guts and the odours of a farmyard were masked by the intoxicating aroma.

  The children fought and squabbled over i ciccioli, the scraps of skin and crackling that were fried in flat skillets on the fire. They were flavoured with orange peel, garlic and chilli, and when they were chewed these crunchy morsels burst with flavour, deliciously filling the mouth with sweet, juicy pork, salt and garlic. This was an annual treat experienced only on the day they killed the pig. It was a taste and sensation so intense that in leaner times, when food was scarce, it returned to haunt them in dreams, waking them in the night, salivating, filling their nostrils with that imaginary, evocative smell.

  The men were exhausted. They sat on the wall by the edge of the piazza and shared a bottle of wine. They ate thick slabs of polenta that had been grilled on the fire, and the remaining sausages from last year. They ate hungrily, rubbing their mouths with the backs of their hands, tearing off pieces of tough, dark bread to soak up the juices on the tin plates. The children hovered round, certain of being offered the juiciest morsels from their fathers and uncles. The women ate as they worked, sharing the cooking, passing the prepared food round to the men and the children. Everyone ate well. Today there was plenty.

  After eating their fill, the men gradually fell silent, one by one falling asleep against the stone wall, oblivious of the rough edges digging into their backs. The children settled down beside them, exhausted after such an eventful morning.

  Maria looked over and laughed. Her husband looked very content.

  ‘Guarda, Mamma,’ she shared her amusement with Filomena.

  Alfonso had fallen asleep with the bottle of wine in his hand, his white apron still tied under his armpits, smeared with grease, red stains of the pig’s blood and black soot from the fire. His mouth had settled into a gentle smile.