There was something very special about the green gates of La Tambura. Once you had closed them behind you, it was as if you were shutting out the rest of the world. It made every arrival feel like a real homecoming; when you came through the gates you were welcomed into a place where nothing really bad could ever happen and where good food and serenity were the order of the day.
Conversely, stepping outside the gates always gave me a real frisson of adventure, a sense of being out in the bigger world where anything could happen. There was a smaller pair of similar gates, hidden in a corner of the grounds, but my father had them sealed shut after I had slipped through them one too many times after dark, flouting his strict curfew.
Although my night-time escapades were fun, I was always happiest inside those green gates: helping out in the kitchen, which always seemed to be buzzing with preparations for the next group of guests; or sleeping between bouts of cooking when there was a pause, the white chairs upended on the marble table to let the terracotta floor dry.
In our corner of Tuscany in the early 1960s when I was a little girl, milk was not sold in the pyramid-shaped cartons we had in Rome (which were almost impossible to snip open or use without causing a huge mess). In the city, we had to buy them from the latteria, along with other dairy produce such as the incredibly sour, thin, plain yoghurt and deliciously light-tasting unsalted butter. Cheese was something available only at the salumeria or the alimentari, neither of which sold milk. It was confusing, but only to the uninitiated. Shopping was a long-winded affair in those days, much more laborious than a quick dash around the supermarket, but it meant that food and cooking were held in the highest regard; and after all the effort of acquiring the ingredients, wasting anything was considered almost sinful.
One of the highlights of being at La Tambura was the daily delivery of milk, which never failed to entertain me, as it managed to turn a simple glass of milk into a real event. To start at the very beginning of the story of Marietto, our milkman at La Tambura, we have to go back to when Beppino was stranded in the ruins of the house at the end of the war. With him were a few other waifs and strays, all of them victims of the dying days of war. When my mother and father arrived, and only Beppino was allowed to stay, the rest of the group stayed close by. One of them was Marietto, who kept dairy cows on a ramshackle smallholding.
Marietto had a terrible singing voice and a penchant for drinking too much wine. He drove a rackety old Ape, piled high with the brown, dried pine needles that he had collected from people’s gardens and which he used as bedding for his cows. He would arrive at our gates twice a day, morning and evening, singing so loudly he almost drowned out the sound of his engine. His arrival caused the dogs to go mad with barking. There were always three or four hanging around, mostly strays that Andreina, Beppino’s wife, had found and brought home – but there was also my own dog, a beautiful and utterly daft Irish Setter called Chuff. Hearing the racket, I would take down the battered old milk pan from the smooth marble kitchen windowsill and race to the gate to greet him.
Marietto’s evening delivery was always more perilous than the morning one, as he would be offered a quartino (a quarter of a litre of wine) at each household he visited on his way to ours, so that by the time he got to us he was well and truly drunk. Then he would lurch out of the cab of his Ape and grab one of the milk churns from the back, which he unscrewed before trying to aim a stream of milk into my pan. A lot of the precious milk would splash onto the ground, however deftly I moved the pan around, trying to follow his wavering movements to catch it. Once full, I would tiptoe back to the kitchen with it like a tightrope walker, trying hard not to spill too much. The milk would then be boiled and left to stand and cool.
Whenever I taste boiled milk, the memory of that sweet and creamy unpasteurized milk of Marietto’s comes flooding back. And even now, after half a century, whenever I arrive in Italy I feel an almost overpowering need to re-engage with this country I love so passionately – through its food. The feeling is not tied to a specific dish; it is the ingredients themselves that comfort me. I am reassured beyond all imagination that I am home again.
Above, from left, my mum, Caroline, Tim, me, Howard (Din), Molly and Aunt Leonora.
Many versions of this dish exist all over Italy; some include cloves or other spices, but this is the way Beppino would make it. The casserole dish that you use should be of a size and shape that will comfortably take the meat and all the milk, while allowing the meat to remain mostly submerged in the liquid while it cooks. It requires long, slow cooking to render the meat truly tender until it almost starts to fall apart.
Serves 4–6
Preparation time: 20 minutes
Cooking time: about 2½ hours
4 tbsp sunflower oil
1.3kg/3lb pork loin, skin removed and trimmed of fat
3 tbsp cooking brandy
4 large garlic cloves, thinly sliced
1 handful of sage leaves
1.2l/40fl oz/4¾ cups milk, plus extra as needed
thinly pared rind of 2 unwaxed lemons
juice of 1 lemon
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
apple compôte and mashed potatoes, to serve
Preheat the oven to 200°C/400°F/Gas 6. Heat the oil in a large flameproof casserole over a medium heat. Add the pork loin and sear until browned all over, then add the brandy and allow it to bubble for a few minutes until the alcohol evaporates. Remove from the heat, then take out the pork and drain the fat from the casserole.
Return the browned pork to the casserole and add the garlic and sage, then season with salt and pepper and pour in the milk to cover the joint. Return the dish to the heat and bring to the boil, then remove from the heat and add the lemon rind and juice.
Allow the milk to curdle slightly, then cover and transfer the casserole to the oven for 20 minutes. Reduce the heat to 150°C/300°F/Gas 2 and cook for a further 1½ hours, adding more milk as necessary and basting and turning the pork every 20–30 minutes, until tender.
Leave the pork to rest in the casserole for 5 minutes, then carve the meat and spoon the milky juices from the dish over the top. Serve with apple compôte and mashed potatoes.
As little children we were given this silky, savoury rice soup, especially at times when the Tuscan damp seeped into our bones and it was almost impossible to get warm. A handful of crumbled chestnuts would sometimes be added too.
Serves 4
Preparation time: 5 minutes
Cooking time: about 20 minutes
1l/35fl oz/4 cups milk
200g/7oz/scant 1 cup risotto rice
40g/1½oz unsalted butter
½ tsp sea salt
4 tbsp freshly grated Parmesan cheese
Put the milk in a saucepan and bring to the boil, then immediately add the rice, half the butter and the salt. Reduce the heat to low and simmer very gently for 20 minutes, stirring frequently, until the rice is creamy and tender. Remove from the heat, stir in the remaining butter and the cheese, then serve.
Serves 4
Preparation time: about 20 minutes
Cooking time: about 20 minutes
1 large cauliflower, trimmed
1 tbsp pine nuts
45g/1½oz unsalted butter
scant ¼ tsp freshly grated nutmeg
250ml/9fl oz/1 cup milk
5 tbsp freshly grated Parmesan cheese
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
Bring a large saucepan of salted water to the boil. Add the cauliflower, bring back to the boil and cook for 3 minutes, then drain and leave to cool.
Meanwhile, preheat the grill to medium. Put the pine nuts on a baking sheet and grill until lightly toasted, checking frequently to ensure they don’t burn. Leave to one side.
Break the cauliflower into small florets. Melt the butter in a large frying pan over a medium heat. Add the florets, season with salt, pepper and the nutmeg, then stir well to coat them in the butter. Pour in the milk, then reduce the heat to low and simmer until the cauliflower is very soft, about 10 minutes. Sprinkle with the Parmesan and pine nuts and serve hot.
This is one of Beppino’s wife Andreina’s greatest dishes, and it is wonderfully fun to make. The milk is an essential part of the dish, even though it is only used to soak the stale bread.
Serves 4–6
Preparation time: 45 minutes
Cooking time: about 15 minutes
150g/5½oz stale white bread
420ml/14½fl oz/1
cups milk
1.5kg/3lb 5oz fresh spinach, washed
1 egg and 2 egg yolks, beaten
2 tbsp single cream (or use the milk from the soaked bread)
150g/5½oz Parmesan cheese, freshly grated
¼ tsp freshly grated nutmeg
about 5 tbsp plain white flour
100g/3½oz unsalted butter
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
Put the bread in a large bowl, pour the milk over to cover and leave to soak until soft. Squeeze the bread as dry as possible with your hands and leave to one side. At the same time, steam the spinach in a large saucepan until tender, then drain and leave to cool. Squeeze out as much water as possible, then chop the spinach finely or blitz it in a food processor. Put the spinach in a large mixing bowl and stir in the egg and egg yolks, then the cream. Add the bread and half the cheese, season with the nutmeg, salt and pepper, then combine together.
Bring a small saucepan of salted water to the boil. To test the mixture is the correct consistency, wet the inside of a small glass with water, then lightly dust with flour but do not over-flour or the gnocchi will be rubbery. Drop a tablespoon of the mixture into the glass and shake the glass, tipping it to shape the mixture into gnocchi. Repeat with another tablespoon of the mixture. Drop the gnocchi into the boiling water – they should float to the surface in about 2 minutes, hold their shape and taste flavoursome. If not, adjust the remaining mixture by adding more egg or a little flour, or both, and extra salt and pepper if needed.
When the correct texture is achieved, continue shaping the remaining mixture in the glass, re-flouring it as necessary, and tip out onto a floured baking sheet, spacing the gnocchi well apart. Chill until required.
Preheat the oven to its lowest setting. Bring a large saucepan of salted water to the boil. Working in small batches, slip the gnocchi into the pan and cook for about 2 minutes, or until they float to the surface. Scoop out with a slotted spoon and keep warm in the oven. Continue until all the gnocchi are cooked. Meanwhile, melt the butter in a small saucepan. Pour it over the gnocchi, sprinkle with the remaining Parmesan and serve.
Known in Italian as latte alle Portuguese, this is one of those desserts that never fails to bring back many happy memories from my childhood. It was a wonderful way of using our milkman, Marietto’s, milk to create something so simple and yet so perfectly delicious. My mother loved to make this, and would curse when it split as she turned it out, as it inevitably did!
Serves 4
Preparation time: 45 minutes, plus cooling and at least 2 hours chilling
Cooking time: 1 hour 15 minutes
1l/35fl oz/4 cups milk
1 unwaxed lemon, rind pared off in a single spiral and white pith removed
5 tbsp granulated sugar
6 eggs
6 tbsp caster sugar
Put the milk and the lemon rind in a saucepan and bring to the boil, then remove from the heat and leave to cool completely. Discard the lemon rind.
Meanwhile, make the caramel. Put the granulated sugar in a 1.5l/52fl oz/6-cup fluted metal ring mould and add 2 tablespoons water. Put the mould over a medium heat and, holding it with tongs and an oven glove, rotate and tip it from side to side to ensure that as the sugar melts and turns a lovely hazelnut brown colour it coats the sides. This will take 10–15 minutes. Remove from the heat and leave to cool completely. (Alternatively, make the caramel in a small, heavy-based saucepan, then pour it into the ring mould, tipping it to coat the sides and continue as below.)
Preheat the oven to 170°C/325°F/Gas 3. Whisk the eggs in a large bowl until thick and pale, then gradually whisk in the caster sugar and cooled milk. Carefully pour the mixture into the ring mould containing the caramel, then put the mould in a roasting tin. Pour enough boiling water into the tin to come two-thirds up the sides of the mould.
Bake for 1 hour, topping up the water as necessary, until a skewer inserted into the centre comes out clean. Leave to cool completely, then chill for at least 2 hours before serving.
Me enjoying the sun in my first bikini!
