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Our move down to Verona and Brioches

During the last few weeks in Cerro things calmed down again.  All the vacationers went back home.  Around us the shutters were down as though the cottages had gone to sleep.  There were some nice days but the nights were chilly up in the hills. Remember we had our bombola di gas but it only heated water.  There was no central heating.  Sometimes after the kids were asleep, I would sit in the bathroom wrapped up in a blanket reading.  I would put my feet in the bidet and run the hot water.  Sometimes I had a glass of wine!

The Lessini mountains in the fall.

We moved into our apartment in Verona a few days before school started.  It was fun to reacquaint ourselves with our possessions.  The children were happy to discover the toys they hadn’t seen for four months. Unfortunately, the newly purchased kitchen appliances and cupboards had not yet arrived.

We went to the school that was around the block.  It was a girl’s school called Agli Angeli - the school of the angels!  They admitted only girls from first grade up, but the nursery school was mixed.  We enrolled Marie-Juliette in first grade and Charles in the nursery school.  Then there was shopping for the appropriate colored smock, school supplies and a backpack.  The children probably weren’t as nervous as I was to see my little ones facing new challenges in a new language. 

La scuola Agli Angeli that my angels attended

Behind the school was this enormous park where the children played during recess.  

Since we had no kitchen appliances yet, we had breakfast in the Bar/Cafe in our apartment building.  Everyone was so friendly.  That first week, we had a table in the back.  The kids had hot chocolate and I had a cappuccino.  These were served with brioches. In France a brioche is a slightly sweet roll shaped like a muffin with a topknot.  But the brioches in Verona were shaped like croissants brushed with apricot jam and sugar sprinkles.  We were all addicted.

French brioches.

Italian Brioches!

On Sunday the bar/cafe was closed.  We were planning to go out and hunt down a restaurant.  At about 8 o’clock, there was a knock at our door.  It was the owner of the cafe with a large tray with pitchers of hot chocolate, cappuccini, and fresh rolls and brioches.  He had come in to clean his establishment and had thought of us!  Wasn’t that nice?  I never forgot his kindness.

Remember all this took place 40 years ago.  I checked out our old building on google.  There is a hamburger joint which seems to be a chain.  It's called: Hamburgheria di Eataly! 

Door-to-Door Apartment Hunting in Verona

Here are a few views of Verona along the river Adige.

In late August my in-laws arrived from Paris.  In earlier posts I talked about my wonderful, mother-in-law, Juliette.  Her husband, André, was a brusk man who had been strict with his children when they were growing up.  He had a kind heart and a wry sense of humor.  He always treated me rather formally with kindness and respect.  I called them Mère and Père.  

Perhaps this was taken at Vincent's brother Etienne's wedding.

I think about how difficult it was for my in-laws to raise their family during WWII; two of their four children were born during the war.  The insecurities, fear and lack of basic necessities must have been horrific.  I think those experiences marked them for life.  After the German occupation,  France had to rebuild its economy.  A creative, energetic and inventive person could build a business.  André was an engineer. With a partner he formed a company that designed machines to fulfill a specific task; for example a machine to mold or stamp a screw. 

Here I am on a walk with Mère at the Giardino Giusti.

Père and Mère came for a week to Cerro and were terrifically helpful.  We had a problem.  We needed to find an apartment in Verona for the winter.  School started October 1st.  We were told that there was no reliable real estate agency we could work with.  In addition, acceptable apartments would not be advertised in the paper.  It was suggested that I go door-to-door to ask if there were vacancies. That is what I did.

Each day Mère watched the children while Père and I drove down to Verona. He was an aficionado of romanesque and gothic architecture.  He liked nothing better than spending the day visiting churches and there were plenty in Verona.  He dropped me off in an area of town that seemed promising and went touristing.  I went from building to building.  Normally there was a portinaio - a porter or doorman.  I would ask him if there was an apartment for rent.  He would shake his head and I would move on.  It seemed a fruitless search.  At noon, I met Père and we had lunch together.  It was a treat to be out for a meal without the children but I was getting nervous.  There didn’t seem to be anything for rent in the areas of town that had been suggested to us.  I visited a few cramped apartments that wouldn’t do.  This went on for four days.  I was feeling desperate.  But on the fifth day I hit pay dirt. 

This is a post card of Corso Porta Nuova that I sent to my parents.  Our apartment is marked by an X about a 1/3 down from the top on the left . See the little park across the street.

That morning I was on a large boulevard: Corso Porta Nuova.  At one end, was the Porta Nuova - the new gate/door to the city.  At the other end were i Portoni della Brà  - gates that lead into Piazza Bra, a major piazza where the Arena is located.  This is a Roman arena that is used today for performances of the Opera La Scala in the summer.  One year we saw a production of Aïda there complete with elephants.

This is the Porta Nuova. Part of it dates back to the middle ages, part from the 1850's.  Now the streets go around it.  Back in the day, walls stretched out on both sides. To enter the city you had to enter through these gates.

Here are the gates that lead into Piazza Bra.

Piazza Bra with Arena on right.  I loved the wide sidewalks.  Great place for a caffè or gelato.

The doorman was friendly and took me up to a fourth floor apartment.  It was perfect: large living room/dining room with windows and balcony on the Corso, very large kitchen, pantry, library/den, three bedrooms and two large bathrooms.  The floors of the formal rooms were a creamy marble and the bedrooms had swallowtail parquet floors.  It was empty and ready to go.  This was a signorile apartment.  I just looked up the definition for you; signorile - ladylike, gentlemanlike, luxury, refined, elegant!  

However, at that time apartments in Italy had no kitchen appliances or cabinets and the bedrooms had no closets. Vincent was able to obtain what we needed through acquaintances of people at the plant.  So much in Italy occurs through cousins of cousins or friends of friends.

Three adorable children on the balcony of our new apartment.

Picnics and Sunday Dinner

In July we enjoyed warmth and sunshine.  Those rainy days where I felt as though I was living in the clouds were gone.  The nursery school closed for vacation and Charles and Marie-Juliette were home for nice, long summer days.  The children were happy to play around the house.  In the afternoon we went for long walks or entertained our new friends.  The children liked to go for picnics up on the top of our hill or into the village for an ice cream treat.

Here you can see the view from the top of our hill.  The children are wearing Breton sweaters knit by their Aunt Laurence. How about the red sweater with a yellow dress.  I rarely wore pants or shorts back then.

Oh oh, Christopher is not concentrating on his ice cream.

On Sundays when Vincent was home, we were often invited to Signor C’s family farm house.  There was a barnyard with farm animals that delighted the children and plenty of hay to jump in.   The stone farm house was ancient.  There was one main room with a large fire place and a long table that was grooved and indented from decades of use.  Usually 20 people or more attended these family gatherings.  Children ran in and out while the women stirred the polenta, risotto or pasta.  Several men manned the fireplace where meat and slices of cold polenta were roasted.  Everyone brought a dish.  Usually there were antipasti (appetizers), prime (pasta), secondi (meat), contorni (vegetables and salads), formaggi (cheese) frutta and dolci (desserts).   All of this was “watered” with quantities of good wine. It seemed that everyone had a cousin with a vineyard to provide a special bottle. 

This is not Signor C's house but the surroundings and the style of the house are similar to what I remember.  This is a farm house in the Veneto, the same general area.

We enjoyed polenta in two forms. Mr. C’s brother-in-law owned a mill that produced polenta flour and he would bring the latest batch to be prepared on the spot.  It required a lengthy preparation and had to be constantly stirred. For northern Italians, polenta was as basic as bread.  And by the way, there was always good bread as well. 

I particularly remember a meal with a thick sauce of mushrooms perfumed with rosemary that was sublime.  I also remember a snail stew.  I love “escargots” the French way with all that butter and garlic.  You don’t taste the snails.  But this was a stew of snails in their juices and it was VERY EARTHY.

Here's a picture of snail stew I found on-line.  It's a great favorite in Nigeria.

We had grilled uccellini - little birds; think sparrows, thrushes and finches.  They were plucked clean and roasted whole.  You could crunch on the tiny bones. 

In America we basically limit ourselves to chunks of red muscle-meat, whole or ground up and cut-up chickens assembled in plastic. Most people cringe at the thought of tongue, brains, sweetbreads and snails.  But I’ve found the rest of the world will eat just about anything if it’s tasty and well-prepared.

Here are the menfolk!

Here are the womenfolk.

Here I am with Charles peaking out.

These people were wonderfully kind and welcoming.  There was lot of talk, joking and laughter. As the afternoon wore on, they would break into song.  We would sing traditional Italian folk songs.

Gelati, Paperclips and Monaco

Vincent, my former husband, worked at the Sanson Ice Cream plant in Colognola ai Colli.  It was about 20 miles away down into the valley.  Vincent had been sent there to serve as Comptroller by Beatrice Foods a large American holding company who maintained a sizable interest in Gelati Sanson.  The plant was co-owned by Teofilo Sanson, its founder.  Sanson was a colorful and commanding individual.  He started out selling ice cream from a cart in 1948.  From those simple beginnings, he grew his company to become a major supplier of ice cream bars and cones. Part of his success was because he offered ice cream freezers to bars, cafes and restaurants all over Italy.  Once the freezer was installed, the bar or cafe was obliged to buy his ice cream. ( I’ve got a great story about this that I’ll tell you later!)

Teofilo was a fabulous cook and had a kitchen in the plant where he prepared meals for himself and the executive staff. He was passionate about soccer and later professional cycling. He is credited with being the first soccer team owner in Italy to display his company’s name on the shorts of his team.  

Sanson and his Udinese soccer team wearing the revolutionary shorts!

Like many entrepreneurs, Sanson wanted to maintain total control of his company as he had back when he was pushing an ice cream cart.  Vincent went head to head with him on many occasions. Teofilo liked having his men around him.  Thus Vincent was often gone from early  morning to late at night, working and dining with Sanson and his inner circle.

Vineyards around Colognola ai Colli which produce wines such as Valpolichella, Amarone and Soave.

A year or two later we all went to a global convention for Beatrice Foods executives in Monte Carlo.  The men attended meetings and the wives had a luncheon and a tour of Monaco.  I remember a lavish dinner in a large ball room.  We were all dressed in our finery and sipping champagne.  Then the CEO got up to give the key note address.  At one point he remonstrated the employees: “We must cut back on unnecessary expenses.  Don’t waste paperclips. They should be used again and again.”  What a joke!  Paperclips! These big wigs had flown in from all over the world. We were in Monte Carlo guzzling fine wine and eating lobster and caviar.  Paperclips? Really?

Beautiful Monaco

On that trip Sanson and his wife invited Vincent and me out for dinner.  I believe we drove across the border into Italy.  When we arrived at the restaurant, Teofilo marched right through the restaurant and into the kitchen.  He lifted the covers on the pots and pans and inspected the fowl and the fish. There was a discussion with the chef about what Sanson wanted and how it should be cooked!  After our meal and quantities of wine, we drove back along the Corniche Inférieure. Sanson was at the wheel and drove at breakneck speeds around the curves.  Somehow we didn’t land in the Mediterranean.

Princesse Grace of Monaco died when her car went off the Moyenne Corniche .

The Happy Vacationers (Gli Allegri Vacanzieri) and Tomato Sauce

Children breathing in the requisite mountain air.

When we arrived in Cerro Veronese at the end of May, the houses nearby were vacant.  But in July the population of the village quintupled.  There was increased traffic, people and noise.  The ubiquitous scooter could be heard zipping up and down our hill day and night. Italians believe that for children to grow strong and healthy, they need to spend a month in the mountains and a month at the seaside each summer.  Their lungs need the purified air of the mountains and the salty breezes of the sea. Considering Italy’s geography and topography, this goal is relatively easy to accomplish.

I was thrilled when Maria appeared in the house across the lane.  She had golden curls piled on top of her head, big brown eyes, big hoop earrings and red, red lips that were always smiling.  She heralded me from her balcony one day, a plump baby in her arms. Together we went on walks up the hill and down and up into the village.  Maria was staying in her in-laws cottage.  She was there alone the first few weeks and we became friends.  Once her mother-in-law arrived, she was less available.

One day, I went over to her house with the children.  While they entertained her baby, she taught me how to make gnocchi and basic tomato sauce.  I don’t often make the gnocchi these days but I still remember the tomato sauce. It’s easy and tasty.

SUGO AL POMODORO

In a large sauce pan put:

A large can of plum tomatoes. (San Marzano tomatoes are probably best)

A stalk of celery

A large carrot cut in pieces

A medium onion cut in large pieces.

A chicken bouillon cube.

Bring to a boil and then simmer gently for a half hour to forty-five minutes to an hour?

Put through a Moulinex food mill or a food processor.  I like to keep it a little thick. 

Taste and add salt and pepper as you like.  Sometimes a teaspoon of sugar does the trick.  And of course you could add some tasty herbs while it’s cooking!

Red Poppies and Communism

The children had been enrolled in the nursery school for only a couple of weeks, when they told me they had been invited to a birthday party.  At first I didn’t believe them.  How could they understand a possible invitation when they spoke practically no Italian. When did they learn the word “compleanno" (birthday)and who would have invited them?   

    

Later when we got home a woman with three children showed up at the gate.  Her name was Gabriella.  I’ve forgotten her last name and the name of the children.  Gabriella, her husband and her brood lived in a chalet above us on the hill.  The house was large and comfortable. The windows of the spacious living room framed the snow-covered mountains in the distance.   We were indeed invited for cake and juice the next afternoon.  It was the middle daughter’s birthday.  The kids had been playing together at school.

My children were excited and I was thrilled to make a friend and attend a social event.  The cold, rainy days had been long for Christopher and me.  We had few toys and it wasn’t possible to spend time outside.

Me, Charles,  Gabriella's husband, Gabriella and family on their balcony.

Gabriella and her husband were staunch Communists.  They fully believed in the Marxist doctrine.  It was incredible to me, because they were the poster children for a capitalistic success story.  Together they had grown a small chicken and egg business into a thriving affair.  They sold the eggs and when the hens were no longer producing at an acceptable rate, they sold them for meat.  I believe this sort of production was new at the time;  this was long before Perdue and Tyson.

One day we were invited to visit the chicken coops.  We met at the old abandoned farm house.  I was offered an espresso with grappa which I declined.  Then we headed for the long buildings that housed the chickens. The hens were squeezed into tight pens.They all wore tiny blinders so they couldn’t see each other and peck at each other.  A conveyor belt rolled along in front with grain for the chickens. Another conveyor belt carried away the feces.   The children helped gather the eggs. I helped Gabriella with a new shipment of baby chicks. Each one had to be picked up and held firmly while eyedrops were inserted in each eye. I can still recall in horror the smell, the racket and the inhumane treatment of those poor chickens.

What horrors lay ahead for this little chick?

See the temple on top of our hill?  It was a favorite place to play.

Sometimes when the weather was fine, Gabriella and her children would join us for a walk up to the top of our hill.  The kids played around a small stone temple and jumped on the rocks.  They made up a hundred games and seemed to understand each other with minimal language.  Of course they played with the poppies.  Did you know you can peel back the bright red petals and then press the black stamens into the back of your hand.  They leave a circular black mark like a stamp.