Well, it is Sunday morning and overcast and rainy yet again. But there is a breeze so I hope this rain will lift and the wind will start drying out the waterlogged hay fields. All that forage has to come off and the bales stacked in the low protein side of the barn. Watery grass is leached of nutrients.
Yesterday I was talking about the chemical fields being black and dead as opposed to our organic fields that are green and alive with weeds. Both flooded for the same amount of time. Here is a photo to show you.
That(right) is not tilled ground. It is just dead – waiting obediently for orders from its farmer. The organic side (left) has a mind of its own. I know which field I would like to be.
Pasta. My Grandmother’s Grandfather came from a little town called Bocchere in Mantua, Italy. He was born there in 1838 and left to join the gold rush to the South Island of New Zealand when he was 24. We have only just discovered this in the last few months. My son Sam does all our research. He digs out all these amazing facts. There was a legend in our family about my mother’s grandmother Christina who always wore black and scrubbed the stoop of every house she visited ( and behind the toilet, whether it was clean or not, which horrified my mother). She would be ready to travel hours before the train left – sitting silently on a straight chair beside her packed bag until my Dad brought the car around to deliver her to the train station exactly an hour before it left. (Not strange in this day and age but in those days you walked from the street, through a beautiful little wooden train station, with a trail of grandkids carrying your bags and straight onto the train where the grandkids got you settled and kissed your cheek goodbye before exiting the train and waving you off). She was not a last minute lady. Word has it that she was pretty formidable. John Franco was Christina’s Papa.
Different regions of Italy had different pastas and ( my pasta obsession explained) I am researching the foods from this area of Mantua. When Giovanni Franco lived there it was part of the Austro/Hungarian empire. Even more interesting. Do Hungarians have a history of different pastas too? I will research further. And yes! Before I retire from the world ( never) I intend to visit this little village – I hope it is still there – and eat Tortelli de Zucca. I am going to make it soon. I am still practicing making my tortellini! All I have is UTube. If this were a novel … I would find long lost Italian great aunties in Bocherre to teach me. They would have a huge wooden table under grapevines with tons of local wine and fresh bread. They would be welcoming and the air would be full of lights and family and laughter and huge platters of pasta.
This is not a novel. So- UTube it is.
Today’s lunch is my old favorite- gnocchi. I LOVE gnocchi. And it is so easy to make.
I hope we get some sun later on. But ‘til then the dogs and I will slosh about under the clouds. With cows.
The Charolais calf is not in this photo because he was chasing Ton. He loves playing with dogs apparently. TonTon felt his dignity had been compromised and left the scene.
The wee pea chick has died and is buried in the garden. But that is the way of it. As my Dad would say – ( and all his ancestors were Irish) – ‘worse things happen at sea’.
And on that happy note; Have a lovely day.