Magical Marche liquids

Say “Italy”, and as often as not, a person’s knee-jerk response is likely to be “Food”. Like Anthony and Cleopatra, Abélard and Héloïse, Romeo and Juliet, it seems as if those words were simply made to go together – “Italian food”. It’s equally fitting because of the passion involved in an Italian meal – the love and nurturing, the fresh ingredients, the careful selection of taste and texture, the deliberate and committed enjoyment, the wine…

Ah, yes, the wine. “Nectar of the gods,” I think every time I taste an especially verdant verdicchio, or a deep rosso conero, or any of the plethora of varietals and blends that abound in these hills. Another equally quintessential aspect of Italy, wine is woven into the fabric of every day, and is as much a staple as pasta.

But it’s not the only liquid on display at the tavola, not by any means. The others make their entrance after the secondo (main course). It’s a less familiar aspect of the meal for me, but as it turns out, it’s an integral part of the process, contrived perhaps as much to prolong it as to enjoy it. I’m talking, of course, about the after-dinner drink.

In all of the homes we’ve had the privilege of enjoying a 3-plus hour repast, the host has needed 2 trips to the cabinet to bring out all the various liqueurs, distillations, fortified wines, and other sundry liquors to stand haphazardly amidst the ruins of the battlefield that was pranza or cena (lunch or dinner). Pride of place typically goes to the specialty of the area – vino cotto or vernaccia, for example, in some villages in our neck of the woods – but there’s also strong competition from the home-made coffee and other flavoured liqueurs identifiable by their unlabeled bottles and questionable hues. And then, naturally, there are the grappas, in bottles of all shapes and sizes, made from all sorts of grapes, using all sorts of methods.

Once all these bottles have been arrayed in front of you, a second series of “courses” commences – the sampling of each of the soldiers in front of you. Some make a hasty getaway (like Maria, offering to help with the dishes). Others, like myself, rise to the challenge, and dive in head first, generally emerging the other side both lighter of head and warmer of body. It’s a fitting end to the meal, making each one of them a memorable affair.

Reluctantly stepping away from the alcoholic side of things for a minute – although not entirely away from the table – there are a couple of other liquids that we tend to drink rather a lot more of, and that we find tend to have a generally more healthy impact on our daily lives – water and milk.

We live at the heart of the rolling hills of Marche farmland that rises up into the Sibillini mountains, part of the Appenine range. The water up there is crisp and quenching, and it somehow finds its way down into every town and village in the area, where it’s liberally available … for free. The nearest village to us – Colmurano, with a population of around 1,000 – has 2 fountains that we stop at almost daily to fill up our bottles. If we’re on an excursion, wandering a little further from our normal arc of habit, we simply take along our bottles – we know there’ll be a fountain, and its water will be delicious. It’s a rare treat and an unexpected benefit of living here.

Another one that we half expected, although perhaps not in quite the “convenient” form we’ve found it, is raw milk. It’s well nigh impossible to find it in the US, where this most nutritious of drinks is outlawed in most states. Instead, the American population is forced to drink a bland, processed-beyond-recognition beverage that’s a pale approximation of its original form. Its properties are manufactured and are either not altogether understood, or are kept from public consumption because of their harmful effects. The irony of all of this is complete when you reflect on what the Italians call raw milk: latta fresca – fresh milk. No ambiguity there.

We’ve found two sources within 10 minutes drive of home, where we take our own bottles, plop a euro into the slot, and get a liter of fresh, cold, untampered-with, delicious milk, just as nature intended. Some of our supply goes into making yogurt here at home (it’s quite simple, even I’ve done it successfully). Along with a banana and a cappuccino (made from “fresh” steamed milk, of course), this is my daily breakfast, taken outside on the lawn looking out over the patchwork of fields and distant Sibillini peaks.

If liquids sustain us, I feel not only sustained, but blessed. And when I’m out there on our sloping lawn in one of our cheap rickety plastic chairs, sipping one of my chosen liquids, it feels like the gentle appenine zephyr rolling across the hills was contrived solely for my comfort.