Pure Magic

Memorable experiences have been the rule rather than the exception this year.  The day I will never forget however, is the one I lived rather than photographed. 

"Liberating" a pair of dark green Hunters from outside the pub and a pair of his stepdaughter's overalls - Tim deposited me in front of the calf barn at Eastbrook Farm one bright sunny morning. From 8am til 8pm, I shadowed Lesley, a truly remarkable homeopathic farmer.

Originally from Holland, she rediscovered a love of organic farming and animals and left her job at KLM behind without regrets. Tall, lean and incredibly strong, she pilots a beat-up land rover around the 1400 acre farm with her scruffy Jack Russell, Barry, (dubbed "tripod" in the village due to the fact he lost a leg) in her lap at all times. This isn't just a job to her - it's a calling. Frustration shows readily in her voice when she asks how people can go home for dinner when something's gone wrong and the animals haven't been fed yet. There is genuine love and affection for the animals she cares for, clearly visible in the way she cheerfully greets her girls and boys and talks gently to them all day long.

We visited every cow on the farm to feed them and check them over, lugging hay bales in and out of the back of the land rover. We helped some of the other workers herd sheep down a long country road between fields, and treated several calves with worms and eye problems - typical of the breed. We fed the chickens and set up a fence around their pen so lazy Basil, a true black sheep, couldn't steal their food. All the while she told me all about the breeds, treatment, and her views on farming. 

I couldn't stop laughing  over the human antics of the animals we worked with - the gangly calves who leapt out from their pens to get better access to hay, looking back gleefully over their shoulders at us, proud of their daring.  Or the methods Basil used to bend the other sheep to his will to form a live battering ram at the fence around the chicken coop.  Or the bull strutting around the yard eyeing the females proudly, having just finished "servicing" them.

But two experiences stood out the most. A proactive measure, vitamin pellets (boluses) are given to cows on organic farms. Cows are herded through a narrow passageway with a gate on the end that closes around their neck to hold them in place to administer the bolus. The rowdy calves who rushed furiously through bellowed loudly (although unhurt) at the loud clanking sound. The mellow ones sauntered along and received a gentle closing that merely made them blink. We had 80 cows to weigh and treat that afternoon, and many of them needed urging of the flank-slapping variety to walk through.

Now, the bolus pellets are placed two-deep in a narrow "gun" apparatus that James would then place in the frothing mouth of the cow, pull the trigger, and release the pellets into the cow's stomach. But frothing would be an understatement. Cow drool is long and slimy and oozed all down the handle of the gun. When James in fact opened his overall pocket later to check on the pay stubs inside, they were soaked beyond recognition - from cow saliva.

"Why," he moaned, "do I always get stuck with this job!!"

"Because you're the new lad!" shot back Clive from across the pen.

My job? To load the pellets into the slimy, cow-drooled gun. Clive's eyes twinkled as he watched me gingerly try to place them without getting covered in sticky saliva, all the while trying not to seem girly.  Fail.

The other highlight was also drooly, but a little like a chick lit novel. Two of the newborn calves weren't feeding properly, so we went to the dairy, filled two litre bottles with fresh warm milk . . . and then I settled in the straw and laughingly fed baby cows with huge eyes. They guzzled so greedily, that when they let go of the bottle to get air, there wasn't enough time to get the teat back in their mouths before they latched onto the next closest thing. Apparently, my knee looks like a suitable subsitute.

But the peace that crept over me feeding the calves while their mothers looked patiently on was priceless. If only I had pictures...

Freezing on the Farm

Layering is an art form.  As a rabid bike commuter here, I've become accustomed to multiple pairs of merino wool socks, always sporting leggings under my jeans and being one with my long-sleeved Icebreaker shirt, its "chocolate drool" stain of unknown provenance (so charmingly dubbed by my ex) carefully hidden underneath wraps and hoodies.  I am always just warm enough, comfortable and a little bit smug.  Hey, there's no bad weather, only bad clothing, right?

Emilia-Romagna, you officially kicked my ass.  I bow to the power of your constant foggy humidity, icy winds, frost-bitten plains and my frozen limbs that never quite thawed out in the six days I spent with you.  Our flirtation is so over.

But regardless of personal (dis)comfort, many many hours were spent in freezing concrete structures or outside on farms. 

Attempting to warm up over deep frying lard

Some naughty cows get nose rings to stop them from partaking of their friends' milk

Another attempt at staying warm: the group hug

What the best-dressed gastronomes are wearing

Free-range pigs cavort in the mud while our trusty bus driver Piero naps road-side

Buffalo. 
We're serving his friend in the form of osso buco for dinner next week. 

The two Alpha males fighting for farmyard domination.  This was taken
two seconds before the buffalo bit the dog's ear, causing a massive
frenzy of snarling, barking and thundering hooves.

The Art of Parmesan

No matter where I've lived, there is always a hunk of parmesan cheese in my fridge.  Grated in salads or on top of last minute bruschetta, blended into cheese sauce, simmering the rinds in homemade soup for added richness, used in homemade pesto with basil from my summer herb garden - it adds the last perfect element to almost everything.  But the price in Canada would always make me cringe, and admittedly, I've often bought less authentic versions, often without knowing.  No longer.

Here in Bra, Parmigiano-Reggiano is ubiquitous.  No cheese plate is complete without a 36 month aged wedge of nutty, salty, creamy goodness.  It graces almost every table and every dish, and the nuances of the different ages is discernible even in a simple risotto.  And while life in Italy tends more to the expensive side, eating well does not.  Every time I enter Giolitti's shop, I get a little giddy at the range of cheeses and the more affordable prices.  Especially when you get the grand tour of his cave and the five year old Parmigiano wheels...

So I figured the one spectacularly difficult early morning we faced on stage would be worth the serious lack of coffee in order to see Parmigiano in production.  And believe me, it is quite a production.  Just examine the world-wide reach and influence of the over-seeing body, the Consortium of Parmigiano-Reggiano.  After all, they are one of the official sponsors and suppliers for the Italian Olympic team.

Authentic Parmigiano-Reggiano is made every morning using partially skimmed milk from the previous night's milking and full-fat milk from that morning.  The milk is kept warm and mixed carefully with specific tools in massive copper vats with rennet and whey added. 

Once deemed ready, the more solid masses of cheese are scooped out of the vats, split into two and wrapped in cheese cloth.  They're tied onto a long stick balanced on top of the vat, hobo style. 

Once they've drained, they're rinsed quickly and placed into round moulds, still steaming.  45-55 kilograms each of pure goodness.

After a short time hardening in the cool cellar, they're labeled with the date placed in large troughs. 

Sea salt is gradually added, dissolving in the water and creating a briny solution that they soak in for several months. 

And then, they slumber.  After 9-12 months, each wheel is tested.  If it meets the requirements, quality markings are added onto the sides.  As for the stencil markings on the side that mark a proper Parmigiano-Reggiano, each producer is assigned a number that is stenciled, along with the name of the cheese. 

If the cheese isn't found to be of utmost quality, the markings are scored. 

And then the wheels age some more in large cool cellars or warehouses, although typically not longer than 36 months.  The "caves" have a distinct aroma - slightly savoury with a hint of boiled cream.  And everywhere you look, Parmigiano wheels tower above like old growth trees.  Mmmm, edible trees . . .

  





Unfortunately, Canadian intellectual property laws differ substantially from the EU.  Parmigiano-Reggiano is a trademarked term - in other words, it refers to a style of cheese made in a particular way.  There are no actual ties to this long history of production or location, and what the cows eat - which directly impacts the flavours of the milk - are not regulated.  So when you buy your parmigiano at the supermarket, you are buying an imitation of the real thing.  Next time you reach for your parmesan, read the label.  And if you're planning for a special occasion, whether it's an anniversary dinner or Wednesday morning breakfast, seek out the real thing - trust me, it's worth tapping into centuries of experience, skill and knowledge.  Your taste buds - and some far away, hard-working producers - will thank you.