First, find your sheep - Food Published: Jan 19, 2008 - The Times - South
Africa
Barbara Gunnell treks with the sheep to a high-altitude
feast in the Abruzzo Mountains.
We left Rome for the mountains of Abruzzo when the temperature reached
38°C, with 40°C expected. Romans in the Cinecitta' suburb of 1950s apartment
blocks have ways to deal with such heat.
Life spills noisily outside at night when it’s cool enough to
eat; families shout above shrieking quiz shows into the small hours.
Fellini’s films celebrated the exuberance of this working-class part of
Rome, but I needed sleep.
An hour north-east on the motorway towards Abruzzo and the
mountains, we were already wondering about the decision. The car’s dashboard
showed the outside temperature remained stubbornly at 38°C. Soon we noticed
spirals of smoke rising out of yellowed hills.
Central Italy, like much of Europe, has been suffering a spate
of forest fires, but when we reached Rocca Calascio — at 1460m the highest
medieval castle in the Apennines — the billowing smoke was below us.
From the castle we could see black smoke wafting down the
valley. Far below us, a dinky-toy bowser hurried along a dirt track to take
water to a field of wheat on the edge of smoldering brush. Later, planes
ditched water and finished off the job, but not before a black scar had been
carved into the rolling lower slopes of the Gran Sasso massif.
It seemed completely appropriate that, in this 15th-century
setting, the first half-dozen “locals” we met should be wearing medieval
costume and carrying swords and shields. Ignoring the full force of a
heatwave’s breezeless afternoon, one young soldier sweated in a padded
velveteen suit. Another, layered in wool, told me, in fair English, what he
and his friends were doing. It was a battle reconstruction in which two
groups were fighting for possession of the castle. He faltered as he used
the descriptions Christians and Saracens — maybe out of political
correctness or maybe uncertain how to translate saraceni — and decided
instead that the bad guys were, oddly, from the Isle of Man.
The good guys were Italian, of course. The mock battles were
not for tourists, but private events, fought over weekends throughout the
year in the hill villages .
Rocca Calascio, perched on a peak, with its spectacular view
across the valley to Gran Sasso, was a particularly authentic setting for
their enactment . But there are hundreds of castles in the Abruzzo hills;
the ancient Romans opened up so many roads through the Apennines that
villagers were sitting ducks for invaders.
They and their sheep regularly needed refuge.
In the first half of the 15th century, there were more than
three million sheep in Abruzzo. Today, there are about 450000. In summer,
they graze in the mountain pastures; in winter they move to the grassy
lowlands of Puglia. This seasonal movement of flocks up and down the
mountains (called the transumanza) defined the landscape of Abruzzo. Spring
and autumn, the sheep would graze their way along a network of broad tracks
(a hundred meters wide in places) covering hundreds of kilometers, the
shepherds paying for use of the paths along the way, and thus supporting
local economies.
But gradually, over the first decades of the 20th century, it
became more economical to move the sheep by truck and train, and for local
people to use the paths for crops. The sheep economy started to flounder;
the hill villages of Abruzzo were abandoned.
Until a few years ago, the collection of houses at the foot of
Rocca Calascio had been uninhabited for many decades. But an enterprising
couple reclaimed two for a bar and restaurant, hoping to entice trade up the
hill. It worked. They expanded, reclaiming more houses to provide
accommodation for walkers and cross-country skiers, some basic and cheap,
some more luxurious. Now a few families have returned and there’s a small
shop, but the village remains un-manicured and authentic. Since it lies
within a regional park, it may even stay that way.
Rolando, trim and tanned, with iron-grey hair, has a mission
to foster Abruzzo culture. He looks like an arts impresario, but his day job
is cooking and for the restaurant’s Saturday dinner he was doing an Abruzzo
special: pecora (sheep, not lamb) with mountain herbs and potatoes. It’s a
secret recipe, he said, but I’m going to reveal it.
This is what you need: a 35-kilo sheep; two crates of
flat-leaved parsley; a crate of rosemary branches; a few armfuls of just-
gathered mountain herbs (various thymes, sage, some bitter leaves and some
variety of mint); 40 or so carrots; a similar number of onions; a dozen or
so garlic bulbs; a few celery heads with leaves; a litre of oil and more
than a litre of white wine. You’ll also need potatoes (same volume as the
lamb when boned). Boil the beast for two hours in water. Get rid of large
quantities of fat. Boil for another five hours. Remove big bones.
And here’s the clever bit. Take the table, herbs and
vegetables outside and engage some passers-by in conversation about your
struggle to revive Abruzzo theatre. Without comment, hand each a knife, all
the while telling the story of the freezing night in the mountains when you
staged an open-air performance of an obscure play and the actress wore a
dress so diaphanous that the fur-wrapped audience remained shivering in
their seats out of solidarity or lust.
Subtly, without talking, demonstrate how you want the rosemary
stripped, the sage and parsley stalks removed, the carrots peeled. Keep your
story going, by means of digressions, personal histories and tales of meals
enjoyed or prepared for well-known writers and artists, for the three hours
it takes your helpers to reduce all the vegetable matter to several kilos of
finely chopped herb flavoring.
Do not be distracted by the fact that they are roasting in the
sun and now have green hands and watering eyes. In a giant pan, arrange
boned sheep and an equal volume of potatoes in layers with herbs, dousings
of oil and sprinklings of salt. Pour over a liter or so of white wine.
Simmer for two hours.
Enough locals made the journey up to the village to fill the
dining room. There was a festive mood. But up at the castle things were not
going well for the good guys. The Manxmen had gained control. And below, in
the valley, the embers of the fire were glowing, looking unnervingly like a
camp of Saracen invaders. — © New Statesman
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