'The Triumph of Fame' desco da parto (commemorative birth tray) by Giovanni di Ser Giovanni Guidi [called Scheggia], 1406-1486 / in the collection of The Metropolitan Museum of Art, purchased in memory of Sir John Pope-Hennessy.

Do you know about Slow Art Day?  Founded in 2009, it's one of the coolest ideas ever: one day every year (in 2012 it's this Sunday the 28th!), people all over the world go to museums and galleries to look at a (very) small number of pre-selected works for five to ten minutes each, then they meet over lunch and talk about what they saw and experienced.  I am in love with this idea, which you might have guessed if you've read the Introduction to my Tuscany and Umbria book, in which I mention the Stendhal Syndrome.  The Syndrome is the name given for French novelist Stendhal, who felt physically sick after he visited Santa Croce, and refers to being completely overwhelmed by your surroundings (my translation: seeing and doing way too much).  Visitors to Florence who arrive with too long a list of must-sees are prime candidates for the syndrome, and author and Italian expert Fred Plotkin counsels against falling into this trap in his foreword to Claudio Gatti's Florence in Detail by advising, "Like it or not, one must adopt a policy of 'Poco, ma buono' (loosely translated as 'Do less, but do it really well') to experience what Florence has to offer.  A mad dash through a gallery will leave you with only fleeting impressions.  Spend ten minutes in front of one painting and you will see remarkable things that a two-minute look could not reveal; spend an hour in front of that same painting and your life will be changed.  To really pause and reflect, whether in front of a sculpture or a dish of gelato, is to find the presence of art and genius in all things."

So, naturally, Slow Art Day is hugely appealing to me!  Though there are venues that are officially participating in this celebration as I've described above, this doesn't mean you can't go to any venue you prefer and look at a work of art for as long as you want.  I have decided that I'm going to The Metropolitan Museum of Art to look at the beautiful desco da parto above.  I haven't been to see it in a few years, and if you have a copy of my first Tuscany and Umbria book (this was actually entitled Central Italy: Tuscany and Umbria) you may recall that I wrote about this in the introduction to the article 'Lorenzo the Magnificent' by Derek Wilson (originally appearing in ItalyItaly magazine, February/March 1998).

Giovanni di Ser Giovanni was the younger brother of Masaccio (whose frescoes adorn the Carmine chapel in the Oltrarno neighborhood of Florence) and the tradition of birth trays is derived from the custom of presenting sweetmeats to new mothers.  The image on the front of the tray (above) is, according to the Met's website, taken from Boccaccio's L'Amorosa visione (book six, 1342)  but this narrative was repeated by Francesco Petrarch in his Trionfi, and the motif is more commonly associated with Petrarch's name.  Again according to the Met, this subject was unusual for a birth tray as the most common themes were birth scenes or the marriage of Solomon and the Queen of Sheba.  "The birth of Lorenzo was viewed as an event of signal importance and the birth tray was plainly conceived as an augury of his future accomplishments," states the Met, and this stunning tray is an object of unique historical importance: Lorenzo kept it in his private quarters in the Medici palace in Florence, and it is believed to be the largest and most opulent birth tray known to survive with its original engaged molding.

The reverse side of the tray features the coats of arms of the Medici and Tornabuoni families (Piero de' Medici married Lucrezia Tornabuoni in 1444, and Lorenzo was their first son, born in 1449).

When I first saw this tray, I was truly in awe, for its beauty, but also because the imagery suggests such a promising life for a little boy who would indeed fulfill such enormous expectations. 

According to one study, published in the Empirical Studies of the Arts, museumgoers spend an average of 17 seconds looking at an individual painting.  I hope you'll use Slow Art Day as an excuse to spend longer than that in front of any work of art you choose, whether it's this Sunday or any other day. Remember, to borrow a phrase from this movement, "Slow down, you look too fast" and another from Henry David Thoreau, "It's not what you look at that matters, it's what you see."               

If you live in the New York Metropolitan Area and you are a Francophile, I hope you had a chance to see the Orchid Show at the New York Botanical Garden -- the exhibit closed yesterday and I (finally) saw it on Saturday.  Frenchman Patrick Blanc was the guest of honor at the Orchid Show this year, and if you don't already know he is internationally renowned for the invention of something called the vertical garden, which is one of the most amazing creations I've ever seen. 

Blanc devised a way to grow particular plants horizontally, without soil, indoors or outdoors, on surfaces of varying sizes.  The concept is hard to visualize unless you're looking at it (the photo above, from a revised and updated edition of Blanc's book, really doesn't do the creation justice), and I apologize that I'm not including any photographs of the exhibit's vertical walls in this post but I (stupidly) didn't bring my camera to the NYBG on Saturday and the photos on Blanc's website -- http://www.verticalgardenpatrickblanc.com/ -- are protected (there are lots of other photos on the Web but I feel it's right to use them unless I can credit the photographer).  But check out Blanc's site and be prepared to be amazed!  See also a fascinating article about Blanc and his work in the Spring 2012 issue of France Magazine.  As writer Amy Serafin notes in her article, "A single wall can boast hundreds of species in infinite shades of green, with different shapes and patterns.  Each plant is selected to suit that particular environment."

In Paris alone there are more than 25 vertical gardens, including at the Musee du Quai Branley, BHV Homme, the Cartier Foundation, Six Senses Spa, and the Club Med offices.  I would say that going to see one is most definitely vaut le detour!  But if you can't get to Paris for a while, the new book mentioned above might suffice until you can: The Vertical Garden: From Nature to the City (Patrick Blanc, Norton, April 2012).  Or, check out the Patrick Blanc projects in Miami, Charlotte, Racine, Tacoma, New York City, San Francisco, and Los Angeles.  Fabulous!

I am always wary when I compile lists of favorite places to eat for a given destination -- especially when the destination is Paris – because I am always sure I will forget some worthy place(s). I had a nagging feeling that the list I included in my Paris book was incomplete, mostly because I did not include places I’d enjoyed many years ago (Le Procope, the original Benoit before Alain Ducasse acquired it, as two examples). I felt if I hadn’t been there recently it wasn’t fair to include them in case they’d changed beyond recognition.

But I was rather horrified to discover, when a copy of French Bistro: Seasonal Recipes crossed my desk, that I’d completely forgotten to include le Paul Bert! [18 rue Paul Bert, 11th arrondissement / (33) 1.4372.2401 / Metro: Faidherbe-Chaligny] Le Paul Bert is on many peoples’ short lists of favorite Paris restaurants, and with good reason: it’s a true bistro, in all the best ways. I had such a terrific meal at the Paul Bert and it felt so good to be there that I was quite reluctant to leave (and I felt I could have stayed longer and no one would have minded) that it’s hard to believe I actually forgot about it. (But then, I also recently discovered that I’d forgotten a few other favorites, which I’ll share later.)

Anyway, one of the things that makes le Paul Bert unique is its menu of excellent renditions of traditional bistro dishes and modern interpretations. This new cookbook (Flammarion, English language edition 2012), by Paul Bert owner Bertrand Auboyneau and Le Figaro food critic François Simon, has a great number of appealing recipes that for the most part are not difficult to prepare at home. But the really valuable feature of the book is ‘The Ten Bistro Essentials’ which are: The Owner, The Chef, The Chalkboard Menu, The Wine, The Servers, The Table, The Décor, The Clients, The Ambience, and The Aromas. Though in some regards these are unique to the Paul Bert, they are mostly common to every worthwhile bistro you will ever go to, and I highly recommend that anyone interested in eating at Paris bistros (and isn't that everyone?) to read them! Take note of the following from ‘The Chef:’ “Bistros are a roaring success in Paris today due to their moderation, the culinary wisdom that the unlikely pair of owner and chef delivers. For all this, the chef is not second-best or a downtrodden Cinderella. He may not be in the spotlight, but he has the tranquil force of a navigator. He knows all too well that without him, the car would go off the road…Without him, [clients] would have their pâté en croute with asparagus Chantilly and a square-shaped dollop of garden pea foam. Bistro clients don’t know how lucky they are.” And this from ‘The Wine:’ “The bistro serves wines that suit a clientele with an environmental conscience.” And this from ‘The Servers:’ “A good waitstaff finds ways to sidestep the constraints imposed by the owner and obtain special privileges, like extra French fries. They give a perfect theater performance, never overacting (as you might see in a brasserie), but weaving their way through the dining hall as proudly as tango dancers. They are the stars of this urban choreography, and they know it.” And lastly a note from the ‘A Bistro Will Never be Perfect’ page: “The bistro resembles life with all its blemishes and even illustrates that there is no such thing as unmitigated excellence… the average bistro serves up to 150,000 dishes a day, which translates into 40,000 clients over 100,000 hours. Sooner or later, an accident will happen. What else can you expect? Don’t think of it as a disaster; it’s just life taking its course.”

At the back of the book is a list of thirteen (other) classic Parisian bistros that are favorites of Auboyneau and Simon (and that I suspect would keep any visitors to Paris quite sufficiently happy) as well as list of the Paul Bert’s suppliers (ooh-la-la, must check some of these out!). Also, note that L’Écailler du Bistrot, opened just next door by Gwenaelle Cadoret, Auboyneau’s wife, specializes in seafood. I haven’t yet been (but I am eager to go as I am a huge fan of seafood from Brittany, where Cadoret is originally from) but it apparently has its own distinct feel and ambience.

This book is not, as Auboyneau says, “your typical recipe book” nor is it a “restaurant guide” or “a book of photos” or “a bible.” Rather, it’s a book “about the twelve years of happiness we have shared with wonderful people: restaurant owners, wine producers, suppliers, cooks, dishwashers, and waiters, all of whom have contributed to the successful rebirth of the classic bistro.” Vive le bistro!

The years in France, especially Paris, known as the Belle Epoque (from the late 1800s up to World War I), are generally considered to be years filled with excessive joy, light, merriment, and practically endless festivity. We have this impression because of the extraordinary -- and I use that word in its truest sense -- and rather breathtaking achievements in all of the arts, which often reflected the leisure-time pursuits of both ordinary and wealthy Parisians. However, as many of us who are familiar with French history know, this image is a distorted one, only half true. Historian and critic Walter Benjamin may have referred to Paris as the "Capital of the Nineteenth Century" but the bright lights and merriment were all on the surface, masking enormous political turmoil and social injustices.

Last year a unique and insightful book on this topic was published by historian and writer Mary McAuliffe entitled Dawn of the Belle Epoque: The Paris of Monet, Zola, Bernhardt, Eiffel, Debussy, Clemenceau, and Their Friends (Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, 2011). It is my good fortune that Mary lives in New York, so I have had the pleasure of meeting her for coffee and Paris conversations several times (she also joined me on a panel to celebrate the publication of my Paris book at the 92nd Street Y/Tribeca). Mary holds a PhD in history and is the author of Paris Discovered: Explorations in the City of Light (Princeton Book Company, 2006), which grew out of her regular columns for the wonderful (but now sadly defunct) newsletter, Paris Notes.

I used the word 'unique' to describe Mary's book because thought it is a non-fiction work, it actually reads more like a novel. The chapters are arranged chronologically, which is logical for a book like this, but in each chapter we are introduced to the key personalities and events of the era often through excerpts from actual letters or diaries. I felt like I was a part of the personal lives of everyone, and by the time I finished the book I had a deeper understanding of the (real life) characters, even those I already knew a lot about.

Mary brilliantly juxtaposes the groundbreaking works in painting, sculpture, literature, poetry, architecture, and music with the collapse of the Second Empire, the Paris Commune, the Panama Canal scandal, turbulent clashes between the Republic and the Church, economic woes, nasty anti-Semitism, and the Dreyfus Affair. The struggles and events of these years have continued to influence French politics and society right up to the present day. As McAuliffe notes in her Introductory chapter, 'The Terrible Year (1870-1871),' "Unlike Americans, the French remember their history -- perhaps because they live so closely with tangible vestiges of their past. And if Belleville and Montmartre no longer summon up the images of danger and despair that they once did, then the simmering banlieues just beyond certainly do."

The Washington Independent Review of Books noted that, "McAuliffe paints with broad, majestic strokes a world that has been lost to us or perhaps never was." I highly recommend reading Dawn simultaneously with a book called Pleasures of Paris: Daumier to Picasso (David Godine, Publisher) which is actually the catalog for an exhibit of the same name that was organized by the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston (5 June - 1 September, 1991). I saw this terrific exhibit when it traveled to the former IBM Gallery of Science and Art in New York (15 October - 28 December, 1991), and the catalog features color reproductions by a number of the artists highlighted in Mary's book, as well as many other illustrations and photographs. The initial chapter written by Barbara Stern Shapiro, associate curator, is an excellent overview of the period and deserves wide appreciation. She concludes it by noting that Paris suffered poverty, crime, and injustices, but when we think of the city in the second half of the 19th century we keep coming back to that image of "graces and joys." But, she writes, "it was a unique period of intoxication and excitement that could not be sustained and appropriately drew to a close with the first World War. We owe a debt to the astonishingly productive painters, printmakers, photographers, and illustrators who recorded this intense and legendary aspect of French life and who made Paris in this celebrated period the unrivaled world center for the arts." Reading these two books together is an unrivaled experience.

I caught up with Mary as she was finishing up her research on her new book with the dashing title of Clash of Crowns: William the Conqueror, Richard the Lionheart, and Eleanor of Aquitaine - A Story of Bloodshed, Betrayal, and Revenge (also published by Rowman & Littlefield):

Q: When did you first become so interested in France and French history?
A: I do believe that my ears perked up at an early age when my mother spoke of her French grandmother, Juliette. Juliette was born in Geneva, Switzerland (her father was a jeweler and watchmaker), but the family came from Paris, and family legend has it that her grandfather was a good friend of Victor Hugo's and even went into exile with him. I've never been able to document that one, and I think it may be largely myth. But still, the story caught my attention—as did the quintessentially-French dessert, Ile Flottante, which my mother made for me once or twice, and which I loved. She got it from her mother, whom I assume got it from her mother—Juliette. I still order it on my first night back in Paris, every time!

Next step: My husband's work on the musical, "Les Miz," during its pre-Broadway run at the Kennedy Center (where he was then Director of Marketing), piqued my interest in Victor Hugo. This, as I explained in the Intro to my earlier book, "Paris Discovered," led me to track down all the sites I could find from Hugo's "Les Misérables" and "The Hunchback of Notre-Dame." A great introduction to Paris! Not long after, I learned that Paris once had walls—a series of them, in fact—and searching out the remnants took me and my husband into parts of Paris we might never have explored otherwise. One thing led to another, and eventually I found myself writing history and culture for Paris Notes for ten wonderful years. The walls of Paris also led me to you—and to inclusion of my article on the walls of Paris in your "Paris: The Collected Traveler."

Q: What was it specifically about the time period of the Belle Epoque that interested you to delve further into it?

A: Well, to begin with, it's such an incredibly rich period. But what really caught my attention for the particular span of years Dawn deals with (1871-1900) is that it begins with a triple disaster (the terrible Siege of Paris plus France's defeat at the hands of Bismrck's Germany plus the bloody Commune uprising), which left France's morale shattered and much of Paris in ruins. And yet, look at what happened in the short space of years that followed! The Impressionists, the Neo-Impressionists, Rodin, Debussy, Ravel, Bernhardt, Zola, Eiffel, Marie Curie, and so on and so on. The list of legendary characters and movements as a whole (especially the Impressionists), but little attention has been paid to the background against which these lives were lived and these achievements took place. We look back on this period as one blessed by a kind of explosion of creativity and assume that life must have been easy, a kind of bubble bath in pastel colors, but this was not the case. It was a difficult time, one of great political and economic uncertainty, and so you have the tremors that any creative person has as he or she ventures forth, coupled with the great uncertainty of the times. I wanted to view this as much as possible through the eyes of those who lived through these years, using their memoirs, diaries, correspondence. I purposefully chose a wide variety of individuals, from artists and musicians to politicians, hoteliers (Cesar Ritz), entrepreneurs (Ernest Cognacq), an anarchist (Louise Michel), and even a teenager (Julie Manet). No, I don't know of another book quite like this. Some readers have even said that it reads like a novel -- although I should emphasize that there is nothing fictional about it. The drama is real, not something that I have had to create. These three decades have a natural dramatic arc, starting with those triple disasters of 1870-71 and culminating in the shattering Dreyfus Affair.

Q: Of all the personalities, politicians, artists, and musicians highlighted in the book, do you have a fondness for some in particular?

A: I think I have fallen at least a little bit in love with each and every one of these people, although admittedly some more than others. I love Berthe Morisot and have ever since I saw an exhibition on her painting many years ago at the National Gallery in Washington, D.C. I had never heard of her before this -- her work had pretty much disappeared into the shadows until quite recently -- and I was quite overcome by my "discovery." I still have the poster from that exhibition, framed and on our wall. I love her painting, and I love the qualities that shine through it -- her modesty, her courage, and her love. Her daughter, Julie Manet, is also enchanting. And then there is Pissarro, that gentle artist and generous friend, so much older than his colleagues, who lived in poverty for much of his long life. "The Americans can't get used to my painting," he wrote his eldest son in 1897, "which is too sad for them."

Q: You and I share a great fondness for the Musee Carnavalet, the Museum of the History of Paris, and I love that there are so many images from the museum featured in your book. The cover illustration, too, is from the Museum's collection -- how did you choose it?

A: Oh, yes -- the cover! I found it at the Carnavalet in an upstairs room, often closed, with a number of small items in a display case along one side. It's a very small painting, by the genre painter, Jean Beraud, and it was almost too easy to pass over. And yet something about it held me, and so I asked my husband to take a record shot (he does a lot of that for me). I soon decided that I definitely wanted it for an illustration, but it was my editor who immediately spotted it as a terrific cover (thank you, Susan!). It was only last May, just after Dawn was out, that my husband and I were once again in Paris and saw that the Carnavalet had chosen this same little painting for its banner. We were so excited and rushed into the museum's bookstore to show the manager and his assistant, who loved the connection and immediately said that they must have Dawn for sale there. (For the record, the book is for sale in the bookstore, but the banner is no longer up.)

Q: Your new book, just out, is obviously about an earlier and completely different time period than the Belle Epoque -- what inspired you to look backwards to the medieval era?

A: A castle. A remarkable castle, Chateau-Gaillard, just down the Seine from Paris in Les Andelys. A friend had suggested that we might find it interesting, and indeed we did. Richard Lionheart built it, and I wanted to find out everything I could about it. This led to an exploration of the borderlands between the English crown lands of Normandy, Anjou, Poitou, and Aquitaine. I had studied medieval history in graduate school and subsequently taught it, so it was not new to me. In fact, I have always loved it. And so I have thoroughly enjoyed following the trail of this intriguing subject wherever it has led me -- including back to the Vikings. Yes, William the Conqueror and Richard Lionheart were descended from Vikings! Oddly enough, Chateau-Gaillard is located only a few minutes down the Seine from Monet's peaceful garden at Giverny, and the banks of the River Epte, which Monet so frequently painted, bristled with fortifications eight centuries ago.

Q: Researching these books required extended stays in Paris and in France. Can you share some favorite experiences while compiling these books, as well as some of your favorite things to see and do in Paris?

A: I could write another book just on this! I love to wander in Paris's parks, or simply sit in them. We often visit the place des Vosges and the Luxembourg Gardens, and of course the tiny Square du Vert-Galant at the tip of the Ile de la Cite. We also enjoy Parc Monceau and, depending on whether we are in the neighborhood, Parc Montsouris and the Parc des Buttes Chaumont. We regularly check out the Parc Floral in the Bois de Vincennes and the nearby Lac Daumesnil (the Chateau de Vincennes is terrific, too -- be sure to vist, if you've never done so). And there are lots more! We obviously enjoy wandering through and around Paris, and on rainy days (yes, there are those), we head for the Musee Carnavalet (endlessly fascinating) or the Petit Palais (I love its architecture as well as the Guimard Art Nouveau room downstairs), among other destinations. Every part of Paris has its own special attractions, some of them little known, and we enjoy finding them. This also involves a fair amount of eating, which we rarely object to! Although I must say that breakfast has its own special place in our hearts. We have a neighborhood artisanal bakery with the most incredible baguettes. In the evening I love watching Parisians en route from work carrying home their baguettes for dinner and -- unable to resist -- nibbling at the crusty end as they walk.

The reissue of Carol Field's The Italian Baker is cause for celebration (see my previous post) but I am equally delighted about the publication of a few other Italian culinary books. One was published three years ago but I only just got around to reading it: Why Italians Love to Talk About Food by Elena Kostioukovitch (forewords by Umberto Eco and Carol Field, translated by Anne Milano Appel, Farrar, Straus and Giroux). I admit upfront my ignorance about the author --I did not recognize Kostioukovitch's name, but it turns out she is Umberto Eco's translator in Russian and she is an essayist, literary agent, and editor and she has been living in Italy (Milan) for over twenty years. The Italian edition of this book appeared in 2006, the same year she was the recipient of the Welcome Prize, given by the Russian National Association of Restaurateurs. So as Faith Heller Willinger says, this book is "essential reading for all Italophiles." Chef Tom Colicchio calls it "part reference encyclopedia, part social history, part love letter to Italy." I call it required reading as well, but also of the most joyful kind (I love that the final chapter of the book is entitled 'Joy').

In her foreword, Carol Field writes that "of course Italians like to talk about food. Italy is food, and the food is Italy...Italians talk constantly about food even when food isn't the subject. Bring up almost anything -- painting, trees, literature, landscape, history, people, religion, even taxes or politics -- and the vocabulary of food somehow finds its way in." Kostioukovitch already suspected this but after her years-long journey to every region of Italy it was soundly proven. She also discovered that "the more you know Italy, the more it becomes evident that each community has its "gastronomic emblem," namely, a dish or product that has been developed to perfection in that place." So in each chapter Kostioukovitch outlines the history and food traditions of each region and ends with lists of typical dishes and products. Throughout the book are other, more in-depth chapters on such topics as the sagra, olive oil, pilgrims, Slow Food, Jews, democracy, the Mediterranean diet, gifts from America, pizza, etc. There are no recipes, but there are cooking methods for meat, fish, eggs, and vegetables, as well as sauces and gravies for pasta and pairings of pasta shapes and sauces.

At the end of her Preface, Kostioukovitch writes that discovering and analyzing the Italian culinary code "have absorbed me completely, drawing me under its spell - just as I was drawn in so many years ago by the country that created this code, the Italy that I will never have my fill of discovering, and that each day increases my hunger for beauty and thirst for art. I know you will understand." Indeed, many of us do.

*

A different book because it does have recipes, about 250 of them, is The Country Cooking of Italy by Colman Andrews (foreword by Mario Batali, Chronicle Books, 2010). But right there on the first page of the Introduction is a quotation that brings the subject of Italian cuisine back to Elena Kostioukovitch's circle: "As they ate, they spoke of eating, as always happens in Italy" (Andrea Camilleri, The Shape of Water)

Andrews has been one of my most favorite food writers and cookbook authors for many years, but this lovely hardcover (featuring photographs by the renowned team of Christopher Hirsheimer and Melissa Hamilton, who also author a great paperback series of seasonal cookbooks that I love, Canal House Cooking) might be his best book yet. (In fairness, he also wrote a book in this series on Ireland, which I haven't yet seen, so it may be equally as good.)

Like Kostioukovitch, Andrews, too, has traveled to every region of Italy, and he learned that "many of the most famous "real Italian" dishes I had encountered, even in Italy, were twentieth-century creations -- and that even so definitive a food as pasta was not a daily part of the Italian diet until about a hundred years ago." He also learned a lot about the Mediterranean Diet, mostly while researching his terrific book, Flavors of the Riviera, in which he concluded that this Diet is more romanticized than real, and that it was "more the way people eat at Chez Panisse than the way they eat, and have traditionally eaten, around the Mediterranean"). I was pleased to read that Andrews also addressed something that I've been railing about for years to any of my friends and family who will listen, which is that "for the most part, Italian cooking in its homeland, I began to figure out on my trips there, was far simpler than the gussied-up Italian American interpretations of it." As Andrews also notes, American chefs and Italian chefs who come to the States "don't seem to be able to leave well enough alone." I have found this to be particularly true in California, where so many chefs (and home cooks) can't resist gilding the lily.

Andrews was impressed by the intensity of local and regional pride for food products and dishes no matter where he traveled in Italy. "They love eating -- is it an accident that in the language of their predecessors, the Romans, the words for "eat" (edo) and "be" (sum) share an infinitive form, esse? (Edo ergo sum?) -- and they love talking about eating."

But, on to the recipes! They are just so excellent, and of course the introductory notes Andrews provides for each one are always interesting to read. Recipes from Milan, Naples, Venice, and other large cities are not the focus here, but there are plenty from the countryside around them. Andrews notes he has tried to strike a balance between including familiar dishes (done right) and more obscure ones. But no matter where the recipe is from, Andrews was always mindful that "in Italy, at least in principle, the farm is never far away from the table." He also writes that though so many culinary innovations in Italy can be traced to ancient Rome or to wealthy noblemen and merchants, he believes that "all Italian cooking is in some sense from the country, from the region, from the land. This is the key to its identity. This is what makes it great."

Recently, I made the spiced cheese spread called Liptauer that, Andrews explains, comes from Trieste. It was such a refreshing change from the usual dips and spreads and everyone commented on it (the recipe has butter, fresh ricotta, paprika, mustard seeds, cumin, anchovy filets, chives, and scallions). But the others I've tried have also been winners: Rigatoni with Cauliflower, Polenta with White Beans and Kale, White Beans Tuscan Style, and Olive Oil Cake. But I've only just begun...friends are coming for dinner on Saturday and I already have so many pages marked with sticky notes.

Author and food writer Carol Field is a well known name among Italophiles. If you are someone who is just beginning to be beguiled by Italy, someone who has not yet read all the essential books in an Italian library, you will soon discover Field. But right now is a good time to start getting acquainted with her as Ten Speed Press recently published an updated and illustrated edition of her masterpiece, The Italian Baker.

I've been a huge fan of the first edition of this book, published in 1985 by Harper Collins, and I don't even bake bread, let alone bread sticks, pizza, panforte, panettone, or pandoro. (I do, however, make a lot of soup, and Field's version of the classic Tuscan soup, Ribollita, is to my mind the best one in existence -- though curiously, in the new editon, the recipe is called Minestrone Toscana even though it appears to be identical -- and her version of Tiramisu is without rival -- the key is that it's not made with ladyfingers but with chocolate pan di Spagna.) As I have often stated in my books, really good cookbooks are far more than collections of recipes: they're great resources for learning about language, culture, and history, as well as resources for learning about the foods you'll encounter on your trip. As Fred Plotkin, author of Italy for the Gourmet Traveler opines, "anyone who really, truly cares about Italy must read The Italian Baker." Additionally, if you love some of the culinary specialties you tried in Italy, you might be inspired to make them at home - to me, nothing is a better souvenir of a place than a culinary one. After I tried delicious Ricciarelli in Siena, I couldn't wait to make them at home, and Field's recipe here is a winner, as are recipes for Zaletti (those raisin cornmeal cookies from Venice), Baci di Dama (lady's kisses that I first tried in Milano), and Biscotti di Crusca (bran cookies spiked with rum).

"Bread," Field writes, "is such a basic part of life in Italy that every restaurant automatically sets it on the table and imposes a cover charge (coperto) to cover its cost. Almost every street in Italy's large and middle-sized cities seems to have at least one panificio (bakery) and pasticceria (pastry shop), and even tiny towns without bread ovens have a grocery store where bread is delivered warm in the mornings." It is significant then, and not surprising, that there are a great many Italian expressions featuring the word pane. Among my favorites that Field shares are Buono come il pane (as good as bread, said of a big-hearted, down-to-earth person); Dire pane al pane e vino al vino (to call bread bread and wine wine; to call a spade a spade); and Essere pan e cacio (to be like bread and cheese with someone; to be thick as thieves).

Field informs us that every day in Italy more than 25,000 artisan bakers rise early to knead their doughs and shape their loaves. "Knowing the story and tastes of the regional breads that come out of these ovens is like taking a trip through the Italian countryside. Saving and honoring them is like preserving the stone villages on the hillsides or their churches and frescoes, for saving the taste of the past keeps it alive in the present."

The Italian Baker was the recipient of an IACP award in 1986. Her other cookbooks include In Nonna's Kitchen (Morrow, 1997), Focaccia (Chronicle Books, 1994), and Italy in Small Bites (Harper Collins, 2004), which are also great reads and feature some wonderful recipes you'll want to make. But Celebrating Italy: The Tastes and Traditions of Italy as Revealed Through its Feasts, Festivals, and Sumptuous Foods (Harper Perennial, 1997) is one of her earlier books I consider essenziale, as well as The Hill Towns of Italy (Chronicle Books, 1997, with photographs by Richard Kauffman), which is a bit misnamed because the hill towns featured are exclusively in Tuscany and Umbria. But no matter: this book is lovely, and Field proves she knows much more about Italy than just its cuisine. As I note in my own book, Kauffman's photos are among the most unique I've ever seen of these much-photographed regions. He admits that he is a romantic, delighting in the past, "in the picturesqueness of a vanishing (or a vanished) civilization...With my camera, I avoid the roofs bristling with television antennas, the piazzas filled with Fiats (no easy task), and I strive to re-create, as best I can, the hill towns I saw some thirty years ago."

If you're already a Carol Field fan, you know I'm preaching to the choir; and if you're not yet, start reading one of her books -- The Italian Baker is a good one with which to begin -- and join the fan club!

Views from the verandah at Rainbow Tree villa, Treasure Beach, Jamaica (all photos by Peggy Harrison, http://www.peggyharrison.com/)

I am just back from my fourth annual trip to Treasure Beach (see last year's posts in the archive for more background information and photos) and this year Peggy Harrison, official Collected Traveler photographer, joined us with her husband, Rich. Peggy referred to the trip as "most relaxing vacation ever" and that is exactly why we keep going back. Not much has changed in Treasure Beach (also why we keep going back) but I thought it was great that a French family was staying at Rainbow Point (the smaller house that sleeps six at the other end of Billy's Bay) and another French family was staying at the house next to Rainbow Tree. Clearly, word of this special place is definitely spreading!

I read for the second time The True History of Paradise by Margaret Cezair-Thompson (Random House, 2009) -- my companion reading always has to relate to the places I'm traveling to -- and I quickly remembered how beautifully written this book is. Though you can't tell from the title, the book is about Jamaica (and Cezair-Thompson is Jamaica-born), but it is a novel that features historical events and dates and weaves together members of many generations of Jean Landing's family, as well as friends and lovers (there is also, helpfully, a glossary of Jamaican dialect at the back of the book). Cezair-Thompson is also the author of The Pirate's Daughter (2008, also Random House, also about Jamaica) which I haven't read yet but I'm going to seek it out very soon; but True History has been deservedly acclaimed: "...marvelously evocative...[conveys] a vivid sense of many worlds folded into one" (The Washington Post Book World); "Cezair-Thompson writes with such talent, grace, and confidence" (The New York Times Book Review) and "...the colorful and dramatic history of Jamaica is stunningly encapsulated" (Kirkus Reviews). I love so many passages in this book, but one in particular, a few pages from the very end, really sticks with me:

"She is the descendant, not of runaway Africans, but of African slaves. And not only of Africans but of English, Irish, Spanish, Jewish, Germans, and Chinese. Does this motley ancestry make her spirit a less able traveler? Does confusion of the blood cause the spirits to flounder and lose their sense of direction?" The character of Jean continues on by noting that her Cuban friend, Senor Rodriguez, of African descent, told her about something called egun iponri, meaning ancestors coming and going, living in and around a person. "He showed her an altar in his house dedicated to Yoruba gods and Catholic saints -- Shango, Ogun, St. Christopher. "No conflict," he told Jean. "It's all the same, all one spirit world." But they're not all the same, Jean thought, that's the glory. She realized then that she had always believed in egun iponri. The vastly differing voices are not a floundering but a steadying influence."

And now that I read that again I see that while it is a passage unique to Jamaica, it is also one for all travelers to keep in mind, as probably nowhere on earth do issues of race, religion, and culture fit easily into a neat and tidy box.