One morning we were minding our own business on our terrace when Erminia’s daughter in law Palma bowled up the drive with her daughter, also called Erminia. They were carrying a plastic bag. Palma’s husband Domenico and her son Paolo (our builder) had been out shooting and guess what they’d brought for us? I peered nervously into the bag, six lovely dead Thrushes for the table … mmmm. “Er, what do you do with them?” I asked. Immediately, Palma thrust her hand into the bag and plucked and gutted the little fellahs. “Cook them for ten minutes in a little tomato sauce with some pancetta (bacon) and they’re lovely.” As a fully paid up carnivore I felt obliged to cook them, though I did chop the heads off, said to be really tasty, as I couldn’t bear looking at their accusatory little eyes staring out of the pot from their tiny grey lizzard like bodies. Actually they tasted OK, a bit like a cross between chicken and liver, though Sue couldn’t bring herself to sample them. Overall, I think I can take or leave protected songbirds for supper.
Similarly, three out of four things that Erminia brings us to eat on a daily basis taste truly wonderful. Fresh eggs, fresh ricotta, tomato sauce, homemade wine. But inevitably the fourth one tastes like absolute shit to our picky northern palettes. A few days ago she brought round a pot of yellow stuff, yet another cheese product. It’s really tasty spread on a slice of bread she said. After she’d gone I unscrewed the lid and was a confronted with a smell that I can only describe as concentrated essence of rancid old sock (a subject on which I pride myself I am something of an expert). “Thanks Erminia, but I think I’ll pass on this one.” Actually, I haven’t got the heart to tell her how horrible this stuff takes, so I will discretely dispose of it in the waste bin, like the other disgusting fourth products.
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