Piemonte Primavera
So much is new to me. Like a small child, with words to match, every day brings new ideas, new ways of doing, new experiences, new challenges. Nothing is ever as easy as one assumes, and as a wealthy man once told me, people always think you have more money than you actually do. That’s especially true as an American living in a rural culture.
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Piemonte in spring is otherworldly. Or maybe it is me that has reawakened after a winter of settling in, after years of moving. Like an unkempt bear blinking into the bright sun, I see in technicolor; amethyst crocus emerges in muddy fields, the uneaten remains of back-breakingly planted tulip bulbs punctuate edges of the meadows with mauves and reds, and unseen hyacinth mysteriously perfume the air. Thousands of ladybugs infiltrate crevices in old stone walls for a last flutter, the tiny red and white carcasses littering the wood floors, to be followed by a mop-up crew of ants, their single-line formations hauling away the bodies. Like most everything else in Italy, even if you don’t want it nor ever asked for it, it will be done for you despite your intentions.
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Fireworks of white pop against the monotony of the still un-budded winter grey, as blossoming cherry trees dot hillsides next to naked deciduous trees awaiting their swingy spring coats, the rich textures of which would make even YSL jealous. Yawning and stretching from their winter naps, the apples and pears and peaches and plums, newly planted or anciently rooted, flower in colors so saturated as if to be mystical, holy, Disney-like. Soon, the birds take notice, rushing to and fro, building nests in the stone walls or bird boxes scattered about. Across from the kitchen door, in an empty spot in an ancient wall, a couple of grey wagtails alternate sitting on a carefully crafted nest. Their movements are now my only morning news.
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The dandelion astounds. Considered a weed in coiffed, suburban lawns, our long-abandoned fields are a haven for hundreds of types of wildflowers and the perennial dandelion. During the day, the fields glow electric yellow, vibrating with the hum of thousands of bees striking gold. But on gray afternoons and in the evening, dandelions fold themselves up (think reverse umbrella), a behavior known as nyctinasty (bottom petals grow quicker and longer in the cool darkness, forcing the flower closed). Grooved leaves, like little notches on a Lotharios’ bedpost, funnel moisture to the root, a long, difficult-to-remove, and can’t-kill motherfucker, which requires hours, days to remove from a garden bed.
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Leave the flowers to the bees and give me the dandelion leaves! In early spring, they’re bittersweet and best raw. As the season progresses, the leaves of this superfood (antioxidants, calcium, Vitamins A, K, and E) become large, meaty, and intensely bitter, screaming for a hot pan with lots of fried spring garlic and make-me-weep chilis. Topped with two of the neighbor’s gifted eggs, poached precisely two minutes, and slabs of cereal bread fried in dandelion drippings, it’s springtime on a plate.
