More about Christmas in the Garfagana

...and don't forget to watch out for the Epiphany witch.

….meanwhile, the bearer of gifts in the wilds of the Garfagnana (and throughout Italy) is La Befana, the Epiphany witch who, having refused to join the Three Kings on their camel-journey to Bethlehem, rides around on the Eve on a broomstick, rewarding children who have been good with sweet things, and leaving a lump of coal for those who weren’t.

.Which was why, on the evening we arrived to spend a family Christmas in a borrowed house in the hilltop village of Sommacolonia, nonna Maria, keeper of the keys for absentee landlords, was baking a batch of marzipan-topped biscotti for Epiphany's Eve, the night when spirits are on the loose (as they always are on the eve of all feast days). On the Eve of Epiphany, as on the Eve of All Hallows, children dress up as witches and ghosts and come knocking on doors demanding treats - a reward for not dropping dead mice through letterboxes or hiding spiders in shoes. Which is why it's wise, explains la nonna - stamping out little stars, hearts, fish and a few eyes of Fatima in her cookie-dough - to be prepared.

While the Fasting Supper of the Eve is traditionally meatless and sugarless, Christmas day is altogether a more luxurious affair. Citizens of Lucca - or even Barga, our nearest supermarket town - could order their roast meats from the rosticceria or send them to the baker’s oven to be cooked when the bread was done But in Sommacolonia, an hour’s precipitous drive from Ben arga and two from Lucca, the villagers were obliged to roast their festive birds over charcoal on a barbecue in the street, a tradition that had developed because in the old days, nobody had ovens in their houses and the baker’s oven was not lit over the holiday.

Since roast bird or birds - barbecue will do - are a necessary part of our own family Christmas, a trip to Lucca was in order. The choice in the butcher (recommended by la nonna as the best) was hutch-rabbit, barnyard chicken, guineafowl and young goose. Taking advice on numbers to be fed - Italians don’t carve at table so portions are counted in joints - I choose a couple of guineafowl and a fine young gosling, all with heads and feet in place as a guarantee of age and provenance.

“You’ll be eating Italian?” The question is precautionary, so my anwer - “certo”, certainly - produces an audible sigh of relief. Everyone knows that foreigners have a habit of roasting everything whole, carving at table and heaping their plates with inappropriate accompaniments. With astonishing rapidity, my birds are cleaned, split and hammered flat for the grill. Sage and mint, explained the queue, should be included in the marinade as the only vegetable-matter appropriate to the occasion. No self-respecting Italian would dream of accompanying a fine roast with anything but bread

Right. I accept advice on which bottega alimentare is the most reliable for the purchase of everything ready-prepared, and have agreed on the need the acquire a barbecue-kit - a task for the man of the house - from the petrol-station, and am well on the way to treating my family to a proper Italian feast. To be worthy of the name, there must be at least three courses - four or even five, if purse-strings allow. First up, piatto primo (antipasto doesn’t count), is pasta, obviously. Next, secundo, boiled meat, bollito misto (optional). Finally - and only when all previous courses have been admired and discussed, comes the arrosti, roast birds, stars of the show, the business of the men, either from the rosticceria or (with considerable ceremony) cooked on the barbecue.

In the cooked food shop, I assemble our antipasto - prosciutto di Parma (of course), artichoke-hearts in agrodolce, paper-thin slices of mortadella, roasted peppers with anchovies, broccoli with balsamic and capers. As for pasta, the only possible choice - already set out in splendour on semolina-dusted trays on the counter - are plump yellow ravioli cushions, each the size of a baby’s fist, filled with mashed chestnuts and mascarpone flavoured with nutmeg. These to be poached in plenty of simmering water, not too many at a time, removed with a draining spoon as soon as they float to the surface, and dressed with sage leaves crisped in sizzling brown butter. How delicious is that?

As for dessert, on normal days this would be fruit in season, maybe a handful of grapes or strawberries, on special occasions such as the Christmas feast, there must be something sweet to allow for lingering over a digestif. Strega, the witch’s brew, would be particularly appropiate with my choice of shop-bought dolci - torta di chocolate, tiramisu, panna cotta - from the pasticceria (best in town, what else?).

As the senior woman of the household, observed nonna Maria approvingly on my return to Sommacolonia laden with shop-bought goods, it’s only right that a festival that celebrates the birth of a Holy Infant should be a holiday for la mamma as well as everyone else. Which gives me permission, as la nonna in my own family, to put my feet up for the holidays…more or less.

p.s. my beloved paid subscribers (you know who you are!) will shortly be in receipt of nonna Maria's recipe for biscotti di befana in time for Ephany’s Eve.

p.p.s. A kiss under the mistletoe to all my subscribers for following Cookstory faithfully through the year. I do hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it (and please do think about becoming a paid subscriber as it really does support my work).