07. Relish simple goodness
The incredible edible egg.
Uovo is the singular masculine noun; uova is the irregular plural. Most masculine nouns ending in “o” change it to “i” in the plural (biscotto - biscotti, panino - panini). Not the egg. It's a tiny wonder, the most complete of all foods offering essential protein, calcium, phosphorus, sodium, enzymes, hormones, vitamins, and fats (writes Ada) all within its thin, perfectly contained, beautifully oval shell. Il Talismano devotes an entire chapter to uova.
Of greatest importance, as with all foods, is that they be fresh. Ada suggests holding the egg in front of a candle flame or a lampadina elettrica (an "electric" lamp....). The interior should appear transparent and fluid.
So critical is the freshness of the egg that she provides three possibilities for preserving them. An odd thought, it seems, when today eggs can be purchased everywhere inexpensively.
But, I imagine if they were to be acquired super fresh, it would be great to keep them that way.
One of these methods involves...Vaseline.
Wash the eggs, she writes, dry them and spread on a thin layer of Vaseline. Allow them to dry and keep them in a box, covering them with coal dust or another suitable substance [?], remembering to keep them upright. After a few months you can renew the coating of petroleum jelly in which should be incorporated two or three percent of salicylic acid.
Very interesting. Especially the salicylic acid (acido salicilico). I looked it up. It’s used to treat acne, as well as exfoliate the skin, and has some anti-inflammatory properties as well. Amazon advertises a 20% salicylic acid facial gel peel (30 ml, good for 15 full facial peels it says) for $24.95 plus shipping.
So there you have it. Petroleum jelly, salicylic acid, coal dust: the cure to the aging egg.
I NEVER KNEW HIS NAME though he likely knew mine. Together with my husband and two children, we were gli stranieri (the foreigners) in town: the German man (il tedesco), the American woman (l’americana), the little bella biondina who spoke Italian but wasn’t, the youngest un vero italiano. In Sangiano, in the early 90’s, it wasn’t a bad thing to be “the other.” We were welcomed, never shunned that I know of. Our neighbors on either side of our small house (the three of us shared a dead-end arm of a graveled road) treated us like family.
I suspected he lived in the village for I’d see him about, often sitting and smoking outside the entrance to the one restaurant in our village, owned by the Bilao family, their yellow ceramic wine pitcher prominent on the table beside him. He was a slender though lumbering man, with a weighted swagger to his gait, as if an unhealed injury had overtaken his left side. Busy brows. A ferocious tangle of gray hair.
Few roads in Sangiano had side shoulders, and some had stretches directly abutting the low walls and cancelli (gates across driveways and entries, electronically controlled) of homes; if there were any amount of traffic, it was a treacherous walk for even a hyper-aware adult, let alone one whose thoughts were often floating elsewhere pulling two babes behind her in a wooden wagon. Ah yes. The wagon, to its credit, was of solid German build, fabricated of thick varnished hardwood with large rubber wheels, substantial enough in size to hold both Sophia and Alec. And journey we did--west along Via Alberto, over the train tracks, then north up Via Trieste--once a week to the neighboring village of Leggiuno.
Just beyond the small farm where two chestnut colored mares grazed invariably along the road's edge, Via Trieste made a steep ascent. Our favorite Frutta e Verdura (fruit and vegetable store) resided at the top of the incline; across the piazza was the macellaio who offered slices of salami whenever we wandered in. Sangiano had similar shops but they were smaller and too close by. The center of Sangiano was a brief walk away; Leggiuno was an expedition. Along the way we dipped pink spoons into cups of strawberry gelato and sang German kinderlieder. We crooned to the horses, and sniffed fragrant shrubs of rosemary and rolled bales of newly dried hay. Occasionally we arrived at the rail crossing as the local Regionale chugged by, whistling long and sonorous.
On one of these trips, as we paused in front of the Frutta e Verdura, I saw him behind us panting up the hill on his bike (a simple work horse of a bike, rusted with a metal basket in front. Every house had at least one: visiting local family and friends, shopping in the village, there was nothing more practical.) standing upright as he peddled, his strong though elderly limbs propelling him forward, his unkempt hair fighting the wind, waving in his hand a small woolen hat, pale pink. Signora! Signora! As he approached nearer I saw it was in fact Sophia’s hat he held. And sure enough looking down into the wagon, it was neither on her head (where it had been upon leaving the house) nor in her lap.
È della bambina? he said, coughing out the words. It belongs to the young girl!?
He handed the cap to me, and I gave it to Sophia who shoved it onto her head. She looked at him casually, unperturbed by his eccentric, almost frightening presence, his face aggressively splotched from exhaustion. We had no idea where along the road she’d lost it, or how he knew it was likely hers and that we were on our way to Leggiuno. (We were apparently being watched far more than I’d suspected.) The extreme kindness of this act prompted a quiet grazie from Sophia, upon which his face opened with astonishing joy. He smiled revealing a mostly toothless cavity, nodded, turned his bike around, and sped down the hill.
We shopped, then returned, too, the steep downward descent more strenuous than the uphill pull, Sophia and Alec barely visible under mounded bags of vegetables and fruit, whatever was in season: pomodori, insalata, spinaci, cavolo, mele, uva.
Some weeks following this episode, while walking through town, I saw him again. He stood in front of an open gate near the Bilao restaurant. Signora! He gestured me to wait, then walked through the gate and from a patch of loose straw lifted a stunning egg, blue-gray and spotted, a bit larger than that from a hen. Prenda! Si! Per la bambina! Take it, he’d said, for Sophia. He placed the warm globe in my hand. È buono!
Again, the near-toothless smile. There was, of course, no saying no. I thanked him and brought the egg home, though I couldn’t bring myself to cook it. Was it really fresh? What kind of egg was it? Duck? What if it were fertilized...?
For several days, as it rested on my kitchen counter, I remarked at its beauty. Especially its coloring, which I never forgot. A room in my house in Laguna Beach is painted its shade, which happens to be remarkably close to the color of the sky—and the sea—on a foggy winter morning.
