Before the heel of Italy’s boot became the new Tuscany, I lived there for many years. I’d met one of its bellissima locals on a trip to Dublin and fell so stupidly in love I accepted her invitation to turn my Sydney life upside down and follow her home.
We lived in her tiny fishing village, Andrano, named after the patron saint of fishermen, St Andrea. It’s your classic whitewashed Mediterranean town of 5000 locals and as many stray cats, and it became my second home.
I didn’t just fall in love with Daniela.Credit:
Not immediately. Things were tricky at first.
With Daniela and the kids at one of the many food festivals in Andrano during summer.Credit:
There was the language to tame, and I made several shocking gaffes, such as asking an alarmed man on a beach if we could hire a paedophile (pedofilo) for an hour rather than a pedal boat (pedalo), and a confused butcher if I could have a kilometre of sausages rather than kilogram.
I’ll keep the context to a minimum because I can see you salivating for the food, but a bit of background is handy because this is no slick Instagram buffet of restaurant fare. This is how the locals in Puglia eat.
This is shove-a-napkin-in-your-collar-and-tuck-in. This is what my mother-in-law whipped up for her daughter, her son-in-law and her two grandkids she hadn’t seen for three years. (Yes, we moved back to Sydney when the kids arrived, but that’s another story.)
So, look away now if presentation is important, or if you’re a vegetarian.