Eleven O'Clock Mass

(View: across the street from the Church at Gotra. Time: 10:59am)


It’s Sunday.

Many were late to mass.



It’s okay.


The priest was late too.

Letting Go and Moving On

The second time I found an egg, I broke it – but not over a frying pan, in my jacket. How could I be so careless as to drop the egg in the same pocket that held my Petzl?

Casa Lanzarotti, like most Italian privately run farms, does not yield large profit margins. It’s a self sustaining business; a life style where one consumes what one produces to the fullest extent possible. Gian-Luca figures he makes just over three Euros an hour. With those numbers, cash savings are difficult and material savings are essential. Very little is wasted; very little is thrown out. This was all the more reason why my egg flop weighed on my mind.

But accidents in life do happen and how one reacts to them is the better testament to one’s character.

Iris noticed one of her cows missing and followed its path to the woods where she found it had given birth. The instinct to deliver the calf away from the herd was present; the instinct to lick the calf upon birth was missing. Left unattended, the calf died next to its mother in the snow.

The event was not discussed a great deal short of noting that in the future, the cow would be watched should she ever be in labor again; perhaps they could manually massage and dry the newborn; perhaps they could save it. After this conclusion, farm work resumed - as normal.

I’m fairly certain that the loss of a calf has a fiscal impact and possibly an emotional one, but no one stood around to mope. I thought of the calf and Iris’ strength to move on; I thought of the egg and being more careful in the future. I thought of my mishap, my “theory of relativity”, and how silly the former now seemed.

And then I dropped the egg – this time from my mind.

My Italian Progress

Maria and I are happy to be canning in the dining room where we can enjoy the pleasures of heat and the esteemed radio. On most evenings, the Panasonic RX-FS430 Stereo Radio Cassette Recorder (that is certainly senior to my wwoof partner Maria) is employed at 19 hundred hour by Gian-Luca. Judging by his constant laugher, you’d think it was Comedy Hour but in fact, he’s listening to the news which he finds most amusing.

Today, the Panasonic RX-FS430 is tuned to some sort of Morning Show. I measure melted Strutto (lard) into sterilized jars while Maria labels Lardo Pesto (fancy lard) of previously filled jars. We work in this manner while I attentively listen to the airwaves. Disappointingly, my hours with Rosetta Stone have insufficiently prepared me for the Italian dialog the radio host and radio guest engage in. I fish for a single recognizable word and am thus thrilled to discern my first Italian phrase:

Vu Vu Vu punto utube punto il

But things get even better. Later in the program, the announcer repeats a word as if encouraging the audience to reiterate after him. This is perfect.

“ obassan” he says.

“obassan” I echo.

“obassan” he says.

“obassan” I echo.

“yia yia” he says.

“yia yia” I echo.

“nagyi” he says.

Maria - the fluent in five languages teenager - interrupts, “What are you doing?”

“Practicing Italian.”

“But he’s teaching how to say ‘granny’ in Japanese, Greek, and Hungarian.”

The Theory of Relativity

I’m on my knees again, in the lab, this time with my hand down a clogged floor drain. It does not take a plumber to understand why the drain is not draining. I’m tempted to remove myself from the reality of what I am removing, but I continue, with my hand and a teaspoon, fishing out intestine remains, fat deposits, hog hair, and an assortment of Pig Week slime. I won’t think about the brown pool I’m squatting in. This is a new horrible.

Wiping down the blood splattered walls, I recall the last time I cleaned the lab for the weekly bread baking day.

I long for mouse poop.

Working and Playing

If monster.com had an ad for being a farmer at Casa Lanzarotti, it might sound something like this:

30 hectare farm and agritourism seeking farmer. Candidate is proficient in cultivating vegetable garden and greenhouses, fruit orchard, berries, herbs, and wheat; knowledge of bread baking ; minimum 2 year experience of canning jams, preserves, pesto, syrup, juice and ciders; comfortable tending livestock of sheep, pigs, horse; at ease selling products at Farmers Market; multi-lingual, culinary and housekeeping talents necessary for hosting guests at B&B sector of business. Tractor license and workshop dexterity required; pork processing skills a bonus.

If monster.com had an ad for being a farmer at Casa Lanzarotti, they probably wouldn’t get many hits.

Iris and Gian-Luca could easily work their farm from very early morning to very late at night, occasionally they do, but Italians understand the value of recreation, and these hard-working farmers are no exception. Since there is not a television at Casa Lanzarotti, dinner is often followed by a game of cards or dice. There are shelves of books and a scattering of crossword puzzles within easy reach; next to the window rests La nuova guida del Birdwatcher. The large living room (currently hosting racks of drying salami and sausage links) has a piano that can be heard echoing throughout the house. And on random afternoons, but especially Sundays, guests pop in for a visit; they stay for “un café” and good conversation.

Maria’s and my mid-morning task was to shovel snow off a long uphill path leading away from the house. We love this work and my playful partner suggests we reward ourselves for a job well-done. No sooner had she spoken and I see Maria rolling down the snowy hill, screaming with delight, like the 16 year old she is. Iris was also a witness and insists we get the sled for real fun. I spend the next hour perfecting the bob-sled run with ramps on both side and a smooth surface on the inside. The moment comes.. I sled.. and then.. I’m screaming with delight, like the 43 year old I am.

A Trip Into Town

At 8 kilometers from Casa Lanzarotti, Borgotaro is our closest town with those convenient conveniences such as banks, stores, and coffee shops. We piled into the snow covered Renault Kangoo, each with an agenda of what Borgotaro could promise.

Gian-Luca wanted new work shoes; Hans, the father-in-law, wanted an espresso; Maria, my fellow wwoofer, wanted fancy facial soap; and I wanted postcards and postage stamps. For a town supporting a population of 10 thousand, I was certain this wouldn’t be a problem.

Looking down the main street of Borgotaro, patrons walk with umbrellas giving an occasional burst of color to the otherwise brown faced buildings and white covered streets. I sneak into a pastry shop and am bombarded by sensual delights: the smell of fresh baked goods, the candy treats on display, and the warmth of the heated air. Next I’m lured into a deli that is lined with cheeses and cold cuts, cookies and crackers, wine and grappa, olives and today’s choice of cooked items; the presentation alone is bellissimo and I stand staring embarrassingly long. This is Italy!

But duty calls and I make my way to the post office. While I am pleased to see that the building is of a distinguished size, there is one lone post office employee and the line moves slowly. And because the lone post office employee works alone, he frequently breaks - perhaps to recuperate. Eventually at the window, I show him my postcards but am told to return tomorrow. They have no stamps.

“What do you mean they have no stamps!? It’s a post office!”

“I believe they are doing inventory.” Maria suggests.

“I believe they forgot to order them.” Gian-Luca corrects.

And so we go get a coffee instead.

Full Circle

On the final day of Pig-Week, as I affectionately call it, I had come full circle: In the beginning, there was emotion saying good-bye to the pigs; in the end, there was emotion saying good-bye to the butchers; and in between, there was everything else: loathing, learning, labor, laughter, love, awakening, understanding, growth, and appreciation.

There is silence in the lab as Giovanni and Emilio sew closed the last set of pancetta that will now cure for a year. Even the dining-room table where we regularly eat together is lacking the typical chatter. The team is tired but proud as each holds a beautifully assembled piece of meat for the concluding photos.

Giovanni lives alone, “Solamente io.” I was hoping he might have a figlio to follow in his father’s footsteps but was informed that today’s youth prefer the easier office jobs anyway. Being a macellaio is hard work, the government is imposing stricter food regulations, and the pop culture is promoting lean cuisine– all of these factors contribute to a trade that is not being replenished by the new generation.

Meanwhile, Il Capitello, “The Captain”, lives alone too. His wife passed away over 30 years ago so he fends for himself on a remote farm 12 kilometers from town. The Captain likes his sausages; he has been ordering Cotechino and Sanguinacci for years.

It is snowing but Gian-Luca committed to meeting The Captain in town for a delivery. With 2 feet of snow to clear off his road, Gian-Luca begins the mission by starting his tractor and plowing a path out of Casa Lanzarotti.

Once in Borgotaro, The Captain greets us with a toothless smile. He is hunched as he holds a blue checkered umbrella against the flurry. We hand him a 3 kilo package of skin and blood sausage, and there it is again, that precious smile.