BARNS

My fondness and fascination with barns began long before they became a favorite subject for my art. Like so many things in my life it had its origin in my childhood experiences on our family farm. It wasn’t the architecture and visual interest that appealed to me, I was too young to appreciate those qualities, besides our barn had none of that. It was the comfort and intimacy of the interior, the smell of fresh straw and hay, and the warmth of the animals during the cold winter days that I found so enticing. Granted, the appeal was much less in the hot, humid days of summer, but it’s the good things we tend to remember.

For several years we had a family cow that provided our milk (and butter), as well as a calf destined to reach our table as veal. That is something I prefer not to think about. One of my chores was to milk the cow after school, a task I did under duress during the deep days of summer. The barn was hot, the air thick and heavy, and seated by her udder with my head on her flank I would be smacked in the face repeatedly by her tail which was flipping from side to side to remove the flies that invariably settled on her. But in the cold days of winter it was an entirely different experience. I recall reading once that a cow generates enough body heat to warm a small cottage. I don’t know if that is true or not, but I can say with certainty that the animal gives off heat. Sitting on that stool with my head pressed into her flank was like sitting in front of a heat vent… and there was not tail to worry about…and her teats warmed my hands better than any gloves could. Warm and cozy...something I could appreciate even at that age.

The description of this experience would not be complete if I did not mention the kittens, which seem to be found in every barn everywhere. Somehow they knew it was milking time, and I loved to watch them scramble over one another after I would squirt them with a stream of milk.

I think milking a cow one more time will go my bucket list.

Forty years later another barn, in another place, with horses and not cows and sheep, came into my life. But that’s another story.

The barn as I remember it. The livestock entered by a door on the left side. The second and third floor housed chickens.

My mother's painting...done after the barn sat unused for years...oil...14x20

12-8…Macaroni and cheese…sort of

I left the Affordable Art Show about 7:20 and 10 minutes later Patience called to say she was on her way home from work. What to do…she would be hungry and I had spent the last 2 hours at the show and snacking.

Quick and simple to the rescue. I put a pot of water on the stove to boil, threw some cream cheese, butter, parmigiano reggiano cheese, and gorgonzola in a bowl. When the pasta was done I added it to the bowl along with some pasta water, mixed it all up, and we sat down to a feast!’’ It reminded me of the way my mother used to serve her “macaroni with butter”.

Blue cheese works just as well as the gorgonzola.

For simplicity, flavor, and ease of preparation, this is on par with Aglio Olio Crudo.

I expect my productivity in the studio, which has been rather meager lately, to become even more so over the remaining days of 2011. At least this has been the pattern for the past several years, and I see no reason for it to change.

I've kept busy cataloging old slides of my early work and sending them off to be commercially scanned into digital files. The first batch has been returned and I'm quite pleased with the results. The cost is reasonable, the result excellent, and the time saved priceless.

And then there are the drawings...the small sketches in wc, ink, pastel, and markers.
They continue to fascinate me and provide considerable enjoyment.




One of these days I will get around to growing them into finished paintings.

THE WINE

Salvatore Renzulli...1939...the year I was born

Until prohibition in 1920 my grandfather produced, bottled, and sold his Father & Son brand wine to the nearby cities of Philadelphia, Camden, and Wilmington. As a young boy I can remember a few of the remnants of that enterprise still on the farm. One was a large wooden barrel with straight sides and an open top that stood about 10-12 feet tall with a diameter of about 5-6 feet.. A small open door on the bottom was just large enough to allow me to crawl inside to hide from the wild Indians I was fighting.

Another was a large (remember the sizes I recall were that of a young child) press that today I would estimate was 4 or 5 feet high. The photo below is a much smaller version that has survived the many years; my father used it to press the hams dry when he made prosciutto and salami.

Every year my father and grandfather would make 4 or 5 barrels of wine, which were kept in a small alcove with a dirt floor in our cellar. It remained in the barrels, coming upstairs in a plain gallon bottle to be consumed with every meal. I would occasionally help myself to a taste using a Mason jar lid. I thought it was cool, but the truth is, I didn’t like it. Unfortunately one year, I was a teenager at the time, my father messed up and all the wine ended up as vinegar. In a fit of anger he opened all the taps and let the 3 or 4 barrels of wine drain onto the floor. The basement never smelled the same after that, and he did not make wine again until some 15-20 years later. I still have the wooden taps they were used in the barrels.


My father resumed his wine making in his late 60s, and continued until just a few years before he died at age 82. He always made the maximum amount allowed by law…up to 200 gallons a year, giving a lot of it away to family and friends. Like so many Italians and Italian-Americans, wine was in his DNA…it was simply a given in his life. He is gone now, beyond my reach, but not my memory, and I drink a small glass of red wine with my lunch every day to pay homage to him.

About a year ago someone brought us a bottle of wine, a label I did not recognize, and as soon as I opened it the aroma of the Niagara grapes immediately brought me back to our farm, the grapes, and the wine. It was the first time in years that I experienced that fragrance.

Commundardo and Spartico in the wine cellar, circa early 1970s

12-6…Capellini and stuff

OK…it is 5:30 and I haven’t given any thought to dinner. A quick look in the fridge reveals some asparagus, grape tomatoes, and green onions that need to be used…soon, also one slice of prosciutto and the rear end of a loaf of ciabatta bread. All the makings of a meal.



INGREDIENTS:

Capellini (angel hair pasta)
Olive oil
Garlic, Green onion
Red pepper flakes
Toasted ciabatta bread crumbs
Lemon
Asparagus
Grape tomatoes, halved
Sweet vermouth
Tomato paste
Basil and oregano, dried
Diced tomatoes
Prosciutto

PROCESS:

Grate the bread, toast the crumbs, and set aside.

Saute the garlic and onion in olive oil with a small amount of tomato pastes. Then add the asparagus and lemon juice and cook. After 10 -15 minutes add the diced tomatoes, prosciutto, and herbs, cook for a few minutes and add the wine and lemon juice. (I really don’t think any of these times are critical…just do it by intuition.)

When the pasta is ready add it to the pan and mix well, sprinkle with the bread crumbs and serve with parmigiano reggiano cheese.

COMMENTS:

This dish was as fun to cook as it was to eat. I literally made it up as I went along. Do your own variation of it and enjoy!

THE GRAPES

(photos of grapes by my esteemed son in law Robert Miller)

It wasn’t a vast vineyard, but to a very young boy it seemed endless. I suspect the gapes took up about an acre of land, perhaps a bit more. It is possible it was larger before prohibition ended the commercial wine making…long before I came on the scene. There are many things I remember fondly from my early childhood, the persimmon and pear trees, my pony, the family cow… but more than anything else, I miss the grapes. I loved to walk between the rows in the late summer when the grapes were ready for picking. The broad leaves reached above my head keeping out the sun while creating the perfect summer hide away for a little boy. But the real treasure was the delectable fruit, just hanging there waiting for me. My favorite grapes were in the first 3 rows, large yellow and light red grapes (Niagara?) that I could squeeze and pop the pulp out of the skin into my mouth. OMG they were good! The rest of the vineyard was given to the deep blue concord variety, also quite tasty right off the vine, but smaller and less juicy.

(Grandma Rondinelli visiting from Philly)


(The vineyard was located in the fields behind the barn which later became grazing land for the sheep.)

I have the faintest memory of harvesting the grapes…I was probably 5-6 years old and I remember a a lot of people walking through the rows with baskets filled with grapes. To pick the grapes my father put a funny ring on his middle finger; it had a curved blade on the top that was used to cut the stem with a simple swift flick of the wrist. The grapes were carried to the yard between our house and one of the barns where the press had been set up. Much to my dismay I cannot remember the actual pressing and the steps that obviously followed. I can say with authority that I never saw anyone stomping on the grapes. Another distressing gap in my memory is when the vineyard was removed, but maybe that’s good.



Ostensibly I am writing this to leave a record for my daughters, but the truth is, I relish the opportunity to replay these memories, always hoping that in the process I can dredge up one or two more that have been tucked away in the recesses on my mind. I remember talking to one of my uncles very late in his life, and how he seemed to confuse me with someone from his younger days and would talk endlessly about his distant past. If I live to be that old and my mind reverts back to those long ago days, I think I would be very happy.

Next....The Wine

12-5…Penne with roasted vegetables

INGREDIENTS:

Bell peppers
Asparagus
Carrots
Onion
Broccoli florets
Portabella mushrooms
Olive oil
Balsamic vinegar
Dried basil and oregano
Bacon

PROCESS:

Cook the bacon in the microwave until crisp, then chop.

Cut the veggies to provide the greatest surface area. Place in large bowl and mix well with olive oil, balsamic vinegar, herbs and spices, and marinate for an hour of longer. Place the veggies on a cookie sheet without overlapping one another and place on the middle rack in the oven set at 425 degrees. Roast for about 30-45 minutes, turning once during the process.

Toss the veggies with the cooked pasta, drizzle with olive oil and serve with Parmigiano reggiano cheese and the bacon bits.


COMMENTS:

I loved this…there is no other way to express it.