A Morning with Medea

A morning with Medea

The sun was just beginning to rise over the groggy Po River. The roosters were crowing, the donkeys were bellowing, and the geese were hissing. Much to my delight, the dogs were not barking. After tentatively poking my head out of my caravan, I concluded that Bella and Brando were probably off gallivanting about the Italian countryside, disemboweling an unfortunate white heron. The hypothetical heron's demise was an unexpected boon for me, as it meant that I could stop and take pictures on the eight km bicycle ride to Medea's house without fear of being knocked over by a seventy-five pound puppy.

So I left the Agritouismo Ca'Lattis on my clunky blue bike at the un-italian hour of six thirty. It really was a gorgeous morning and I was able to take a couple of lovely pictures of the sun rising over the Po. By the time I'd satisfied my touristy/photography bug, It was about eight o'clock and high time to go to Medea's.

I jostled along down the little dirt road, past two large, red storehouses, to Medea's little "pecorino" dairy. Medea stood outside in her rather frumpy floral print dress, a well-used apron, and wielded two gallon buckets in both hands.

"Ciao, Aimee!"

"Ciao, Medea!"

And that is the only fragment of the morning's conversation that I could understand in its entirety. But Italians don't really seem to care if you can understand them or not. They'll animatedly babble on regardless, giving you an almost embarrassing amount of praise when you repeat a word you somewhat understand.

"Fichi, Aimee?"

"FICHI! SI!"

"Bravo, Aimee! Bravissimo! Aprendi Italiano veloce!"

After basking in the unmerited praise, I scampered up the fig tree with all the agility and spryness I had earned during my three weeks of yoga camp. Amused and just a little awed, Medea gasped and bellowed up at me, "Gatto, Aimee! Tu gatto!" as she stood below, catching the figs I dropped ever so gently into her basket. After the basket was full, I leaped to the ground in one swift motion, sending the ducks below me into a quacking frenzy, and tearing a three inch hole in the crotch of my jeans.

Which Medea seemed to think was the best thing ever.

After she had finished laughing at my overambitious attempt at fichi albero climbing, Medea led me into her dark, cement, cheese making chamber. Lining one wall was a slightly slanted, long wooden table with one of Medea's two gallon buckets dangling on one end. Flies circled the table like miniature vultures, buzzing in anticipation of the whey upon which they would soon feast. Along another wall was the giant, stately cauldron, in which a few gallons of sheep's milk had already formed a smooth, delicate, thick curd. Next to the cauldron, propped up against the dingy wall, leaned a long, hollow stick that branched out into three curled fingers for stiring the curd. Along a third wall, at a small table in the corner, sat an old, pudgy gentlemen with a flyswatter, a newspaper, and several coughdrops. He would pop a coughdrop in his mouth, read a few lines of news, and then get distracted by an unsuspecting fly. The concentration of this old Italian was a marvel to behold. He would immediately drop his paper, fix his gaze on his meandering prey, and ever slow slowly, move in with the flyswatter; lower lip jutting out, brow furrowed, overalls straining at the clasp as he leaned forward...

Alas, his time would have been better spent reading the news. During my visit, I believe the old gentlemen in overalls might have sent one fly to an early grave, despite his extreme concentration and perfect calculations. The rest of them returned to haunt Medea's cheese table.

Medea is a cheese wizard. She doesn't use a thermometer or anything remotely technological. She thrusts her finger into the curd and knows if it is "tropo caldo" or "tropo freddo." She had me thrust my finger in a few times as well, but I do not possess her enviable built in finger thermometers, so I was glad that Medea was always there to naysay my "Questo buono" with "Nooooo! Tropo freddo!"

When the fromaggio was at last able to satisfy Medea's demanding finger, she dove in with both hands, gently transforming the amalgamating curd into a beautiful mozzerella cheese. She scooped the curd into a mold and set me to work squeezing the excess whey out of the mozzerella. The flies descended, and I panicked a bit, thinking that the flies would ruin the cheese. However, Medea just picked the dead ones out of the whey river, turned to me and said, "Naturale!" in a very impressive air.

The rest of the morning with Medea would be tedious to write and boring to read. Let it be sufficient to say that I helped with the cheese, shot a stream of hot whey all over my already torn jeans (Medea was delighted), and rode my bicycle home to the Agritourismo after, feasting on some of the sweetest figs I've ever had.