Chestnut Season Is Here, and I Love It

We visit two chestnut destinations in Italy; one is family

“Wasn’t the town where your grandfather came from famous for its chestnuts, Papa?” My grandson Zachary loves family history and since this is the height of the chestnut season in Italy, his timing was perfect.

“Yes, indeed. And we’ve been there.”

My grandfather was from Roccamonfina, a town that claims to be a chestnut capital of Italy. One other is Serino.

Our excitement mounted as we drove to The Hotel Serino on this beautiful October day, the afternoon sun setting slowly on a busy harvest scene of chestnut pickers hunched over among the trees, knapsacks hanging as they strummed the fields, the setting sun's light accentuating their figures. Jean-François Millet’s masterpiece “The Gleaners” came to mind.

Our friend told his cousin, the owner, that we were coming. “Settle in your room and then come down. La cena sara’ pronta. Dinner will be ready.” And ready it was. No menu. No thinking about what to order for us. Out he trundled, parading a variety of chestnut-based dishes. Oh, my goodness.

Chestnut soup, salad with chestnuts, chestnut-tinted pasta, veal with chestnut sauce, chestnut torta, and oven-roasted chestnuts. We had to show our appreciation by eating everything. I never realized just how dense chestnuts were.

Chestnut Pasta Photo courtesy of www.carolinescooking,com

I feared exploding in the center of the hotel’s dining room. Words like satiated, sated, and satisfied came to mind. It was quite a start to our southern Italy trip.

There was more of our chestnut story after we left Serino. We were off to Roccamonfina, my grandfather’s birthplace.

The van climbed the winding road to the small mountain town in Campania. As we followed the snow-covered Apennines, I practiced Italian with Luigi, our driver.

“E’ lontano, Luigi?”

“No, quasi cento kilometre.”

“Bene. Stai attento, eh.”

“Si.”

I had a vague idea of what to expect since my father had visited Roccamonfina in the 1970s and when he returned said, with pride and enthusiasm, “There are chestnut trees everywhere. That’s what they do. They farm chestnuts. It’s the chestnut capital! My cousin gave me chestnuts to take home, but the customs agents took them! I’ll bet they ate them.”

I called Vincenzo to let him know of our arrival. How nice to hear his voice as he answered, “Pronto.”

“Vincenzo Iannuccilli?”

“Si.”

“Vincenzo, sono Edoardo Iannuccilli, figlio di Pietro.” My emotions and my Italian were shaky.

“Si.”

“Come state?”

“Bene.”

“Possiamo visitarLei a Roccamonfina? Can we visit you?”

“Si.”

Indecisive, but I thought I was doing OK. “E possibile mercoledi. How about Wednesday? ”

“No, no, perche il dottore viene mercloledi.”

Now we were doing well. I understood him! His doctor was coming on Wednesday.

“Cosi. Posso venire martedi?”

“Si.”

“Aha. Martedi. Si. Allora. Non parlo bene Vincenzo. Hai capito?”

“Si, si. Capito. Hai parlato bene, molto bene. Ci vediamo martedi.”

He understood? I spoke well? We will see each other on Tuesday. I hope so! I hung up and took a breath.

“I got through that part,” I thought.

Martedi; it was a beautiful, clear January day. Diane and I, and our friends were off, with Luigi at the wheel. The trip along the autostrada, adjacent to the Apennines, was splendid; small hill towns painted into the landscape, beautiful valleys dressed in winter grays and browns, scattered cypress trees still holding their green, houses sketched on the mountainside, fields tilled to neat parallel mounds and ready for planting, undulating grape vines strung like strands wound together, waiting for the fruit. Perfect.

“Bellisimo, eh, Luigi?”

“Si. Si. Sono bellisimi.”

We approached the exit one hundred kilometers south of Rome. Luigi called Vincenzo. “Get off at Caianello. Then follow the road up. Sopra, sempre dritto.”

I was eager and anxious. Who was waiting for me? Who else spoke English and Italian? We spiraled further up.

The winding road was bordered by leafless chestnut trees, hundreds, perhaps thousands, neatly trimmed, with stacks of wood pruned from the resting bodies, arranged at each base. The gray trees blended with the land, their trunks in turn blended with the uneven hills. Homes mingled with the trees dotting the countryside, smoke rising from the chimneys. I pictured their families at lunch. Daydreaming that I had discovered these hills, I awoke to hear Luigi calling Vincenzo again,

“Davanti la chiesa, in front of the church.”

Of course, where else would we meet? Our first stop was a lonely, small, unscrubbed church, some distance below the top. It was vacant.

“Non e’ questa. C’e un altro, Luigi.”

“Si.”

“Sopra, sempre dritto.”

We approached a small square, the town center, and the church. There he was, sitting in his car. “He looks just like my aunt,” I whispered.

Vincenzo got out of the little Fiat. He was a shorter version of my family. He smiled with gnashed-down teeth, walked with short quick steps, and wore heavy glasses that settled low on his nose. He sported a soft gray hat with a short brim. His small hands protruded from a bulky, gray winter coat. “He walks like my father!” I embraced him. Due baci, one on each cheek.

“Vincenzo, piacere mio. Non posso credere! You look like Aunt Vera!” He smiled and said, “Venite.”

We followed him further up the road to a modest, two-story house squatting in an unlandscaped yard that sat behind a fence-topped wall containing two dogs and some chickens. A small, orange-tiled roof that suggested an entrance to a temple hung over the gate. His chestnut trees surrounded the house to the rear and the top of his hills. To the right, the road wound further up. Sopra. To the left were more homes that followed the road to the town below. Sotto.

“Viene, viene.”

We were hesitant to enter, although not sure why. It was cold in the entry and stairway, but the welcome was warm. Their home was immaculate and adorned with tile and marble. There was a gas-fired flame heating simulated logs in the kitchen fireplace. Anna (my mother’s name) appeared.

“Viene, viene, come in, give me your coats.”

Anna was shorter than Vincenzo. I felt huge.

 “They are so cute, so welcoming, so nice,” Diane said.

With pride, Anna took us on a tour of her warm home, and then, as it was early afternoon, invited us to join them for pranzo. Why for a moment had I thought we might go to a restaurant? Although I had grown up in an atmosphere of open homes and food and sharing, I thought the custom was dwindling. I was prepared to buy dinner. Foolish. But it had been so many years. I became a little concerned when Anna murmured to herself, sotto voce, “I did not know how many there would be.” (There were five of us since we invited Luigi to join). Her concern was not about having enough food, but about where we were to sit. Two guests, the kitchen table, more than two, the dining room. We sat while Anna left for the kitchen and returned carrying dishes with generous portions of lasagna, each enough for a meal.

“My goodness, look at this lasagna.”

“Pace yourselves,” I said to the Camerons, “I am guessing there is more to come.” It was a good guess because she served enough food to open a restaurant.

Vincenzo brought out his homemade wine. We drank, and soon thereafter, my Italian tongue loosened. I became a master of the language.

“As you drink more wine, your Italian gets better and better,” an Italian friend once said.

The wine was flowing like the river along the way.

The meal was magnificent: after the lasagna, Anna served meatballs, short ribs, and homemade cured sausage. Following came roasted chicken from his yard, killed that morning, along with more wine, white and red, then pork. Then tender insalata from his garden. The food linked me to memories. he served rabe, bitter enough to waken my senses, and homegrown, fungi, laced lightly with virgin olive oil panettone, provolone, and his chestnuts.

Now three hours from the lasagna, it was late afternoon, and the meal was topped with espresso, limoncello and anisette.

A funny thing happened as we drank more. Vincenzo started to speak English. He had lived for a time in America over thirty years ago. His wine was loosening his tongue!

“I no speek-a English for so manna years. Noboda here speek-a. Thissa the las time I make-a the wine. I getta too old. You father come-a to a..a..a... visit-a me many times when-a we live in La-rensa.

“Really” Dad visited him in Lawrence. Why had I lost that connection? I never visited him when I was a kid. As we spoke, I could not take my eyes off Vincenzo. His hands were like my Dad’s, his teeth like my aunt’s, his jaw like my uncle’s. They were our hands, our smiles, and our teeth. The more I understood his past, the more I learned about my family, and the more I was pleased. Later in the day, I asked Anna if she cooked like this all the time.

“No, No one is-a here no more.”

“No, no, I no canna eat-a like this ev-ra day,” said Vincenzo.

I looked around the dining room. There was their wedding picture of forty-seven years, another of their family. She had frozen time with pictures of her children when they were young. There were pictures of their grandchildren. Although her daughter lived nearby, her children were gone.

Anna and Vincenzo.

“My son is in Milan. He teaches English there. He was not able to come home for Christmas this year.” She seemed wistful. I had the feeling that Anna wanted to return to the past, to the usual Sunday dinner, to the same meal that we had. I sensed that she wanted it that way forever.

I wondered if the Italian family Sunday dinner would disappear completely. It had dwindled in mine. I sat and reflected. The conversation regarding our family continued. There was more to the story.

My Dad and his five siblings moved in with another family of six children to survive challenging times in America. They occupied a three-room house. Anna’s aunt was the stepmother of the other children, now called cousins. So too was Anna connected to me!

It was time to leave. The day had passed so quickly, and I was sorry that it ended.

“Grazie, grazie, cugini. Vi ringraziamo.”

“Niente, niente.”

“I would love to return to see you.”

“Si. Si. Anytime, anytime. You can stay in our son’s room.” It was an invitation difficult to overlook.

“One more thing,” I said. “Can you show me my grandfather’s house?”

“It’s not there anymore. It was knocked down and a new one built on the site. The owners are away on vacation, and we cannot get in. You can see the outside if you wish. It is nice.”

“No, that’s OK.”

Our friends and traveling companions became part of our family that day; laughing, sharing, eating, enjoying with wonder and admiration, just as we did, just as I expected. They seemed overwhelmed, consumed while they consumed, surely by the food, but moreso by the hospitality, and generosity from the heart. We could have been anyone, anywhere, anytime with Vincenzo and Anna. This day it was Roccamonfina, in Campania, Italy, south of Rome.

It was an unforgettable day. I did something I always wanted to do. I returned to my roots. There I found what I expected, an extended family, full of love, pride, and satisfaction. They shared their home and their table. As we drove down the mountain, I thought,

“Wouldn’t it be great to return and to spend two weeks here living with Anna and Vincenzo, harvesting the chestnuts with the men? I could speak Italian and eat like this every day!”

Our photos did not give justice to the day. Of course, we would use them to share with others as much as possible, trying somehow to capture the experience, but we knew it would only be a morsel.

There was one more stop before we descended, the square in front of the church. Diane took my picture. I stood as tall as I could.

“I could have been a chestnut farmer in Italy!” I was a dreamer for a moment. I looked out the window.