Porchetta

Is it because we’re in Italy or because we’re in a tiny little town that these things happen to us? The night before our wedding, Mystophur and I are throwing a medieval feast. The guest star: a roast pig, complete with the orange in its mouth. We asked around and everyone agrees who makes the best porchetta: Morino. SantaFrancesca knows someone who knows him (turns out he doesn’t have a shop: he’s just the guy who makes the best porchetta), so she and I went over to his house to find out how much it would cost. Upon arriving I knew this guy was a character. “Look at these beauties! I have to kiss everyone as they come in!” When we asked about the porchetta, we explained that it was for a party the night before my wedding. He squinted at me. “Where is your husband?” I explained that we were staying at the Santa Brigida. “You bring him here tomorrow at 1pm. We’ll have lunch and then we’ll talk about porchetta.” Does this happen in all small towns?

The next afternoon SantaFrancesca, Mystophur, and I arrived at Morino’s abode. He was standing in the door waving to us: the prosciutto and melon was already on the table.
What followed was a purely delectable experience. The food was exquisite: simple and perfect. After the antipasti he brought out a giant bowl of pasta with what looked like a normal tomato sauce. But on the tongue the sauce bloomed into a rainbow of flavors. When Mystophur quizzed him about how he made the sauce he explained, “You have to be Morino to make this sauce.” He also went on about how women aren’t good cooks because they’re too concerned with “health issues.” “More salt, more oil, more herbs!” he demanded.

When Morino left to fetch the next course, I filled everyone’s glasses with water. When he returned (with a pan heaped with pork) he lamented that I filled his glass with water: “Why not the wine? Now I have to drink all this water first!” The wine was spectacular, I must say. He made it himself (as well as growing the tomatoes for the sauce and the pigs for the grill). He said he collects the grapes, washes them, presses them, and then lets the whole thing ferment, without filtering. When he does filter, he gets far less wine than a professional would, but what is left is a robust flavor. White wine that was almost amber in color. Fantastic.

During lunch he regaled us with stories from his life (When Mystophur asked his age he told him 17, but we’re guessing it’s a joke on 70.) There was something about this man I wish I could capture on film or in words. He was somehow so vibrant, so terribly present. He talked about his wife, who passed over 7 years ago, and while he didn’t tell sad stories I felt myself choking back tears. He loved her so much. At one point he turned to Mystophur and said, thrusting his thumb back toward me, “You hold on to her tight now. If you lose her, you lose everything.”

What Morino doesn’t know is that Mystophur’s love goes to another level. Mystophur loves me so much that he sets me free. It’s a powerfully beautiful and brave thing. And the result is that I feel more deeply connected to him than any other human being.
And Morino has managed to go on. In his exuberant way, he told us dirty jokes and then, when we asked for advice on whether we should get goats or chickens, he dropped all jokes and dove into sage advice honed from years of raising animals.

At another point, while filling Mystophur’s glass with another homemade cocktail, Morino suddenly asked about Mystophur’s dad. Mystophur explained that he had passed on, Morino nodded solemnly, and once again I felt a rush of emotion. What was it about this man that brings out such intensity from the heart?

We tried to say goodbye two-and-a-half hours after arriving, but then he took us to see the pigs, the cow, the chickens, the land, and the wine press.

He loaded us up with fresh eggs, bottles of his magical tomato sauce, sloughed off prosciutto, tasted the newest wine, and even plucked a watermelon from the earth for us to devour later.

Although Morino seems to be from another universe than the one I am from, I feel instantly attached to him. I adore him. I plan to learn as much as I can from him; with regard to farming, cooking, loving, and giving. Add another star to the case of characters: Morino is a keeper.

Is it because we’re in Italy or because we’re in a tiny little town that these things happen to us? The night before our wedding, Mystophur and I are throwing a medieval feast. The guest star: a roast pig, complete with the orange in its mouth. We asked around and everyone agrees who makes the best porchetta: Morino. SantaFrancesca knows someone who knows him (turns out he doesn’t have a shop: he’s just the guy who makes the best porchetta), so she and I went over to his house to find out how much it would cost. Upon arriving I knew this guy was a character. “Look at these beauties! I have to kiss everyone as they come in!” When we asked about the porchetta, we explained that it was for a party the night before my wedding. He squinted at me. “Where is your husband?” I explained that we were staying at the Santa Brigida. “You bring him here tomorrow at 1pm. We’ll have lunch and then we’ll talk about porchetta.” Does this happen in all small towns?

The next afternoon SantaFrancesca, Mystophur, and I arrived at Morino’s abode. He was standing in the door waving to us: the prosciutto and melon was already on the table.
What followed was a purely delectable experience. The food was exquisite: simple and perfect. After the antipasti he brought out a giant bowl of pasta with what looked like a normal tomato sauce. But on the tongue the sauce bloomed into a rainbow of flavors. When Mystophur quizzed him about how he made the sauce he explained, “You have to be Morino to make this sauce.” He also went on about how women aren’t good cooks because they’re too concerned with “health issues.” “More salt, more oil, more herbs!” he demanded.

When Morino left to fetch the next course, I filled everyone’s glasses with water. When he returned (with a pan heaped with pork) he lamented that I filled his glass with water: “Why not the wine? Now I have to drink all this water first!” The wine was spectacular, I must say. He made it himself (as well as growing the tomatoes for the sauce and the pigs for the grill). He said he collects the grapes, washes them, presses them, and then lets the whole thing ferment, without filtering. When he does filter, he gets far less wine than a professional would, but what is left is a robust flavor. White wine that was almost amber in color. Fantastic.

During lunch he regaled us with stories from his life (When Mystophur asked his age he told him 17, but we’re guessing it’s a joke on 70.) There was something about this man I wish I could capture on film or in words. He was somehow so vibrant, so terribly present. He talked about his wife, who passed over 7 years ago, and while he didn’t tell sad stories I felt myself choking back tears. He loved her so much. At one point he turned to Mystophur and said, thrusting his thumb back toward me, “You hold on to her tight now. If you lose her, you lose everything.”

What Morino doesn’t know is that Mystophur’s love goes to another level. Mystophur loves me so much that he sets me free. It’s a powerfully beautiful and brave thing. And the result is that I feel more deeply connected to him than any other human being.
And Morino has managed to go on. In his exuberant way, he told us dirty jokes and then, when we asked for advice on whether we should get goats or chickens, he dropped all jokes and dove into sage advice honed from years of raising animals.

At another point, while filling Mystophur’s glass with another homemade cocktail, Morino suddenly asked about Mystophur’s dad. Mystophur explained that he had passed on, Morino nodded solemnly, and once again I felt a rush of emotion. What was it about this man that brings out such intensity from the heart?

We tried to say goodbye two-and-a-half hours after arriving, but then he took us to see the pigs, the cow, the chickens, the land, and the wine press.

He loaded us up with fresh eggs, bottles of his magical tomato sauce, sloughed off prosciutto, tasted the newest wine, and even plucked a watermelon from the earth for us to devour later.

Although Morino seems to be from another universe than the one I am from, I feel instantly attached to him. I adore him. I plan to learn as much as I can from him; with regard to farming, cooking, loving, and giving. Add another star to the case of characters: Morino is a keeper.