In January Madame Fromage told us How to Make a Downton Abbey Cheeseplate, today, I propose a Game of Thrones cast of characters drawn from my garden, where crazy weather has nurtured freaks and monsters galore.

Sadly no contenders presented themselves for some cast members, Daenerys, Bran and Ned Stark notably. And I belatedly realized I should have snapped a pic of the potato plant fruit that appears occasionally late summer as a perfect representative of Joffrey...a cheery tomato-looking thing that is deadly, DEADLY poison (they don't call them Nightshade for nothing you know.) But I didn't so you'll have to imagine that one, or google it.

You have better in your garden or larder? Bring it on.

So here we go...a homegrown cast.

The original beauty, aging and a bit battered, Catelyn

Podere Conti Olive Farm
Tuscany, Macerie/Filattiera di Lunigiana/Pontremoli, Italy

03 February 2011

Sick kids and friend-in-residence at home with a cold all week + Regardless of weather, Spring is coming and so are guests + Newborn baby and four other boys keep Mom and Dad on high alert = Lauren digging through leftover ingredients and getting creative to use everything I pull out from deep within the restaurant’s fridge here at the Agriturismo.

I left the main house, sweeping past my room to grab the upside-down, nearly dry salvia (sage) from the knob on my kitchen cupboard and stuffing it under my arm. I grabbed a few other herbs from the side garden along the way: loads of thyme, rosemary, and oregano. In the restaurant’s kitchen there was an abundance of eggs, too many to use before expiry, and plates of miscellaneous well-grazed cheeses. Yep. Frittata.

15 Janurary 2011
Podere Conti/Pontremoli, Italy

Relishing at all the differences while traveling is, no doubt, a full-time job, and loads of fun. But it’s even more amusing to see the universal similarities in people. Italian children are no exception. Watching these four Conti boys has me in stitches, since I am the American guest who brought such wonderful gifts as four whoopee cushions and a bag of punch balls from across the pond. Yesterday at breakfast, I was singled out for a well-rehearsed concert, featuring “The Adams Family Started When Uncle Fester Farted…” complete with a fart-tone baseline using the new “instruments.” A lack of enthusiasm for vegetables is another universal trait, as is that of their parents’ endless mealtime negotiation.

Enter cheese, the miracle nanny.