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One of the things we did in Italy
was go on a truffle hunt. Truffles
aren’t grown. They are found. We were only briefed that we’d need to wear the
proper footwear—preferably boots we didn’t mind getting muddy, and that we’d be
traveling to the village of Acqualagna.
A quick look at
the map let us know that the ride might be a bumpy one, and it certainly was.
Acqualagna is seemingly in the middle of nowhere, but the journey from our
hotel on the Adriatic Coast of the Italy’s Marche Region to our destination was
an incredibly picturesque ride through the spectacular Furlo River Gourge, and
the rolling hills of Italy.
When we arrived in
the village, it was obvious we were in a place that was famous for their
truffles. References to truffles could be seen everywhere. We pulled into the compound of our truffle
hunter, Giorgio, who also doubled as the town’s Chief of Police, and
immediately heard the dogs barking. Giorgio had dozens of them, all in various
stages of truffle hunting training. He filled us in on the training technique
as his assistant fetched his prize truffle dog.
“The dogs have
very developed senses of smell,” he told us through the interpreter, “but they
also have a very good sense of taste.”
He was smiling as he spoke. “They know good truffles when they smell
them, so the trick is to make sure they don’t eat them too. With the finest
white truffles going for 3000 Euros a kilo, that’s like eating money!”
We met the star of
today’s truffle hunt, the most famous truffle hunting dog in the entire region,
Chicca (Photo above). Her travels have taken her around the world, including a visit to the
White House at the tail end of the Clinton Administration.
“How much is
Chicca worth?” Bridget asked.
“She is not for
sale!” Giorgio replied.
“I know,” I said,
“I’m just curious how much she would be worth if...”
“Not for sale,”
Giorgio said once again. He looked like he had been asked to part with one of
his children.
Giorgio released
Chicca from her leash, and we followed.
“She knows where
to look,” Giorgio said as we slowly trotted behind her. “At the base of the
trees. The white truffles are up to sixty centimeters under the ground, but it
is not yet white truffle season. It is the tail end of the black truffle
season, so those will be a little easier to find, only ten to twenty centimeters
under the ground.”
Our amazing
truffle hunting dog stopped abruptly at the base of a small oak tree and
started digging. Giorgio saddled up beside her and crouched on a knee. “Aha,
see here, she has found one.”
After he wiped the
dirt off, he held it up for all to see. It still looked like a black clump of
mud in his hand, but when he passed it around, we could immediately smell the
fine musky aroma of the black truffle. For the next thirty minutes or so we
followed Chicca around as she dug for gold. We began to figure out where to
look, so we started hunting for them too.
“I found one!”
Bridget said.
Giorgio looked at
the clump she had in her hand. “Ah,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “That
is a brown truffle.”
“A brown truffle?”
she asked.
“Yes, probably the
droppings of a porcupine or a wild boar.”
She dropped it
immediately.
Perhaps it was best to leave the truffle hunting to the professionals.
***
I wrote cover stories for all of these issues...
***
A Cubbie Bonus...
Forgotten Cub Harry Steinfeldt should be just as famous as the other members of his infield, Tinker, Evers & Chance. So much so, I wrote a poem for him in EveryCubEver...
An Ode To Harry…It seems only
right that someone should write a poem about Harry Steinfeldt. With apologies
to Franklin P. Adams, here is my contribution…
The poem by Franklin P. Adams definitely enhanced,
The Hall of Fames chances of Tinker, Evers & Chance,
But the other name in that infield has been lost to time,
Just because Harry Steinfeldt’s name didn’t rhyme,
He hit for more power, he drove in more runs,
He made fewer errors, and when the game was to be won,
They leaned on Harry Steinfeldt, the World Series MVP,
Though his name was a mouthful, depriving immortality
