A group of young people, two of them wearing laurel wreaths to mark their graduation, arrived in the piazza at 6pm. They joined the mass of kids recently released into a three-month summer holiday, as well as all the locals, visitors, drinks, dripping ice-creams, balls, bikes and dogs that fill the square.
The use of laurel wreaths for the newly graduated traces back to ancient Greece, and the variously told and interpreted myth of Daphne and Apollo. In short, the nymph Daphne is pursued by the god Apollo, intoxicated by Cupid’s arrow. To avoid him, she turns herself/is turned into a laurel tree, at which point he marks the tree into a sacred symbol (one of his many god roles was to make mortals aware of their own guilt and purify them of it). As well as being a creep, Apollo was an archer and athlete, and was also associated with music and poetry. This is why a laurel crown twisted from his sacred symbol became associated with and used to crown victorious athletes, heroes and appointed poets, and then, later, great minds and laureate/graduates. And why we are reminded not to rest on our laurels.
The bay leaves we use in cooking come from Laurus nobilis, known variously as bay tree, sweet bay, bay laurel, true laurel and Grecian laurel. The molecules the leaves contain are volatile and aromatic (musk, pine, lavender, spice), becoming more pungent when crushed. Volatile comes from the word volare, meaning to fly, and these oily molecules do just that; they fly off, leaving a fusty leaf. This is neatly captured by a Mads Horwath cartoon for the New Yorker: two people stand over a pan, one of them holding a small leaf, and the caption reads: “And, to make no difference, add a three-year-old bay leaf.”
However, when just pulled from the branch, or carefully dried and kept in a jar, bay leaves are a powerful flavouring, and form the foundation for countless stews, soups, ragus and braises. A foundation that makes all the difference, but their power is cause for caution. In her book Herb Gardening, Claire Loewenfeld warns of casual advice suggesting one or two bay leaves; she thinks half is often enough. And then there is the goddess Sophia Loren. Of the many fabulous recipe introductions in her book, In the Kitchen with Love, the one for spaghetti with bay leaves is a particular favourite. It goes like this: “I met this spaghetti at a friend’s house when he gave a dinner to celebrate my Oscar in 1961 for Two Women. Instead of offering me the victor’s laurel crown, he said he would much rather offer me the laurel at the table.”
She then goes on to give a recipe for an onion and tomato sauce with all of 12 bay leaves and cinnamon, which she describes as lively and good for spaghetti. She is right; the tomato brings out the warm side of the bay, although I am not as bold as Loren is, and use only six straight from the plant.
The noise, by the way, is at its greatest when the piazza is full, but also absorbed by bodies. So, as those bodies leave, the acoustics change and the voices that remain bounce off the buildings like balls, straight into our bedroom window. By 2am, only the group of young people remained, singing and celebrating their degrees, one wreath wonky, the other on a bench. Cheers to them.
Tomato and bay leaf sauce
Serves 4
1 onion, peeled and sliced
6 tbsp olive oil
20g butter
400g peeled and roughly chopped tomatoes (fresh or tinned)
3-12 bay leaves, gently crushed, but not broken
Salt and black pepper
½ tsp cinnamon
In a frying pan on a medium-low heat, fry the onion in the olive oil and butter until soft. Add the tomatoes, bay leaves, a pinch of salt, a grind of black pepper and the cinnamon, then leave to simmer for 10 minutes, until the tomatoes have collapsed into a sauce (you can help by pressing them with the back of a spoon) and the oil is floating free.
Serve with spaghetti, pan-fried or roast chicken, or break four eggs into the sauce and continue simmering until they are set.
