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Good evening and welcome to Get Sleepy, where we listen, we relax and we get sleepy.I'm your host Thomas, thanks so much for listening and for supporting the show.
Tonight's story was written by Ivan, and I'll be reading it as I take you on our journey that begins in the oak groves of Piedmont. In this northwestern region of Italy, the snow-covered peaks of the Alps stand tall on the horizon.
Below, oak forests blanket the ground, giving way to verdant valleys.Hidden beneath the canopies down in the soil is a secret that only a few master foragers have been able to uncover.
They call it the tuber magnatum pico, otherwise known as the white alba truffle.In today's story, we'll join a seasoned forager, his adult son, and their truffle-sniffing dog.
They're about to venture into the oak forests of Piedmont in search of this rare and precious fungus.
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Before we begin our story, let's take our time to relax a little deeper into bed. Adjust anything you need to make sure you're in a comfortable position and put any physical distractions to the side.
All you need to do now is make yourself cozy and listen along to my voice.Close your eyes if you like, then focus on relaxing your muscles.You might drop your shoulders, relax your jaw or move your neck in slow circles.
Whatever you do, be sure to take a few deep breaths There's nothing like deliberate breathing to center us and bring us into the moment.Slowly breathe in through your nose, hold for a moment, then breathe out through your mouth.
Let any thoughts drift away in the same manner.As you exhale, imagine them flowing out with your breath. Now, picture a landscape with rolling green hills, autumn trees, and just a few clouds in the blue sky.
This is Piedmont, Italy, and it's where our story begins. An old man sits on the ground, his back against an oak tree whose trunk is covered in lichen.
The man is wearing a grey driver's cap, brown corduroys, and a puffy black body warmer vest over a flannel shirt. is a forager and his name is Mateo.Standing next to Mateo is his son, Carlo.
He's also wearing a puffy vest, as well as black hiking boots and a tan driver's cap pulled down just above his brown eyes. At the foot of the oak tree, the elderly Mateo is tying the red laces on his brown hiking boots.
Carlo, meanwhile, holds a canvas bag in his hands.He tugs on the drawstring, tying it together with a tight knot. Between them, sitting at attention and eagerly awaiting their commands, is a fluffy, white and brown dog named Amore.
He is a Legato Romagnolo, This breed of water dog is renowned for its exceptional sense of smell, which makes it the perfect companion for the hunt.Having tied his shoelaces, Mateo rises to his feet and gives Carlo a reassuring nod.
Carlo nods in return, showing his father that he is ready.Amore joins in with a bark of excitement and an eager wag of his tail.With that, the trio sets off. they enter the oak forest where the trees are still dripping from the morning dew.
The forest is quiet save for a few honey-colored sparrows singing in the trees and acorns snapping underfoot as Mateo leads the way. Slivers of light cut through a thin veil of mist in angled beams, illuminating the forest floor.
Twigs and patches of moist black earth stretch out ahead of them.Mateo and Carlo can feel the damp soil beneath their feet. It provides a sort of cushion as they trek along.The oaks ahead are anything but tidy.
Their grand trunks are doubled over and twisted in all directions.The moss-covered branches extend upward, then down, and then up again.
A few branches rise straight and tall, while others arch, their leaves curling in on themselves like sleeping cats.Some branches are so heavy they droop to the forest floor, bending and knotting into giant braids.
This creates an obstacle course for Matteo and Carlo, who must darken and weave to get between them.Amore, however, runs freely around the branches.His small frame was seemingly made for these kinds of obstacles.
The dog jumps over them with ease, sometimes trotting along low-hanging branches like a tightrope walker looking for balance.Mateo's family has been foraging among these oaks for generations.The old man knows the landscape like the back of his hand.
He taught Carlo to feel the forest, as Matteo likes to say.This means taking in all the sights, smells, and sounds.Letting their senses take over will help them search for the telltale signs of a truffle.
A small mound here, for instance, or a discolored patch of earth over there.Anything that looks out of the ordinary could be an indicator that something precious lies beneath.But looking for visible signs of the hidden truffle isn't easy.
They need Amore's powerful nose to find it.At least it's autumn in Piedmont, which is the best time of year to search for the white truffle.Everything is changing.The leaves are a vibrant palette of yellow, orange, and red.
The wind blows them about, and as they flap in the breeze, they're like a thousand tiny flags.The leaves that can't hold on to their branches fall like feathers to the ground and mix in with the damp soil.
But the wind also carries the scent of truffles hidden in the earth, sending it to Amore's nose.On a good breezy day, the dog can smell the alba truffle from one mile away.And today is one of those days.
Walking side by side through the dense forest, Mateo gives Carlo a knowing look as if to say, it's time to get started.The two squat down and rustle through the leaves.
They're investigating whether the fallen leaves have formed a thick blanket over the hidden truffle beds. If so, this extra layer of protection could make it even more difficult for Amore to detect the scent of the truffles underneath.
To test out their theory, Carlo shifts from his squatting position to his knees and motions for Amore to come closer. Come," he says with a happy inflection, and the dog trots over with a wag of his bushy tail.
Carlo then unties the knot of the canvas bag that is fastened around his waist.He retrieves a piece of cloth soaked in truffle oil. Holding the cloth under the dog's nose, Carlo gives the command to search.
Amore sniffs the cloth, looks up at both men, and then barks as if to say, I know what to do. He takes off sniffing the air and sometimes pawing at the undergrowth in search of the truffle.
While the dog hunts, Mateo and Carlo study his movements, his head jerking left and right as he sniffs. If there's even the subtlest hint of a musky aroma wafting through the forest, Amore will bark and spin around in circles.
This will tell Carlo and Matteo that there's hope of finding the white truffle beneath the layer of fallen leaves. But if Amore continues sniffing without any reaction, they may come up empty-handed.Today, though, Amore proves his worth.
As soon as he catches a whiff of the truffle, he begins to bark and spin around. Carlo and Matteo exchange glances.They know that it may take some time to locate the exact dig spot, but they're not in a hurry.They have all morning.
With Amore darting off in one direction and Carlo and Matteo close behind, The hunt officially begins.These tartufi, or truffle hunters, breathe in the fresh mountain air as they walk.
They trail the dog through the oak groves, feeling the warmth of the autumn sun on their faces. The sparrows are still chirping overhead, camouflaged in the trees.
As Carlo and Matteo weave around the knotting oaks, the leaves crunch beneath their feet.Each time they set foot in the oak forest, the men are reminded of the area's natural beauty.
the sunlight glinting off patches of neon green lichen, the soft, mossy texture of the bark, and the bright blue of the sky.When all is still and the birds stop singing, they can even hear the tinkling of a nearby mountain stream.
There are other oak forests in Piedmont, too, where old-time foragers hunt for truffles.Some forests are tucked away in deep green and gold valleys, while others cover the banks of the Po.
The river winds its way through the rolling hills, past picturesque vineyards and medieval villages.But Mateo knows that this is the best place to hunt for the coveted white truffle.
His father has often remarked, among the oak trees of Piedmont, nature has blessed us with the finest truffle.As the morning sun rises high in the sky, the trio goes deeper into the forest with Amore as their guide.
The dog is sniffing with determination, his belly close to the ground as he tracks down the scent.Carlo and Matteo trail behind, and soon, both men are casually discussing the different truffle species found across Italy.
Experienced foragers are careful to call truffles by their scientific names.This is because of the many species around the world that look alike but have very different tastes and textures.Not to mention their vastly different sale prices.
Carlo walks beside his father and wipes his brow with the back of his hand.As they talk, he brings the tuber estivum, also known as the summer truffle, into the conversation.
The summer truffle is a black tuber whose skin is covered in geometric bands. Inside, its yellow-brown filling is even more peculiar to look at.It has golden-brown bands that form an intricate labyrinth of dead-ends, tunnels, and chambers.
Then, Matteo brings up the Tuba Unchinatum, He means the hooked truffle that matures in the summer and fall seasons.This particular nugget is blackish-brown in appearance.
It bears an amorphous shape with no distinct pattern, like most truffles that lay dormant beneath the Earth's surface. Its creases and bumps protrude from its skin, not unlike fingerling potatoes.
These features give it a hooked appearance, hence the nickname.The tuber's rock-like skin in wider bands reminds Mateo of parched desert soil.
Wandering through the oaks with the dog still leading the way, Mateo grows silent while Carlo begins to daydream.He knows he should be focused on finding the diamond of the culinary world, the tuber magnatum pico,
But his mind can't help but wander to his favorite truffle species in terms of taste, which he even prefers to the white truffle.The French call it the Black Pearl.Falling behind the others, Carlo drifts off in thought.
As he walks slowly, his hands touch the gnarled trunks of the oak trees for balance.He recalls the tufts and wiles of the black truffle's dark, leathery exterior.It's a mound with a more defined shape than other species, as big as a golf ball.
When cut, its earthy aroma blooms like a fog and overpowers the senses.It's known as the tuber melanosporum or the wild winter black.The crown jewel of the culinary world grows almost exclusively in Umbria,
This central region of Italy is home to sleepy medieval towns perched on hilltops and lush mountainscapes.It's here that Carlo found his first winter black a few years ago.Its aroma is like nothing else on Earth, Carlo thinks.
Then, he closes his eyes and imagines himself holding the truffle to his nose.He inhales and remembers the scent.It smells like petrichor with notes of forest and sage, fresh mountain air, and earth and rain.
It is pungent in the best way possible, with a sharpness that takes you right to the source, even if you haven't been there before.The scent is a kind of telepathy that speaks to the soul.
Due to its scarcity and the fact that it's so difficult to grow, the winter black can fetch up to $1,000 per kilo.But that's nothing compared to its cousin, the white truffle, which can go for as much as $7,000 per kilo.
This is why truffles are considered one of life's greatest delicacies, Carlo reasons to himself.
He's spoken to the best chefs around the world, from the kitchens of Michelin-starred restaurants in America to the street vendors of old cities like Paris and Florence.
He's spoken to old-school farmers and fellow hunters, and he's even spoken to mycologists who study fungi.These experts revere truffles for their unique properties.
Everyone agrees that the fragrant mounds have the potential to elevate any dish beyond the ordinary.Each person he's spoken to has admitted that in the land of truffles, yes, the white truffle is king.
But its distant relatives all have a rightful place at the table, too.The yellowish-brown summer truffle, the blackish-brown hooked, and the rare winter black.Just then, Carlo hears Mateo's voice in front of him and comes back to reality.
everything all right?"Yes, Carlo replies and brushes a fallen leaf off his shoulder.Amore is wagging his tail, his paws dabbling in a small puddle of rainwater.He's waiting for Carlo and Mateo to catch up.
Mateo makes a V with his index and middle fingers and hovers it close to his eyes.Then, he turns his hand towards the ground.This signals to Carlo to keep his head in the game.
They need to scan the undergrowth on the off-chance that one of the white truffles has decided to reveal itself.But Carlo knows it's unlikely.The white truffle doesn't show itself willy-nilly.
It takes patience and expertise to find it, something that comes with experience.Now that they're deeper in the oak forest, Mateo hums a soft tune as Carlo comes up close behind.Amore is once again leading the way.
They pass the hour in the shadow of the oaks, engulfed by a unique silence that can only come from nature.Sometimes, the creatures of the forest cross their paths.
There are squirrels with bushy tails nibbling on acorns and white-spotted deer grazing on fresh grass.They add a spark of life to this silent world.The trio is careful not to disturb the ecosystem that has been in place here for centuries.
they walk slowly and leave the animals be.Without this good faith accord between humankind and nature, there would be no symbiosis through which truffles can mature underground.Their survival depends on this careful balance within the ecosystem.
Carlo reflects on this as he watches a deer lope away through the trees.Truffles need humans and animals to disperse their spores.Otherwise, there would be no family business, Carlo thinks.
Then, he vows silently once again to pass on his family tradition to the next generation, whenever that may be.Their quest for the white truffle continues as they walk.
A strong gust of wind lifts the yellowing leaves in the air like an autumn waltz.Soon, the trio stumbles upon a vast network of ancient roots sprawling across the ground like a tangled web.
They step gingerly over the roots until they reach a small clearing in the forest where a moray begins to bark.Mateo and Carlo exchange a knowing glance, then watch as the dog circles the same spot in the clearing several times.
He then starts digging with his front paws.Could it be?The father and son go to the dig spot and kneel on the ground.Carlo produces a pair of hand trowels from the inside pocket of his body warmer.He hands one of the trowels to his father
Then, they begin to dig carefully where the dog has indicated with his keen, truffle-tracking nose.After unearthing a few inches of damp soil with the garden tools, Carlo and Mateo look down, and they can hardly believe their eyes.
There it is, a small, round, white truffle covered in dirt.It's the tuber magnatum pico, which only the best of the best can find.This includes Amore, of course.They couldn't have done it without him.Bravo, says Carlo,
he gives the dog a big pat on the head and a much-deserved treat.Then, he carefully removes the truffle from its home in the soil, using his trowel with a delicate touch to dig around it.
After lifting the truffle from the ground, the hunters rise to their feet.Kano then holds the mound up to the light.Mateo gives a nod of approval.The white truffle appears to be in good shape.
It looks a bit like overgrown popcorn drenched in caramel, so calling it the white truffle is a bit of a misnomer.But it's a misnomer that pays the bills, Carlo thinks as he squeezes the truffle gently.It's firm, he says to Mateo.That's a good sign.
A soft truffle means it's too old and won't sell for top dollar.But this particular mound looks promising.Father and son look at each other and grin.Carlo then deposits the alba truffle in the canvas bag.
Let's look about the soil," Mateo says, in case another one is hidden beneath.They dig around the base of a nearby oak.It's a bendy, knotted specimen with branches that extend sideways before touching the ground.
For a final time, the trio looks for any truffles that might be hiding near the spot.They dig for nearly half an hour, but it appears that the oak forest will yield only one prize today.
So, Mateo and Carlo stop digging and cover the holes in the ground by restoring the soil with their trowels.Then, they agree to begin the journey home.They double back through the forest, the afternoon sun spilling through the trees.
And when they reach the exit, Mateo and Carlo look up at the majestic branches and smile.Together, they have managed to keep this ancient tradition alive, and they can't help but feel proud of their efforts.
The path to their quaint cottage in the foothills of the Alps winds through lush pastures.Exiting the forest, they ascend a gentle hill of knee-length grass, which sways in the breeze.
Cresting the hill, the trio then begins their descent into the valley.Up ahead, a shallow stream of crystal clear water has attracted a few white-tailed hares to its banks.
These long-eared residents of the valley are lapping up water, quenching their thirst Sensing the men and their dog nearby, the hares perk up, then bound away out of sight.
The truffle hunters make their way through the foliage and cross the shallow stream. Above, a hawk soars in the sky and alights on a nearby branch.After passing through more woodland, the trio reaches their home.
It's a vine-covered structure clad in limestone. There's a chimney on the roof, exterior wood shutters in baby blue, and a tomato patch in the front garden.It's here that the group will hunker down for the rest of the day.
But first, they need to store the white truffle in a cool, dry place until the time comes for them to sell it at the local market.Mateo opens the door and steps inside, followed by Carlo and Amore. Carlo is in charge of preserving the truffle.
He goes to the kitchen where there's a breakfast bar made of reclaimed beechwood with pots hanging overhead.Light spills in through the square windowpanes by the bar.
It illuminates the beige walls and slate-gray floor, and it shines on the ceramic tiles showcasing little cupids, each one armed with heart-shaped bows and arrows.A sunflower on the windowsill cranes its neck, stretching out from its glass tube.
Using a painter's brush, Carlo carefully dusts off the truffle.After removing most of the dirt, he wraps it in a dry paper towel.He then puts it in a separate plastic container and snaps the lid on tight.
An experienced truffle hunter knows better than to submerge his product in water.He mustn't clear the truffle of any dirt or debris that it may have picked up while growing in the wild.
Mateo has warned Carlo that doing so would diminish the truffle's flavor. And so, with the white truffle safe and snug in its container, Carlo stores it away in a moisture-controlled drawer in the fridge.
They've done well today, Carlo thinks to himself.It's days like these that make the truffle hunt truly worth it. a steady reminder that despite its challenges, this family tradition may remain intact for years to come.
Amore is lying quietly in the corner, curled up in a ball in his dog bed. He looks at Carlo and Matteo with his big brown eyes, then yawns.The dog is tired from the hunt, his eyes so heavy he can barely keep them open.
He looks at his family with contentment, knowing that he did a great job today and was rewarded handsomely for it.With his eyelids just about to close, Amore sees his owners sitting across from each other in plush armchairs.
Mateo is reading the newspaper while Carlo flips through the pages of a book.They are locked in a moment of timelessness, a moment that no amount of truffle money can buy.
As he gazes at them, Amore dwells in this feeling of contentment before drifting off to sleep.He knows that in a few days, they'll be out in the oak forest once again. searching for the white truffles of the Italian wild.
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