Alpe Grande, Italy —

It is the quintessential Italian Sunday outing. Everyone piles into three cars and promptly becomes separated. This is only a problem because only one car knows where we’re going. We drive for an hour surrounded by hordes of dueling motorcyclists and stop at a cafe for an espresso and to phone our buddies who are at other cafes having espressos. With vague directions scrawled on the back of a napkin, we head up into the mountains.

I believe that this road would give Indiana Jones the heebee jeebies. It feels like about a 45 degree incline and it is about a foot narrower than our car with no straight stretches. After 40 minutes of this, my clutch leg is shaking like mad. Hence, I am deeply gratefull when I see our friend’s vehicles at the trailhead. All that remains is a one hour and twenty minute slog up to the timberline and the lovely meadow of the Alpe Grande.

All this so that we could eat polenta. Of course, we ARE sitting here.

And we are LOOKING at this.

Polenta is sounding pretty good.

This is not Thomas Keller’s polenta, that delicate slice of intricately spiced corn meal hidden beneath a sweet and buttery piece of lobster meat. This is the real deal, a huge steaming bowl of a substance somewhat resembling overcooked oatmeal. I am foregoing a photo because it’s really not that appetizing.

Polenta Taragna is the specialty in this Alpine corner of Lombardy. As the corn meal cooks, it is slowly blended with local cheeses and a little bit of butter. The result is a hearty, tangy mountain fare. It is designed to satisfy and to stick to your ribs and it accomplishes both swiftly. It’s accompanied by a light, local red and in this setting, the meal seems perfect.

What traditionally follows the meal is what I call the polenta polemic. It seems that after you’ve eaten it, you’ve got to talk about it for at least an hour. Which cheese is ideal, Bitto or Taleggio? How much butter and at what moment must it be added? What is the proper stirring technique? A pinch of salt? NO! YES!

As the debate rages, I close my eyes and let the vibrant cadences lull me into the perfect Sunday nap. When the furor dies down, we will have coffee and a grappa and make our way back down the mountain.

The quintessential Italian Sunday outing.