In Love with France, At Home In Italy

“Ciliege finite!” declares fruit expert Marcello, during our first summer here. I remember that that was his response to my whining about wanting to prolong the cherry season when it was clear to him that it had passed. “But look at all those way up high—they look even better than the tons we’ve already eaten. I need a taller ladder.” Two summers later, I still don’t quite get it. The peas and favas planted on our behalf by Farmer G were delicious! Because peas have to be planted so early, at a time when I am scurrying around with no hope of getting my gardening act together, there have been no peas in any garden of mine in decades. And a fava? Never! I didn’t even know what to do with one until D popped one open and ate it in front of my fava-virgin eyes. So what next? I have a wonderful time picking and eating them, and want to go on doing it. But for how long? How long is long enough? Farmer G, who is on intimate terms with nature, tells me it’s time to pull up the peas and favas

Another example of my transition trouble: my architect friend says that farmers like Farmer G, once they have a weed-whacking zappa in hand will whack everything in its path. That includes the pretty, wild, flowering plants that pop up everywhere during certain seasons, and that cost nothing, as opposed to the fancy, expensive ones we’ve been buying. So Farmer G and I have a conversation about his leaving the nicer-looking wild things in place, while I try to control the weeding around them by hand. We discuss which are really dangerously invasive, as opposed to those that are just a nuisance for someone with a zappa and a job to do—someone who has to tiptoe around annoying plants, as well as around a nutty signora who thinks she knows something about aesthetics. Well, of course he was right. When Marcello comes, he shakes his head at my plan to mix the wild with the fancy stuff. The wildflowers that cost niente may look good, but they are too strong for the ones we bought. And if mi

I’m thinking of how Persephone’s eating of one pomegranate seed bound her to her new home in Hades. At certain times of the year, like her, I am able to go back and forth between homes. For me, however, this is paradise, and to mark my reconnection to my *new/old home, I need to start weeding. Then I know I am really here. *I feel as if I need to think about why I found myself using “new/old” twice in my first blog of the summer. In terms of the new/old, gauzy, flowered culottes mentioned above, I realize they have some connections to the “in love with France, at home in Italy” subject of my blog. The bottom half of an old outit that I had bought in Paris when I was teaching there in 1988, this resuscitated garment was on its maiden voyage to my new home in Umbria.  It is also new/old in that this is its first trip anywhere in a  l-o-n-g time. During the decades it was waiting for both of us to end up here, all of the elastic went out of its adorable, smocked waistband, leaving it

Where’s the “What not to Wear” police when you need them? Just off the plane and into the Umbrian countryside, I toss on my cherry-patterned apron over my *new/old, gauzy, flowered culottes as I decide to check out the vegetable garden.  In addition to the surprise of the 4’ towers of lettuce and radicchio—this is what happens when nobody picks at the right moment—I am excited at my first encounter with fava beans and sweet peas ready to be gobbled. (This, by the way, is the same formerly baby-sized radicchio around which I had been enthusiastically making rock frames over the March vacation.)  As I inspect everything more closely—especially the insect kingdom in action—I notice loud buZZing around me that suggests that I, myself, am of intense interest to some killer-sized fauna. I wonder, “Why are they so attracted to me?” When I looked down at my fruity, flowery get-up, I had to laugh:they must be mistaking me for lunch! Trinny and Susannah would never have

Nature has made up her mind. And there is no arguing with her. This year there are cherries. Last year, almost none. To make matters worse, our better cherry tree bit the dust last year, leaving only its weak sister, behind. Well, we underestimated all of these ladies, and the tree that we dissed has more than risen to the occasion. Of course, the best ones are at the tippy-top. But let's not be greedy. There's plenty for everyone, including the birds who instinctively know when to come calling for their share:the day everything is at its peak. And if you don't beat them to the punch, no cherries for you! We filled our bowl to the brim, and decided to take our chances about tomorrow. My late mother-in-law to whom we owe our ability to have done this renovation used to love the song, "Life is Just a Bowl of Cherries." We are dedicating this bowl to her, and tomorrow we will see if we end up with just "a bowl" of cherries...or several.