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20/06: Pie days –
These are the “pie days,” days are warm and the evenings cool, and we move from one party to another, and at each there are pies. Grand pies, glorious pies. Farmer’s markets and backyards are full of spring offerings, strawberries and rhubarb, and I have never heard of anything to do with rhubarb but make a pie.I came late to the garden this year, but tilled and hoed it. Mom started some tomato seeds we sent her from Italy, and so now our garden has tidy little rows of Italian tomatoes. Sweet potatoes, yukon gold, yellow wax beans, basil, musk melons and watermelons all making little green rows dotting the dark soil. This is my optimistic season, and I dive into the garden undaunted, but already the weeds are beginning their assault the stubborn burdocks are popping up in my asparagus bed – and creeping Charlie makes continous assaults on the borders of the garden. But for now I beat them back, stoop and weed, before the humidity and sun loosen my resolve.
I took the tall cedar on the north side of the house into hands today – and cut it by a third, and began shaping it into a square – but the tall tree hid secrets. The pointing on the chimney is crumbling, and now I must buy mortar and begin re-pointing. So our American summer begins. I have come to the conclusion that we have our own wonderful little community here, there is no local butcher, baker and shoe shop, but we have the same comforting faces walking dogs and pushing strollers down these maple shaded sidewalks. The same sounds, the river running near by, the dogs barking and that familiar rhythm of raindrops on our roof, these are the sounds of home. It is nice to be here in these “pie days”.
08/06: Tadpole Salvation
Like when we came, the rain returned to send us off. Heavy gray storm clouds loomed, and it looked as if we would spend the last couple Italian days shut up inside, packing the bags and scrubbing the floors. But the winds blew in the Eikhoffs as well, our German friends returned and called us two days before our departure. “We will come tomorrow and we will decide what to do then.” Said Tina.Our friends made their way down the long drive, and for us and the girls it seemed as if they had never left – Zoe, Liz and Corvan race off to save the tadpoles who were struggling to swim in muddy little pools – the river had dried to trickle, and Tina, Til, Tory, Anselm and I sat around the table at the mill and caught up.
We spent the day hiking and picnicking on the mountain in Carpegna. Tina and Til showed us where they always fill their jugs with spring water. We carried old glass wine jars up the side of the mountain and filled them as the skies turned darker, and as we hiked down the mountain, each carrying a couple gallons of water, flashes of lightning started to fill the sky. We spent the evening inside, Til started a fire in the enormous hearth, Tina boiled pasta, the kids darted through the raindrops playing soccer in the alley as thunder shook the little stone house. The conversation turned to distinctly regional foods, and the Eikhoffs told us about Knoodle. “They are distinctly Bavarian,” said Til enthusiastically “I learned to make them from Bavarian roommates, we made them every Sunday. You must come tomorrow we will make them for you. You won’t have to do dishes your last night here.”
After a long day of gathering up our things, packing, throwing out and generally cleaning the mill. As we scrubbed and packed, the rain fell steadily outside, and winds picked up. The rain stopped in the evening, and we made our way over to Monestero under dark storm clouds and knocked on the door to find Knoodles well under way. Bread crumbs, egg, milk, sage and spiced balled up and ready to boil on the stove top. The whole was topped by a sauce of cream, mushrooms and bacon.
On our last evening we walked, along a dirt road, up and above the cobbled village, andlooked back on the houses and church, and quiet abandoned cloister from the hilltop. Sheepdogs barked, and a flock of sheep moved quickly along the fence, the opposite direction of the grey storm clouds overhead. Giant snails moved slowly across the road. We waved our goodbyes and made our way back in the Opel to the Mill, One last time down the rollercoaster driveway and splashed through the stream, now flush with a tadpole-salvation rain.