Wednesday, July 8, 2009
You don’t really know a lover until you have felt every curve of his body, just like you don’t really know a child until you have changed her diapers and nursed her through an illness. And I don’t think you can really know a property unless you have weeded the garden, raked the land and beaten spider webs out of the ceiling. The three hours I spent at Le Caselle today were like moving from infatuation to intimacy. With a pair of pruning shears purchased at Brico, I attacked the overgrowth like Attlia, revealing a whole new view of the landscape. Pieces of plastic and broken bottles, cardboard, dead plants and weeds were raked and tossed into trash bags. In the end I still wasn’t satisfied, but at least some of the debris was gone and I began to be able to see the beautiful soul of the garden.
I rewarded myself with some ripe figs and settled down on the terrace to a lunch of mozzarella, figs, and rosemary breadsticks with local wine. Apparently the butterflies and bees found the menu equally appealing. I split open one of the figs and tossed it into the garden, creating another place setting for the hungry lizards and insects.
Tonight I accompanied Judy and family to a maiale sagra (pork). San Fortunato della Colline hosts one of the largest sagras around arranging three tiers of long picnic tables in a public park to accomodate hundreds of people, mostly families that arrive in sometimes large groups. There were games, a gelateria, a dance floor and band, and a pizzeria to satisfy those with more basic tastes, like Master Wyatt.
We all order stinco maiale, which refers to the kind of spicy rub applied to the pork. What arrived were plates full of large pork legs, something I think I saw in a painting of Henry VIII, before utensils were invented. Trying to cut through the meat with plastic knives proved futile, so, throwing manners to the wind, I picked up the leg and started chomping. Ordering the tortellini as a prima piatti was a mistake, but I picked at it anyway, not wanting any of this delicious food to go to waste.
The fine band was called “Music Group”. We were all impressed with the older Italian couples dancing Fred and Ginger style, and the line dancers moving in perfect synchronization, older children dancing with little ones, a 4-year old out there stomping his feet and shaking his head to the beat, a little princess with glitter sneakers traipsing around the floor casting spells with her wand. There may be nicer ways to live but at the moment I can’t think of any.
You don’t really know a lover until you have felt every curve of his body, just like you don’t really know a child until you have changed her diapers and nursed her through an illness. And I don’t think you can really know a property unless you have weeded the garden, raked the land and beaten spider webs out of the ceiling. The three hours I spent at Le Caselle today were like moving from infatuation to intimacy. With a pair of pruning shears purchased at Brico, I attacked the overgrowth like Attlia, revealing a whole new view of the landscape. Pieces of plastic and broken bottles, cardboard, dead plants and weeds were raked and tossed into trash bags. In the end I still wasn’t satisfied, but at least some of the debris was gone and I began to be able to see the beautiful soul of the garden.
I rewarded myself with some ripe figs and settled down on the terrace to a lunch of mozzarella, figs, and rosemary breadsticks with local wine. Apparently the butterflies and bees found the menu equally appealing. I split open one of the figs and tossed it into the garden, creating another place setting for the hungry lizards and insects.
Tonight I accompanied Judy and family to a maiale sagra (pork). San Fortunato della Colline hosts one of the largest sagras around arranging three tiers of long picnic tables in a public park to accomodate hundreds of people, mostly families that arrive in sometimes large groups. There were games, a gelateria, a dance floor and band, and a pizzeria to satisfy those with more basic tastes, like Master Wyatt.
We all order stinco maiale, which refers to the kind of spicy rub applied to the pork. What arrived were plates full of large pork legs, something I think I saw in a painting of Henry VIII, before utensils were invented. Trying to cut through the meat with plastic knives proved futile, so, throwing manners to the wind, I picked up the leg and started chomping. Ordering the tortellini as a prima piatti was a mistake, but I picked at it anyway, not wanting any of this delicious food to go to waste.
The fine band was called “Music Group”. We were all impressed with the older Italian couples dancing Fred and Ginger style, and the line dancers moving in perfect synchronization, older children dancing with little ones, a 4-year old out there stomping his feet and shaking his head to the beat, a little princess with glitter sneakers traipsing around the floor casting spells with her wand. There may be nicer ways to live but at the moment I can’t think of any.
No comments:
Post a Comment