The end...

...until you click the link at the bottom of this post.

Dear readers,

I apologize for my absence these past several weeks.  It was a period of big decisions and new ideas and one of the main issues was this blighted, wonderful blog of mine.
I have decided to expand, to move on, to run off to brighter, greener pastures.
That being, a NEW WEBSITE.

Yep!  This blog is MOVING!!!!!!

So please say goodbye to sheconsiderslightandheat.blogspot, and say hello to

www.sheconsiderslightandheat.com

xoxo, blogspot, old friend.  you've been loyal and true, and I won't forget you.

Mama's here and today we go to Croatia!  I am sorry I haven't written lately, we've just been in a
whirlwind...

This weekend was the festa del'uva (WINE), and then la mammina arrived monday and it's just been one thing after another.

We should have some down time over the next couple of days, so I'll get a good chance to blog.

Until then...

Ciao!  and whatever it is that means "bye!" in Croat!

teenage wasteland

am calm.

took the early afternoon to walk to town in the drizzling rain, listen to Bon Iver and get my hair cut.  Have returned home, taken a hot bath and sipped chamomile tea while flipping through Vogue Italia.  It is about to storm, during which time I will do yoga.  see?  am calm.

If I am going to be fair about the situation, I will admit that I become a raging MONSTER when I don't get my proper sleep.  When woken at 6am by shouts and thumping bass...when kept awake late into the night due to the pop of firecrackers being set off outside my bedroom window...when unable to enjoy a comfortable, booze-free evening at home (I say "booze-free" because I was being super good and drinking only sweet tea until my nerves turned into electrified jellyfish tentacles and I demanded a glass of wine) due to an F-ING RAVE going on in the woods behind my house...I get cranky.  Really, really murderously cranky.  I say this because the (idioticmoronicdisrespectfulhoodlumdeginerate) teenagers who use Bosc di Sot as their personal landing pad for dirt bike racing, acid trips and the like were, it seemed by their wide eyes, surprised when I opened the window at 8am this morning and screamed SHUT THE FUCK UP.  Perhaps they didn't understand the English, or perhaps they are just 17 and confused in regards to how it is appropriate to act on a Wednesday night/Thursday morning, when normal, decent, responsible people (...) have to go to work and stuff (and stuff?).

I have been at the end of my wits with those kids for a couple of days now.  They don't have school or anything till the end of September, so in the meantime they haunt our neighbors- the kid's grandparent's- house.  These are not the kind of grandparents one fears and reveres...the old man is just decrepit and I've never heard a word out of him.  The old lady is sweet enough and sort of spooky, but I doubt she's the type to lay down the law.  As far as the teenage boy is concerned, the place is paradise: no supervision, ample space to ride his motorcycle and light fires.  I mean, I was 17 once.  I get it.  I also get, in retrospect, that I myself was a bit of a hoodlum and in need of a smack upside the head from time to time.

Poor, sweet FL.  He's so damned peace-and-love about everything he just doesn't have it in him to break up a good party ("I remember 17 so well, and I can tell you that I was even worse," he said once) or yell at anyone.  I can see our future now: I'm gonna have to be the bad guy, the mean mom, the buzzkill...

We went and spoke to the kids and their mom last night at 11 o'clock, when we feared our windows were going to shatter due to the incessant pounding of bass coming from the woods.  The mom looked at us empathetically, but said only, "oh, I know, he's a handful..." before dismissing us with promises that the party would be over by midnight.  I think she might have been drunk.

Midnight came and went...we finally fell into an exhaustion coma around 3...only to be woken at 6 by a blood-curtling scream coming from right outside our window, followed by gales of laughter.

My heart stopped cold- it sucks being woken up by something like that- and I guess it scared the piss out of FL, too, because he did something I'd never seen before...

He went to the window and YELLED.  He yelled at them!  He lost his temper!  It was great.

I plotted the teenagers' extermination all morning, until I thought my brain would explode, and then I decided to go out.  As fate would have it, I ran into the grandmother in the drive way, and boy, did I give her a piece of my mind.  Really let her have it, my wobbly Italian fueled by injustice and headache and lack of sleep and shattered nerves.  I wasn't mad at her, was not at all angry or disrespectful, but I told her strait up, calmly and firmly:  enough is enough.  basta.  no more parties, no more motorcycles, no more fireworks, no more music, no more bar-b-qs, no more cars blocking the drive ways, parked in our grass.  They had blown it, lost all their neighborly lee-way, and the jig was up.

I'm pretty sure this is what I said, in Italian:

"This is not a bar of the locals," I told her.  "This is not an empty field of corn, a road made for bikes that ride fast in dirt, a warehouse abandoned.  This is our home, Bosc di Sot.  This is a place we share, and where we have peace.  If those boys forget their respect, leave their respect at their own house, but do not bring their respect here, then for me they are not so welcome.  Not here- at Bosc di Sot."

Something like that.  I think it sounded rather fine.

I ended by informing her that the next "tiny piece" of noise I hear from those kids will be enough for me to call the carabinieri.  She said she completely understood.  And then we hugged.  And she went inside to yank her grandson's ear and holler a bit and make lunch.  And I went downtown and bought myself a Vogue.


So, anyway, that's that.  We'll see what comes of it.  In the meantime...

The hunt for English schools is looking rather dire, as most all the websites clearly state that one must already have an Italian work visa in order to work.  Which just makes no effing sense.  But there are a few that I feel good about, so this afternoon I will call them and pester them and plan a time to go in in person and speak with them.

This weekend is the Festa dell'Uva, the wine festival in Cormons which welcomes in the harvest season in Collio.  Should be a blast.

Tomorrow I will recount for yall last Saturday night's great event, which was: an Italian wedding!  It was fab, primarily because all of my dreams came true and my heart exploded with joy the moment the waiters brought in PROSCIUTTO TOWERS for every table.  Almost cried.

Dirty Hands

FL came home for lunch looking like a chimney sweep.  He wouldn't let me photograph his sweet, soot-sodden face, but I snuck a snap of his hand.  On days like this his work is tough, and there's nothing nicer than to be able to make him a delicious, filling plate of pasta (oggi: aglio, olio e pepperoncini) and a fresh salad.  My efforts are very much appreciated, and I feel so lovely-Italian-wifey as I give him a kiss goodbye for the afternoon, skoot him out the door, then return to whatever the hell it was I was up to before the clock struck noon, which today was...unbedazzling the pear tree.

I felt bad about that poor old pear tree out back, like I had dressed him up as an aging queen, with strings of sparkly blue tinsel hung all about his bows and limbs.  The look just wasn't working for either of us.  He looked mortified and droopy, so I decided to move the glitz inside and give the old man a chance to regain his dignity as a truly masculine tree, bearer of great, green pears.

So now my staircase is covered in tinsel.  This house gets more and more festive with every passing hour.

I have relocated into the bathroom today, using the spacious area in front of the sink as my office.  The weather is just spectacular, and from this vantage point, perched high on the second floor of my Italian farm house, I can see the castle and church tower over on Mt. Quarin, hills full of rolling, lush vineyards and the tiny people working tirelessly to harvest the grapes, and a yard full of kitty cats down below.

What more could a girl ask for in a work space?  The mind just blossoms with creativity and graciousness.  My spirit itself feels bedazzled today.

Am a bit cranky with self, however re: have not done my yoga in 3 days time, nor have I taken advantage of this suddenly fresh, cool weather that has washed in to Friuli over these past couple of days.  Yesterday I was so very ill and exhausted after last week (re: last week of La Baia, Porchis pool, meaning FL and I each averaged about 1,000 spritz a night) that I had to force myself to LIE DOWN.  My throat was closed and tight, my muscles aching, my temples pounding, my nose running.  I forbade myself chores,  jogging,  plundering about the garden and tending to weak, ailing kittens (furbi, these kittens!  They always know how to get a morsel out of me).  I permitted myself a hot bath and a novel and, once evening came, an hour or two on my feet in the kitchen.  I made Tuscan peas with sage (not nearly as good as mama's) and a spicy chipotle chicken soup.  The protein and peppers did the trick, and, after 10 hours sleep, I awoke bright, fresh, good as new.

FL and I are on this wonderful program right now entitled: Operation 50 Euro Budget Till September 10th.  We've had to cancel all of our social engagements (we actually had a lot this week...no one ever asks us to do anything until we are too poor to say yes) and face the fact that we will be living on peas and rice (yum!) and figs from the garden and will have to dine al fresco to save electricity and forgo wine (thank God, something had to intervene, and it might as well be our bank accounts) and pricy cured meats (FL's parents house and refrigerator are always open, though, so no worries) and will have to spend all week holed up at Bosc di Sot playing Briscola and taking walks and doing other sorts of things that require no cash.

I am, honestly, thrilled.  My homebody-ish-ness has reached an all-time high but I've stopped trying to make myself feel weird about it (civilization, what?  Human contact?  Why?).  Instead am embracing having such an incredible little corner of the Earth all to myself (ourselves) to do as I please and be at peace.  This is, as Marion puts it, "the boondocks" and I am reveling in it.  Gardening is such a joy when done in lingerie!

Saturday we spent the day remodeling and buying odds and ends for the house (ergot the empty bank accounts).  The guest room needed some serious pizzaz if it was gonna be good enough for la mammina all next month.  We shopped about at some local boutiques and house good stores, and eventually made out way to the Ikea, where we got a great lamp and a new rug (20 euro!).  Pretty canvas curtains were hung and some photos were framed and voila!  The cutest guest room ever.

And, yes, I did draw that "frame" with chalk...

I think the copper light looks smashing!  T'was a risk, but I followed my gut and said, "no, Ikea...faux copper fixtures are not only for the kitchen."

Sunday FL and I took Marion and Kallah up to our favorite little hideaway on the Natisone river.  We drove in their James Bond convertible, the wind whipping all two inches of my hair this way and that.  The air was significantly cooler this week than last, leaving the water icy long after we'd stopped being able to feel our legs.  After a short dip and a period spent reclining on the rocks like lizzards we set out to find a place for lunch.  FL and I knew a spot a ways up the road, on the bank of the Natisone.  We had eaten their once before, last autumn, and knew it to be delicious, charming and beautifully located.  The weather was nice enough for us to sit outside on the porch, overlooking the rushing river below.  We ordered plates of pumpkin gnocchi, tossed in a sage butter sauce and topped with nutmeg and smoked ricotta.

*fun fact: ri-cotta means "twice cooked"

For our main course we ordered whole fresh trout, slow cooked over a fire and swimming in it's own juices.  The waitress explained that they were seasoned only with parsley, garlic and a little salt.  The taste was beyond words, as those babies must have been plucked strait from the river just hours before, their little bodies still full of fresh, frigid Slovenian water.

Each trout cost just 7 euro.  7 euro for a whole, perfectly cooked, exquisitely fresh fish!  Friuli the Bountiful, case and point.

Our perfect day rounded out with an afternoon spent at La Baia, Porchis pool, the last of the season.  It was packed, and the crowd was happy, sun-kissed and high on...white wine spritzers.  Marion, Kallah, FL and I played a few hands of Briscola under the shade of the patio, watching the sun die down into the pool.  Night fell, and the stars came out, and the lucky citizens of Cormons waved goodbye to another amazing summer gone by alla Baia.

This place is a paradise in it's own right, and until next season, we will miss it.

Till then, however...there's always Porchis!

also...

FL's mother gave us a bag containing 4 humongous porterhouse steaks (beef).  She claimed that they were "pork" and that she had no idea what to do with such an over-the-top cut of "pork" and that she figured that I was used to cooking such things so I could have them.  They had been frozen almost too long, she said, so she'd thawed them out for me and recommended I get creative.

Awesome, right?

But 4 porterhouse steaks, that's a lot.  thought about inviting guests over, calling in for back-up, we'd have a cook-out...I mean, what does a couple do with 5lbs of beef that needs to be cooked immediately?

And then I watched as FL systematically devoured 3 of them in a matter of about 30 minutes.  All I could do was watch, mouth agape, and refill his glass with Merlot.

I don't think this is normal, or heart-healthy, but I love him all the more for it.

As I said, the garden is bountiful.  Grapes growing over the arbor perfume the air, sweet and sticky.  We've got the "American" variety, which basically means "food grapes" as opposed to the oh-so-elite "wine grapes".  Those with the knowledge, however, will use these grapes, not as innocent snacks to slip into an elementary school lunch box, but as the key ingredient in a delicious, highly potent home-made wine called fragolino.

Now, fragolino does not translate to "grape", but to "little strawberry", as the perfume and tastes of these grapes gives nods to the sweet summertime fruit.  Due to legal restrictions- I believe resulting from dangerous, sub-standard wine production in the past as well as the suspicion that the uva Americana grape was responsible for the phylloxera plague which destroyed practically all of the native grapes in Europe in the 19th century- fragolino is illegal to sell (but not to make) in Italy.  If you ever do see it in stores, it's probably just an alcohol made from fermented fruit, often times not even strawberries, just doctored up with "strawberry flavoring" and is, therefore, not a wine, just a big ol' mess.  How lame to drink a faux-flavored liquor pretending to be a wine pretending to be a fruit (a tonic that just SCREAMS hangover, in my opinion), instead of just drinking the real thing: a wine made from grapes that have a flavor so incredibly reminiscent of strawberries that they had no choice but to name it as such.

FL's youngest brother makes fragolino every year, and a glass at it's peak is a celebration in and of itself. I'll stuff as many of the sweet grapes in my mouth as I can and give the rest to him to do as he will.

The grape harvest is going to be uncharacteristically early this year in Friuli-Venezia Giulia, probably taking place either at the end of August or the very tip of September.  The grapes are just about ready, due to a wet, hot summer.  Alessio at the Azienda Agricola Kurtin says he tested his and found the acidity to be right on course...just a few more days for the sugars to bulk up, and viola'.  The citizens of Cormons will be running about like sun-soaked ants, clipping the grapes that they have so carefully tended all season.  La Vendemmia is the best time of year here in Cormons, a time for celebration, hard-work, and sighs of relief that their precious grapes have come so far, filled out so perfectly.  Am thinking that I will write my dear friend Simone to see if I can come give them a hand clipping the grapes at the experimental farm.

We have more tomatoes, figs, prunes, apples, pears, hot peppers and zucchini then we know what to do with.  I've been making incredible salads, home-made tomato sauces, and snack plates of fresh fruits and prosciutto-wrapped figs.

Ah, I promised yall a recipe.

Mezzi Paccheri con Pomodorini Ciliegia alla Marinara

-fine sea salt

-5 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

-teaspoon red pepper flakes

-1 shallot, finely sliced

-2 pints cherry tomatoes, halved

-1/3 cup finely chopped Italian parsley

-1lb mezzi paccheri or rigatoni

Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil

In a large skillet, combine the oil, shallots and red pepper flakes.  Heat until the shallots become translucent.  Add tomatoes, parsley and a little salt and pepper.  Cook, stirring occasionally, for about 3 minutes, or until the tomatoes begin to wilt.  Take pan from the heat and cover.

Cook the pasta until al dente, and, when draining, SAVE 1/3 cup of the pasta cooking water.

Toss the cooked pasta and the reserved water in with the tomatoes.  Return to a high heat, and let come to a soft boil till water reduces just a bit and the sauce thickens.

Serve with a pinch of chopped parsley and some grated assiago, season with salt and pepper...

This is recipe is tweaked a bit from that you'll find in La Cucina Italiana.  I like mine spicier, and I almost always prefer the taste of shallots over garlic...

I wish I had a picture, but we keep eating it before I remember I'm supposed to be documenting everything.  If you see this season's La Cucina Italiana: it looks just like that.

Mandi, Biele!

That's "ciao, bella", in Friulano, and is a phrase which will be part of the name for my new website just as soon as I can figure out how in hell a website is created.  Have decided to ditch good ol' blogspot in favor of wide-opener, greener pastures.  Hopefully I'll have that spot up and running in the next couple of weeks, but until then I'll keep writing here.

Is too terrifying (i.e. hot and buggy) to go outside, so I've spent the day in my magical bedroom, fiddling about on the internet while the portable fan blows directly into my back.  Have been back home here in Friuli for exactly one week, and I can say that this is the most confident, comfortable and exciting return to date.  Regular readers of this site may recall other "re-entry" blogs that detailed bouts of shock, hysteria and homesickness which took place during the car rides home from the Venice airport.  There was one gem of a moment when I demanded to be TAKEN RIGHT BACK TO THAT PLANE, and clawed at the car window as though FL were a kidnapper and not my patient, blindsided lover.  

This time, however, I was nothing short of thrilled to find myself back in Italia, in Friuli, at Bosc di Sot, in the loving arms of FL.  This summer sort of set me strait.  I had a chance to really get back into the groove of things in Georgia, in the US, and came to a number of conclusions, including the following:

- I do not have children yet, so I best run amuck and lose myself in vineyards and mountain passes as much as I can before there is anything in my life to worry about other than what varietal of wine to drink with supper.

- I do not ever want to deal with dating BOYS ever again, because from what I witnessed in the NYC/DC/ATL/ATH scenes it seems just beyond excruciating, all the more so because WE ARE NOT IN COLLEGE ANYMORE, PEOPLE, so really, I am just thanking my lucky stars and God and whatever else there may be for FL.

- I am doing just fine, better than fine, and need not worry about my lack of a "career", one of which I imagine would have to be either handed to me via charity or taken by force in the US right now, as everything seems pretty much in the dirt job-wise, and my response to the "what was your degree in, again" question was continually met with either an awkward silence, laughter, or the even more painful, "and how much did you pay for that?"  Instead have recognized the possibilities for me to create my own career over here because, good grief, this place is an anthropological/culinary/travel-adventure goldmine.  I am capable, creative, flexible, inspired, and under no sort of time-restriction what so ever.  So let the juices flow!

- If I lived in the US again, I would get fat.  This is just something that I am sure of, and I wish to avoid it.  So Italy it is.

How wonderful to come back to the language, to the food, to the smell of the grapes ripening on the vines.  I missed having pasta at lunch, and spending the rest of the day figuring out wonderful ways to burn off the carbs.  So motivating, especially when there are miles and miles of hills to explore right outside my back door.  

The garden is a mess, but it's late August, so I am both reveling in the full-blown, over-grown wildness that summer has produced, and not touching it with a ten-foot pole.  The mosquitoes, hornets, spiders and gnats are just brutal, and until they go away I'm not even willing to go pick the vegetables without first slathering myself in Off and putting on a protective bee suit.  

Outdoor activities that I am not opposed to at the moment include mornings at Porchis pool, riding the hills of Collio on my new vespa (!!!!!!!!), and weekend trips up the river Natisone...

About a 20 minute motorcycle ride from Cormons is the town of San Pietro Al Natisone.  More of what one might refer to as a "hamlet" than a town, it is a charming place to stop for an espresso or a bite of fresh-caught trout before finding a secret little inlet, and taking a dip in some of the cleanest, shiniest, clearest, coldest waters I have ever had the pleasure of experiencing.

There are deep spots, and shallow spots...pools where the waters are calm and vast, deceptive in their depth as one can see the rocks clear as day even 10 feet down...and areas slight enough to recline on the smooth stones, letting the water trickle over your shoulders, your mouth an eyes free to breath and see...

On Sunday FL and I went up early in the morning and scouted out our own little private bend.  As there is nothing and no one for miles near the Slovenian border, we spurned our bathing suits and went in the river as we were the day God made us.  FL splashed and spied on passing trout, and I reclined on a particularly smooth bed of stones and let myself get clean.  In the afternoon, just as the sun began to scorch, we got back into our there-are-other-people-in-the-world-who-don't-want-to-see-this clothes and rode back down the mountain, fresh as a couple of blissed-out daisies, hankering for some grilled trout.

Tonight I am making supper for Marion and Kallah, who have come to Cormons for vacation.  I am excited for them to see the house, all the improvements that have been made since March when they first saw it, and also excited to teach them to play Briscola, the Sicilian card game which FL and I are both obsessed with and pretty decent at.  Will make, now for the 3rd time, the pasta dish which is featured on the cover of this season's La Cucina Italiana.  If you have an opportunity, and the cherry tomatoes, try the dish at home!  It is simple, quick, and unbelievably delicious.  I think the key, actually, are the really really ripe tomatoes, and the important-but-often-ignored tip to put some of the pasta cooking water into the sauce.  Makes such a difference!  Will post pictures and the recipe for the dish tomorrow, for those of you who don't have $6 to spend on a magazine.

am hanging out in FL's parent's living room while his mama gives him another haircut, his third in the last 6 weeks.  poor kid.  she keeps styling his locks similar to Hitler, as though a bowl was placed over his head after she parted his hair on the left side.  Sometimes he looks like Luke Perry, but mainly just like Hitler.  He's hoping today he can coach her into something a little less stupid. 

Tonight is the opening party for Porchis pool!  Am beyond thrilled, though the weather here in June is nasty, and no one is sure if we'll ever see the sun again.  Hoping the rain holds off, because lord knows I have been craving a refreshing spritz and lime chupa-chup since last September.

Me at Porchis Pool, 2 anni fa

Have began my course to become an English teacher!  Signed up to get my TEFL certification, which will hopefully help me on the Italian Job front.  The course seems great, actually.  Will work on it all this summer, and then return to Italy in August with avengance!

Going to help good ol' Simone this week in the vineyards.

That's all for now.  

XOXOXO  

Congratulations to Azienda Agricola Kurtin!  They won third place in the Los Angeles FairPlex wine competition for their red blend, Diamante Nero!  Hopefully one day in the future you can all find a bottle of this wonderful Merlot/Cabernet blend in United States stores and restaurants!

Sicily: Breathalizers, Ice Picks, Beef and Chocolate Pies

A View of Isola Bella, Taormina Bay

Oh, Sicilia!  What wonders abound!  I can say for sure that this trip registers at the other end of the "Sicily: Civilized or, Um..." spectrum from that which I experienced on my last trip (http://sheconsiderslightandheat.blogspot.com/2010/11/sicilia-pt1.html).  While the previous adventure racked up a whopping SIX blog posts worth of what-the-hell-place-have-I-stumbled-into-this-time stories, this newest excursion will probably fit, comfortably and relaxed, into one pretty post.  So here goes.

 Fruit, Taormina

The bus ride from the Catania airport was chill, literally.  The air conditioning blew into my face full blast, and while wishing that I had a sweater- or more than just a little cotton sundress- I could not bring myself to curse what is undoubtedly one of the most cherished, rare occurrences in Italy during the sweltering summer months.  I took the frosty air as a good sign, a sign that what I had heard told was true: that the "Catania side" of the island was a whole different world than the "Palermo side"; that the Catania side was the "money side", the side with things like air conditioned buses, paved highways and vacation villas.  I love this place already, I remember thinking, the goosebumps spiking my soon-to-be-sun-bleached arms hairs to attention as I greedily soaked up the wanton, wasteful air, snuggling into my surprisingly plush bus seat.  The bus pulled over about 30 meters from the sea-front condominium where we would be staying, and my eyes were startled and blinded by the bright sun and the glaring blue water as I disembarked. 

The condo that Aunt Cindy had rented was spacious and oddly decorated (though, personally, I love textured orange paisley wall paper).  The place felt retro and comfortable, and the view from the garden terrace was enough to knock the breath out of anyone who hasn't spent their whole life in a magical place like that.  The terrace overlooked Taormina Bay (Taormina being the name of the super swanky medieval hill top town overlooking the sea), in the middle of which stood a giant island.  Rocks speckled the water below, some just perfect for a person to swim up to and sun themselves on like a lizard.  There were two caves, two grotte azzurre at the base of the stone hill into which the condominium had been carved.  Boats drifted up, one after the other, allowing honey mooning couples and vacationing families the opportunity to swim in the glistening waters.  There was a private beach down below, open only for the condominium residents, which was blissfully, gluttonously abandoned this last week of May; we had it all to ourselves. 

 

View of the Emerald Waters, Taormina Bay

Took myself for a little swim, laid down on the couch for a little nap, patiently awaited the arrival of the ladies...

Marissa showed up first, a pretty bundle of kinetic energy in a teeny tiny little Spanish body.  Everyone was lost!  she exclaimed.  I had the parking lot remote!  she informed me.  We must run to get the ladies!  Her energy was catching and endearing, positive and brisk.  We found Aunt Cindy first, looking slimmer and blonder and more good humored than ever, clad in her essential summertime wardrobe: shorts and a simple T.  She had gone one way, but Paula had gone the other.  This place is a maze, we cried, as Paula, tired amusement in her eyes, a settled composure on her face, came walking up.  Despite the stresses of driving in Sicily and getting lost and not being able to pull into the condominium parking lot on a busy, curvy sea-cliff road she was totally held together and warm, and when she suggested that their arrival merited a chilly prosecco cocktail I knew that we were going to get along swimmingly.

Don't remember what I cooked that night.  A vegetable pasta, maybe?  At the grocery store we picked up some delightful, creamy cow's milk cheese, a container of delicious, spicy/sweet oil-soaked peppers, a mixture of locally cured olives, twisty, buttery fennel-seed bread sticks, and a variety of Sicilian wines, both red and white.

This first evening was when Aunt Cindy decided that we should all play a game called How Many Glasses of Wine Does it Take to Get Technically Tipsy and Then Technically Drunk and Then Technically Really Drunk.  For this game we were each given a little plastic nipple and took turns blowing into a breathalyzer (which Aunt Cindy, in a stroke of what I imagine was red-wine-inspired-genius, ordered off of Drugstore.com) directly after finishing off each glass of wine*.  Turns out I'm kind of technically a light weight.  The little chart that accompanied the breathalyzer informed us via numerical score of our current physical condition.  Pretty much after one glass I was registering at "not capable of making coherent decisions", and after three I was considered a danger to myself and others, technically completely unhinged.  Paula, who's stoicism is inherent to the point of physicality, channeled her ice-pick-wielding hero Steven Buscemi and kept her cool, never registering more than the numbers meaning "sober" all evening.  It's a good thing, too, cause the rest of us were fluctuating between "legally intoxicated" and "possible death", and were lucky to have someone nearby who could technically still work a telephone in the event of an emergency.  We sat under the stars on the garden terrace, listened to the soft waves hit the rocks below, chatted about all manner of things while Marissa played compulsively with the candles.  A good start to a good trip.

*I don't think we were using the breathalyzer correctly, as it clearly states in the package to wait twenty minutes after your last drink before blowing, and all we were doing was blowing freshly wine-soaked air out of our mouths, but it seemed really funny at the time to be reading a chart that told you that you weren't technically capable of reading anything at all. 

 Gamberoni alla Siciliana

We ate so well!  Every day someone or other ordered mussels, and they were unlike any mussels that I have ever seen or tasted.  Giant, fleshy creatures that tasted like the sea- not in that sickly, sea-food-gone-off way, but in a way that suggested that they had been caught just moments before, the salt water still sealed tight within their iron shells when they were thrown mercilessly into the pan, boiling white wine and lemon juice steaming them open.  We had gooey, savory pizza one day (Paula and I split one entitled "the devil"; the menu boasted that it was drizzled with holy oil), and monstrous, gleaming grilled prawns another.  We sampled penne alla Norma (a Sicilian specialty with a sauce of ricotta and eggplant), and spaghetti ai ricci di mare (sea urchins.  Steven Buschemi recommended it), fried calamari, a variety of gelati and Sicilian salads.  One day (two days...) I stuffed my face with the most heavenly "snack" in existence: arancini.  Sweet tom-a-to!  What a delight.  Fried rice balls, coated in bread crumbs, stuffed with cheese and a rich ragu' sauce.  The experience was transcendental, and caused my eyes to blur and my stomach to let out a hearty "thank you!" as I stood on the street in Syracusa and ate, the cheese from the arancini dripping purposefully, joyfully down my chin.

Our days were spent exploring various towns.  We traveled to the sweet town of Modica, where they are famous for their chocolate, having adopted a method of chocolate making from the Aztecs (I am not clear on how the Aztecs and the Sicilians crossed paths, but I imagine it had something to do with New World explorations).  The chocolate is grainy and stone ground, rich and dark, and flavored with chili, cinnamon, cardamom, vanilla, you name it.  The most exotic (eccentric?) treat is a beef and chocolate empanada.  Paula and I fell in love right away with the mere thought of such a thing; once we tasted them, we were hooked.  Syracusa was ancient but touristy and Taormina was glamorous in that way that fancy on-the-coast Italian towns often are, full of clean cobblestone and expensive shops and huge potted plants.  We took a drive one day all around Mt. Etna is search of wineries (much more difficult than you would think), and had a great lunch in the charming sea side resort town on Giardini Naxos.

 Someone in Marietta has a villa on Stromboli.  We must find out who and become their friend.

One fine day we woke up super early (was really very impressive) and caught a ferry to the island of Stromboli (pronounced strum-bo-lee, accent on the um).  The island is the furthest out of all the Aeolian, and is basically a giant active volcano.  There's a little town on the base on one said, but the rest is just natural park, beaches, and an area for the lava to flow (apparently the volcano erupts quite frequently- Paula and I saw a plume of smoke!).  All of the beaches are black- volcanic ash- and even the water shines black or a deep bruised blue.  The houses are precious, Greek-style white stucco with blue doors and iron fencing.  The day was spent wandering, and we found some wonderful stores full of dresses, shoes, purses and all manner of things lovely at beyond reasonable prices.  I snagged a gorgeous straw bag with leather lining, which is now my pride and joy.

 Black Sand Beach, Stromboli

Our evenings were spent at home.  I was given full reign over the kitchen, which I loved.  At the grocery store we would find fresh vegetables, meats and cheeses, and I made use of a variety of ingredients.  One evening I made swordfish, alla Siciliana, with salted capers, cherry tomatoes (ciliegine), wild oregano and oily black olives.  Another night I made risotto with asparagus and zucchini, stuffed chicken breasts with pancetta, oregano and gorgonzola, and scruptious, crispy bruschetta with fresh tomatoes and garlic.

Wine was an evening staple, a serene, tasty close to the days.  The ladies and I payed Briscola, the Sicilian card game, in teams of two.  Paula kept us in stitches with her dry wit, cracking jokes about this and that, as one round turned into another, and then another, and then another, until we were all so sleepy we could hardly keep our eyes open (midnight?).  These evenings were relaxing and pleasant, and I found myself hoping that one day, when I'm a bit older, I'll be lucky enough to (still) have good girlfriends, (still have) good travel buddies, a good job to take a nice, long, glamorous vacation from (must start working on that bit...), and (I'd like to think "still have" here as well) a good sense of humor with a heavy dose of tranquility to get me through even the most harrowing vacationing troubles (e.g. driving in Italy). 

 Sunrise Over Taormina Bay

One really awesome thing we did (among many) was go to the town of Savoca, just a little ways inland from Taormina, which is where Francis Ford Coppola filmed some of the Sicily scenes from The Godfather.  I cannot believe this place actually exists!  I got so excited I almost choked on my lemon granita!

 Bar Vitelli, where scenes from The Godfather were filmed...and where my favorite line in the whole movie takes place:  "Minchia!  Sei innamorato davvero!"

In total, the vacation to Sicily was fantastic: laid-back, beautiful, exciting...
I am eternally grateful to those lovely ladies- Aunt Cindy, Marissa and Paula- for everything they did for me, for the opportunity to see and explore this part of the world.  What with Marissa's warm, sweet energy, Paula's tension-busting wit and jest, and Aunt Cindy's easy, droll temperament, I couldn't have asked for anything more in terms of great travel company.

Except for maybe if Steven Buscemi and his ice pick had been there...

...but Paula made damn sure he was there in spirit.

Cherry Pie, American Thighs, etc...

I actually baked a cherry pie!  cannot believe it.  am a multi-talented genius.  FL will be so impressed, cannot wait for him to come home.  perhaps had better slip over to the store and grab a little tub of vanilla gelato to top it all off. 

Cooked down the cherries with sugar, brandy, ginger and cinnamon.

Last night I made tortellini soup, which is my no. 2 comfort food (white rice cooked in chicken broth and topped with a huge pat of butter being no. 1) and delicious even when it is sweltering hot outside.  FL had to take his shirt off halfway through the meal, we were both sweating bullets.  so yummy though.  we moved a giant rotating fan into our bedroom, and have been camped out there the past couple of nights, watching movies and chewing on ice cubes.  It keep threatening to storm, but alas- nothing gives.

the garden is lush and returning to it's naturally wild state, which i find romantic.  It takes so much energy and time just tending to the flower beds and the vegetable garden that we've neglected to mow the lawn or trim hedges for a couple of weeks now.  The sweet, gentle flowers like lillies and camillias have almost stopped blooming.  It's just too damned hot, but the roses are going strong.  also, FL bought me a lovely little gardenia bush which i cherish.  it has one pretty white flower right now, and the perfume fills the air.  I am keeping it moist in the sunshine, pamper pamper.

FLs mother presented me with a suitcase full of clothes for me to go through.  I was instructed to chose what I wanted and she said she'd give the rest to charity.  Really beautiful things from the 80's, nice italian designers, some simple house dresses, a lovely silk skirt, some bathing suits (80's bathingsuits are definitely time pieces).  was surprised they fit me, as she is the size of a pencil, but most of everything works very well.  perhaps clothes expand with age. 

am so very ready to part for sicily.  am going to bring a giant bag of cherries and a couple of bottles of wine for the ladies.

Throwing a little dinner party tomorrow for a few friends.  found a recipe for stuffed grilled squid on a wonderful blog from a lady in veneto (http://turosdolci.wordpress.com/2010/05/30/little-grilled-things-grilled-stuffed-calamaretti/), who has a collection of yummy italian recipes.  hopefully this relentless heat will let up and let in some oft breezes.  garden dining is so much more pleasant that way.

Ugh.  Is so hot.  Just attempted to make a rather heroic journey down to the bottom of the garden to bring up the wheelbarrow, and had to take a break.  Our sweet kitty (whom I have named Nana due to her sugary, incessant babbling) was lying in the shade under the cherry tree, and I thought that sounded like the best idea I'd heard all day.  

What to do with all of these glorious cherries??  My mother has sent me the recipe of a friend, whom she says make the best cherry pie she's ever had.  I'll have to scrounge up a pie tin.  Baking is not my forte (roasting is a much easier oven-based activity), so we'll see how it goes.  I believe that one in my life I made a really killer apple pie, and then decorated it with sugar-coated violets and cinnamon swirls.  Washed down with whiskey, accompanied by a sharp cheddar cheese...I don't know if goodness comes in any greater form.  If the pie doesn't work out, the original plan was just to pack them all into mason jars and top them with grappa.  Let them sit like that for a few months, and whoo, what a treat!

This is one of the kitties.  He lost his ear somehow, and I think it makes him look tuff.

The leg of wild boar, by the way, was wonderful.  I think FL was really very impressed with self.  Braised it, as I said, with cherries, wild strawberries and chocolate, and then served it over polenta.  It wasn't dry at all, which I think was a benefit of the brine.  Tonight I'm going to roast a chicken and some potatoes, make a big, fresh salad and slice up some yummy Montasio cheese.  A note about Montasio:  it is a cows milk cheese made here in Friuli, up in the mountains in Carnia.  When aged 5 or 6 months, it has a sweet, firm yet milky taste, with just the right amount of bite.  It melts fabulously and is really wonderful for snacking.  I say this because I know that it can be found at Harry's/Whole Foods, and I recommend picking some up the next time yall are there.

Saturday I leave for Sicily, and it couldn't come at a better time.  So looking forward to a week in the gorgeous sun, hanging out with my wonderful Aunt Cindy and her friends.  Will bring my deck of cards to teach them Briscola, and will be sure and cook lots of yummy dinners and impress them all as expert guide and translator.

FL's mother gifted us an entire leg of wild boar, and I've been wracking my brain for 3 days trying to figure out how to cook it.  I brined it last night in red wine vinegar, salt and sugar, and added cloves, cinnamon and tart cherries from our garden, which we have in spades.  Thinking of rubbing some pepper and chocolate on it, then braising it tonight, slowly, with red wine, juniper berries, wild cherries and strawberries.  served over polenta, with some roasted root vegetables on the side.  i told FL he can invite a friend over to eat if that friend brings a bottle of red wine to share.  i'm thinking something from Piemonte, or Tuscany, something earthy and whimsical...

i meant to write more those days i was in Alto Adige, but I was usually so exhausted at the end of the day that it took all of me to not just cram my mouth full of sweet, smoky speck and crawl in bed and sleep at 8pm.  The work was tough, but rather meditative, and I felt as though I were floating through a dream most of the time.  The family was so dear, and so kind, and a really wonderful girl from Berlin showed up after a few days.  A couple of mornings we took horse rides at dawn, walking the gorgeous ponies up the steep mountain slopes, our eyes blinded by the rising sun shining on the snow-capped mountains across the valley.  At another time I feel like I could have just settled down and learned a little german and hid out from the world for a couple of months...but i wanted to go home!  I missed FL and our little life, I missed our garden and watching things bloom, new flowers and fruit buds and the bright green tips of the pines.  It was a wonderful feeling, really, and after a week in Sudtirol I took my leave.  The family was gracious about it and said they'd miss me, that I was welcome back anytime.  I sure hope I make it back some day.

As for now things are running smoothly.  the trees are full of cherries and the grass is covered in strawberries.  we hung pretty pictures and planted some vegetables and herbs.  Two of my good friends from athens are gonna pop in for a visit this week, which is unbelievably exciting.  There's a huge festival this weekend in Cormons, Viarte, where all the houses on Mt. Quarin open their door and throw parties, with food, music, drink, games, etc.  People start at the bottom and make their way up the mountains, stopping in here and there.  At the top there's a big bonfire, and from what I remember 2 years ago it gets rather rowdy.  Glad I'll have some wild athens girl company for this one.

and in less than 2 weeks:  SICILY!!!

mountain goat

My hands are raw and calloused, rough.  They say you can always tell a lady by her hands, but I've admitted to myself long ago that I am no lady.  That doesn't mean I'm slovenly white trash or anything, just that I've got a bit of an edge.  I may burp loudly after a big meal, I may have chipped nail polish, but by God, I never find myself up to my elbows in dirt without lipstick on my lips and mascara on my lashes.
 
Just because a girl has to shovel horse poo doesn't mean she needs to look like it herself.

Things here are simple and easy, and when I have any energy what so ever I will write it all down.  This pint of beer in front of me is half-full, as is my battery.  Today I went with Stephan, the youngest brother (there are three) up a mountain to another one of their apple orchards.  This one was situated on a series of terraces carved into the mountain side, each terrace with a 20ft drop between them, and only a teeny tiny set of stone steps WITH NO RAIL leading down to each one.  I had to crawl down on my butt, eyes closed, due to my acrophobia, but what made this really super fun was that I had to bring along a 75lb bag of fertilizer!  I moved myself one step down, breathed for a minuted, then reached behind and lugged the bag down after me.  I got about 5 steps down before Stephan told me not to worry about it and just launched the bag down onto the ground. 

The view was glorious, the air was fresh, and when we were thirsty we went to a ripply little stream tumbling down the mountain and drank icy, clear water out of our hands. 

Bed time, for now.

greetings from Alto Adige: home to more apple juice than they know what to do with

am sitting in the cafe' of the LandAnna BioHotel (whatever that means) in Silandro, Alto Adige, Italy, sipping on a glass of what i am pretending is Gewurztraminer (probably Sauvignon, but it's the house wine and WWOOFers can't be choosers), listening to Italians who are really Austrians babble in German (my brain feels like scrambled eggs).  The decor is rather dated, but cozy in a Austrian way- lots of wood paneling and beer steins.  Out the window the sun is setting on some real damn mountains, like, the actual Dolomites, reducing sweet Cormons to a town built in the shadow of a pimple in the scheme of things.  The sun glows pink on the sloping snow, beds of clouds gather here and there, closer to us here on Earth than the top of that glassy beast, Mt. Snarz.  This place is for sure a slice of heaven, touched by God, majestic.

The hotel is situated in the middle of town, though the town came long after the structure of the hotel itself.  Originally a farm house, the sprawling stone structure was built over 1,000 years ago.  Over time bits and pieces were added on, other people gathered around, and the town of Silandro (Schlanders in Tedesco) came into being.  The same family has owned this house for 400 years, and 25 years ago turned it into an organic farm.  These days, it is a bio-hotel that offers cozy rooms, a three-star restaurant, horse back lessons and trail riding and (!!!) a petting zoo.  It is a splended place, in the center of a splended little town, surrounded by staggeringly high mountains that offer mountain climbing, skiing and some serious hiking.

Work is lovely- today we spent hours in the apple orchard, planting baby trees in among the 2,500 that are already established from past seasons.  Horses roam around, and bunnies hop.  I mucked a stall today!  It felt good.

Rooming is cozy and right up my alley- I have my own little nook in an apartment right behind the hotel.  There are 5 german kids and 1 boy from Switzerland who rent rooms in the aparmtent while they go to the local sculpture school, giving the place the laid-back, free spirited energy of a hostel.

All in all, I am doing very, very well here.

Will keep readers posted, but for now it is 9pm and I am one tired duck.  A feather bed is calling my name.

Primavera

Springtime at Bosc di Sot.

It's warm enough to work in the garden in tiny shorts and a tank top, and freckles are popping up along my shoulders by the dozens.  I think they're so cute.

On a particularly sunny day this past week I took some photos from my bathroom windows.  Since then, the hills have gotten even greener.  The vineyards lacing Collio have begun to bloom, covering the harsh sandy earth with young, bright, snappy vines and patches of wild flowers.  Yesterday, thinking my lot out here in the country blighted only by the fact that I am now so far from Mt. Quarin (i.e. my beloved wandering ground), I took a walk over to Pradis.  Cormons (and Collio as a whole) is divided up into little areas, quartieri.  Little mini regions within a region, like...ooh, perfect example:  like athens, with it's Boulevard district, Normaltown, Cobbham, etc.  Anyway, Pradis is an area just over from us, a gorgeous plot of rolling hills, dappled valleys and rustic Villas.  Some of the best wineries in Cormons sit over on this side of town, and there's a road that winds all the way around Pradis leading into downtown Cormons.  I walked this road and, turning left away from Cormons, followed a sign that pointed up into the woods.  The sign read "Le Vigne Alte", and I could only see the path for about 100m before it got swallowed by trees.  This path led up into the "higher vineyards", surrounded by dense forest.  It was quiet and cool and untrampled, and I could hear wildlife stirring on all sides.  I walked for over an hour in one direction, having no idea where I would end up but knowing that it would be marvelous.  Finally, I came out at the top of a high hill, at the edge of a vineyard, overlooking the Castello.  There were so many other paths to take, some winding up, some winding down.  I'll have plenty to explore out here in my new neck of the woods.



This is the view East.  In the early mornings, when I wake up to go to the bathroom, I see the sun rising hot pink over the black mountains. 

 This is the view North.  There's Pradis and Le Vigne Alte, and the to the left is Cormons.  In the evenings, when I am taking my bath, I can see the sun cast it's soft pink glow over Mt. Quarin.  The Julian Pre-Alps in the background stick up stark white like hunks of silver, jagged ice.



Darling Marianne left this past Sunday, so Saturday we took a rather grand Tour of Friuli to give her a good idea of what this region has to offer (alot).  We had already gone to the sea the weekend before, to the island of Grado, where we had lunched on a chilled platter of fresh seafood in a charming restaurant at the marina, and walked the ancient-mixed-with-new streets of that city by the sea.  Before that we had spent the morning walking through a national park, a wetland reserve that boasts miles and miles of trails around lakes and swamps.  Wild horses graze (seriously), white and grey, and there are all sorts of birds, fish, plants and other animals to watch.  Its an amazing place.  I think we all felt a little like 12-year olds, our eyes wide with curiosity and awe when a beaver (or some animal similar to, a Friulian cousin) hopped into the water and swam toward it's dam, or a colt skipped along the swampy beaches.

So that was the first weekend, and then this past weekend we took her North.  There is a town called Sauris where they are famous for their artisinal beer and salami.  The drive there takes about an hour and a half, about 45 minutes of which is windey mountain road, hairpin curves along the sides of deep gorges, those stunning silver mountains that seem so close in sweet, rolling Cormons suddenly looking up triumphantly, aggressively right before our eyes.  The air turns cold and thin, and the atmosphere is tranquil, Alpine, chilly and serene.  We stopped at a gorge where the water had been dammed.  On one side there was a staggering drop, far enough to not be able to see the bottom clearly, which caused my head to spin.  On the other side there was a lake of bright green water, not yukky marsh green, just ice cold green.  It was the color of sea glass, soft and frosty, but electric, and the surface was impossibly still.  The white, snowy mountains surrounding the lake made the view rather surreal, and had it not been for the bitter cold against our silly, unprotected skin we may have very well stood there in a blissful trance for all eternity.

We reached Sauris and had lunch.  Yummy, traditional Friulano fare, and the view out the cozy restaunt window afforded a scene cut from a story book: a steep, grassy hill, grazing horses, snow capped mountains, little wooden houses of the style that Heidi must be partial to.  We just kept shaking our heads, disbelieving that a place like this exists in this crazy world.  So untouchable, so pristine, and Marianne wondered out-loud what the town had been like before someone came and put that big road in, the road to reach civilization and a world of commerce, high-speed internet and hairsprays.  We walked about the town for a bit, but became winded rather quickly, all of us taking comfort in the fact that it was not our fault that we couldn't breath after a short hike up a hill- the air was too damn thin.  I had a light headache, a sting in my chest, and we decided to check out the surrounding towns from the comfort of the car.

We came back down the mountain, our lungs refilling themselves, our energy boosting, and we decided to keep exploring.  FL took us to a lake that same color of electric sea glass, a lake that was perfect for (super cold) swimming in the summers.  We drove through a town that celebrates butterflies, almost every house decorated with a colorful mural of a farfalla.  Heading back east through the mountains we reached the medieval town of Venzone.  Once a real fortress town, harboring a real king in a real castle, built out of giant stone and surrounded by a real moat, it is now a pretty much perfectly preserved little city, an isolated bit of history set in the mountains of Friuli.  They are famous for their products made with pumpkin, and indeed, every halloween the town holds a pumpkin festival, complete with medieval costumes, knights on horseback and hundreds of jack-o-lanterns lining the streets.  There's a tiny museum in a church inside the walls that houses 5 mummies- random people who's corpses were attacked by a strange parasite that preserved their bodies forever.  They have teeth and fingernails, withered, well, parts and tufts of hair.

After Venzone we took a gorgeous drive through Collio Orientale to the city of Cividale, once a seat for the Romans and temporary home of Julius Cesear.  The name for this region is derived from the history of this fair city: Cividale was once known as Forum Juli, a name which was eventually garbled into Friuli, which is now the title for the northern, more mountainous areas where the Romans once held court.  Cividale is a beautiful, aged city on the banks of the Isonzo river, with thousands and thousands of years worth of history tucked away in secret monasteries, creepy underground graves (created by the Celtics) and Roman ruins.  We toured a bit, seeing sights and marveling at the graceful, historical powerhouse that is Cividale, and then decided to stop for a drink.  I saw a sign offering La Birra di Sauris, the mountain town where we had lunched earlier.  As our heads at the time had been too light to even walk straight, no less drive back down the mountain, we had opted out of drinking the local brew.  But now, halfway back to sea level, we decided to give it a go.  There was a little bar built into the side of a building, just a window with stools lining the street.  I ordered us each a beer, and the man behind the bar, who was flipping sausages on a tiny grill, handed me a plate stacked- literally, stacked- with fatty, salty goodies.  "It comes with the beer," he said, and chuckled at our shocked expressions.  It was a plate that God himself could not have improved upon, as far as I was concerned.  Polenta, salami, sausage, thick-cut pancetta- it was by far the most delicious snack plate ever offered along side a chilled beer, and we all just giggled and ate it up with our fingers, shaking our heads at the wonders the day had held.

For dinner, we did what was the only option to end what had been a perfect, perfect day: we went to Sale e Pepe.  This trattoria, tucked away in a tiny town miles and miles from civilization, is a culinary goldmine.  FL and I had eaten there once before, in the autumn, and we figured it was now spring and time to come check in on the seasonal dishes.  We ordered wild asparagus and deer salami, spatzle made of nettle with a wild boar ragu' and gnocchi in the shape of flowers, stuffed with white asparagus and local cheese.  For the main course we split two pork dishes, one with a delicious sauce made from a wild red berry and the other with dried apple and figs.  Dessert and grappa came afterward, and we drove home through the pitch black mountains, the moon half-full, glowing and guiding our way.


What we have here is...some photos of one of the incredible dinners that we made while Marianne was here.  Well, rather, one of the incredible dinners that Marianne made...

 Carpaccio of swordfish, wrapped around a bed of arugula and shaved fennel

 

 Calamari, marinated and cooked to perfection

 Salad of baby shrimp

               

off the grid

aaaaaaand we're in!

Bosc di Sot, that is.  Finalmente!

It all just sort of came together.  I put several coats of paint on the guest room walls (lilac: the only color I could imagine pairing with the hideous yellow floors), the bathroom got FINISHED, debris and bits of rubble were carted away, and the TV was cleverly moved in a way which blocks the view into the unfinished living room (we are now camped out rather cozily in the dining room).  The house has miles to go, but as of now it is livable and, if I do say so myself, incredibly charming.

The bathroom is by far the most glorious room in the house, and possibly, as far as I am concerned, the entire world.  Simple white and grey tile, rich lime walls, a killer bathtub, gorgeous exposed wood beams, and the views...the heart just swells.  I am proud beyond words of FL, just brimming with it.  He made this bathroom rock, I think to myself as I float blissfully in a hot bath watching the sun cast pink shimmers over the distant blue mountains, the peaks of the fruit trees in the garden poking into the view out the window.  I am a lucky duck, and that man is t.a.l.e.n.t.e.d. 

My wonderful friend Marianne is in town right now.  Our first house guest, and really the most perfect one we could even hope for- she's been WWOOFing for 6 months now, so the tiny inconvenience of us not having a bathroom door (that'll come out of next months paycheck, but, you know, we're all friends here) doesn't phase her what so ever.  And she's a whiz in the garden, which makes the task- if I can put it that simply- of getting the yard in order not at all overwhelming anymore.  We've hacked weeds, uncovered trees eaten by kudzu, gotten the grass down to a comfortable level, identified plants and flowers, and basically rendered what was as of a week ago a flush, spring jungle an enchanting, rambling garden.  She set me up an amazing compost pile (or the beginning of one, a starter compost pile), and informed me that what I thought was a ground cover of boring weeds was actually a huge patch of strawberries!  We've been making amazing meals in my robin's egg blue kitchen, drinking exquisite glasses of wine in quaint Cormons, hiking the bright green mountains, exploring beautiful Udine, relaxing with cups of Earl Grey tea (in those oh so perfect china mugs Marion got me) and gardening (gardening!).  Saturday we're all gonna ride up into the mountains, to a town called Sauris, where they are famous for making salami, pancetta, beer, etc.  It's suppose to be snowing up there, so I'll have to dig out the winter coat that I so ceremoniously packed away last week when the sun starting shining hard enough to give me a little sunburn.

In total...the whole concept of a "quality of life" index suddenly makes sense, and I have a feeling the index for life at Bosc di Sot is through the red tile roof.