I could tell it was well into morning on Sunday when we woke up, as there was a harsh line of hot sunshine slicing over my shoulder and forearm.  Sometimes, when the wind blows at night, the shutters move just slightly, creating a perfect gap for the position of the 9am sun.  This is my alarm clock many a morning, and as by 9:30 the sun has moved enough to send the sword of brightness up from my arm and onto my terrorized eyes, I tend to be grumpy upon waking.

FL rolled over and tapped my shoulder.

"Grr," I said.

"Do you know what I was dreaming about," he purred?

Oh, Jesus Christ, I thought.  Not this morning.  I had eaten enough spaghetti Carbonara the night before to feed a pack of wild dogs, and it was sitting in my hot stomach, dense.  I wanted to kick off the covers and stretch out and lay, hide from the sunlight, cool down, digest.  I froze and pretended to still be asleep.

"Piccola mia..."  He nuzzled my ear with his nose.  "Do you know what I dreamed?"

"Baaah, no.  Yes!  Probably.  I'm very hot, and grumpy.  Please leave me alone."

"I know something that will make you ungrumpy," he said, sounding so sure of himself I opened my eyes just to roll them.

"Alright, Mr. Wonderful, what's that?" 

"Eggsina'ol!"

Ah!  The sweet man wanted eggs-in-a-hole.  Good plan.

"Wait!" I cried, "Do you not have to go jackhammer?"  I had been sadly expecting the moment when he would arise to head off to work at Bosc di Sot, leaving me feeling v. lonely and unhelpful under the covers.

"I'd do a better job of that here, no?"  Ah.  There it was.  I grinned in spite of myself.  "No, piccola, today we're just going to relax, I think."

"Whoo-hoo," I whooped.  "Let's go get you some breakfast!"

We carried our giant American coffee maker, plus filters and Illy coffee, up to the kitchen.  I had FL slice two thick pieces of ossocollo (substitute for country ham) which I fried up in a pan.  In went a huge chunk of buffalo-milk butter, a little salt, and two slices of Ciabatta, holes cut out in the center with a wine glass.  Eggs went in the middle, seasoned with fresh ground pepper, pepperoncini and oregano, cooked just long enough to secure their suspension in the bread, yolk fluid and glorious.  I let the holes toast until golden, and then served up the prettiest plate of eggs-in-a-hole that I had ever seen.  FL set down a pitcher of fresh orange juice (he loves juicing oranges, I guess the same way i love peeling eggs), and I took a yogurt out of the fridge.  The coffee steamed, I spiked mine with goats milk.

Sipping my coffee, spooning my yogurt, watching FL devour his breakfast, I felt waves of love (as I always do when watching him eat), and said, "Amore, you are going to fit in so perfectly in America."

"I know," he said, and put a yolk-soaked cut of hole into his mouth.  He chewed thoughtfully.  "It's just amazing, you know?"

"What, darling?"

 "How good the hole is."  He shook his head and mopped up more yolk with another piece, looking at it admiringly.  "It's the best part."

"Yes, darling."

It was a gorgeous day.  From the kitchen window we could see up over Mt. Quarin, the sky an electric blue, streaks of clouds.  Feral cats played in the garden, no longer a nuisance, it was all too idyllic.  The first hints that spring exists, maybe not too far away.  We decided to take the motorcycle out.  FL put on his leather pants (so incredible), and we were off.

For hours we rode, out through Collio, around the hills, through valleys.  The grass was still a winter-parched yellow, the grape vines still bare and cold, rows and rows of sticks and wires.  The Julian Pre-Alps peeked up crystal clear over the horizon.  Collio at the cusp of Spring, I thought.  It was so warm.  People were out along the road, walking, riding bikes.  We made it into Slovenia and just kept going.

I love riding on the motorcycle.  It's an amazing place to think, and everything seems to come so clear and steady.  Being a passenger on a motorcycle offers a unique opportunity to feel and see adventure in a relaxed state.  I don't have to exert myself, the thrills just come at me, and all the while I'm snuggled up and secure on FL's back.  FL says he can practically feel my mind whirring, can feel my thoughts, he says there's so much energy holding on to him.

We stopped at a roadside store that sells homemade products made from honey.  There were bee houses (hives?) all around, and the shop sold soaps, shampoos, perfumes, grappa, cookies, and even salami made with their honey.  I picked out a beautiful bottle of liquor made from honey, lemon, ginseng and other such things.  I'll save it for when Marion and Kalla come to visit.

The sun began to set so we made our way to Porchis.  I told Fabio that I had recently learned to play Briscola, to which he insisted that we try a hand.  Lord, did I get schooled.

"Count!" He screamed.  "You have to have to count, always!  How many cards do I have?  You have to know!  You have 32, I win already, do that thing with the cards."

By "that thing" he meant shuffle.  The Italians are awed, absolutely awed by my ability to shuffle.  They just sort of put them in a pile on the table and mix them around.  My shuffling makes me seems like a Briscola shark, but apparently I'm way off the mark.

"COUNT!"

Every turn Fabio would whoosh in, win the hand, take the cards, hollering, "Big mistake!  You know why?" and poor me, muttering outloud trying to keep up with the math, "wait, 4, so 28, no 30, plus, wait, 11?  11?!"

The last hand had a crowd of old men at my back, hollering at Fabio and pointing at which card I was to play, jabbering in Friulano, cursing, laughing, encouraging, advising.  I won the hand, but I was beat.

"Aha, frute," Fabbio lovingly boasted, "sei bravissima!  Just a little practice, that's all.  The key to Briscola is to count and curse."

Exhausted, FL and I curled up by the fireplace.  It was so warm, the sun so pink through the windows, I began to drift off slightly, so slightly...

Hunger caught up with me.  It was Sunday night, afterall, and I won't lie: I had been thinking about that asparagi/brie/prosciutto cotto pizza all week.  Back we went to Leon d'Oro, my heart pumping from excitement and food lust.  This time I tried a variation: radicchio di Treviso, salsiccia e brie (I have a soft spot in my heart for radicchio ever since I spent that week with that sweet farmer in Veneto), and it didn't disappoint.  A sorbetto to boot, and I was a happy camper.

At home we snuggled up, warm again warm again under the duvet, to watch Rebel Without a Cause and sip chamomile.  I was sleepy in the best way:  after a full day, on a full tummy, in the crook of a strong arm.