Podere Trove: A Three Week Retrospective

November 18, 2007
Today marks my three-week anniversary on the farm. Exactly a year ago, I was on a Frontier Airlines flight from Denver to NYC, hiding behind big sunglasses, ridiculously hungover from the closing night party at the Denver Film Festival. This morning I fertilized olive trees. Here’s to life’s fluid evolution…

I am hosting a Thanksgiving fest at the farm on Thursday. Barbara called the butcher last night and he is on a mad search for a Turkey. He’ll let us know what he comes up with on Monday morning. We’ve invited a mix of Toscana friends new and old… guests so far include Team Olive, Alberto & Anna, and Robert & Elizabeth. I have yet to meet Robert, husband of Elizabeth (artist & children’s book author) but he runs a hot air balloon company, and word is that he eats and drinks like a true Englishman. I have put an urgent request into my mother and sister to email me very, very explicitly detailed recipes, as I am now completely in charge of this dinner. I have, however, successfully recruited Team Olive as my sous chefs.

It’s been an interesting shift in dynamic since the boys arrived. Or perhaps, better said, an interesting shift in my own personal experience. When I was here alone with Barbara & Ugo, every observation, every perception, every conversation, and every new, silly, tense, or intimate moment, somehow belonged to me. And now I’m going back to kindergarten to learn how to share. I am not quite sure how to describe the five-some that is Max, Adam, Barbara, Ugo, and myself, though I know that I find it as natural and comfortable as I do odd. Sometimes I want to slam my head against the wall (very hard stone) because no one seems to fit any role in my Tuscan fairytale. But more often, I thank and embrace them for enabling a alternate version ( read: black comedy) of my fairytale to exist. Life is made up of all kinds. And sometimes it’s hard to let anything resembling a cloud move into a clear and perfect setting. As ideal and romantic of a niche as I may have found here, the more it becomes my own niche, the more it becomes real life. And with that shift, people’s complexities, secrets, insecurities, and fears begin to color the landscape. Making for a different, though richer, more truthful landscape.

A Three Week Retrospective: Addendum

I have come to the big city for a quick visit to the internet café. Only have a few moments, but must briefly attempt to detail the past 24 hours. I think they may sum up the fabulously bizarre reality that has become my life here.

10:30am: I help Adam clean and roll up the olive nets. Back in the box they go until next year when a new helper takes on my previous role of olive net seamstress.

11am: Armed with book, journal, wallet, and my feet, I depart Podere Trove. I am taking the morning off to stroll into town and spend a little alone time without the fellow campers and head counselors. I am also in need of some slight retail therapy. Previously, I have spotted a shop in Petroio (the only one) filled with all handknit sweaters, linens, etc. I am at the farm without gloves, and am hoping to satisfy my desire for something new while solving my need to warm the ol’ olive picking hands.

11:02am: I bump into Anna, Alberto, and their two friends who are visiting from Milan. They are out walking the dogs and we meet on the path just down the hill from the farm. They invite me to come over whenever I am done having “Katie” time, and we decide that I will come by for lunch.

11:30am: The knit shop is closed.

11:31am: I enter Palazzo Brandano. The four-star hotel and restaurant that happens to be in Petroio. I have come here a few days before with Adam, and we meet the managers, Osmond and Jorgen, who give us free drinks and, since it’s off season, welcome and encourage our company. During this initial visit, I notice that the bathrooms are equipped with heat lights, and I make a mental note to utilize Palazzo Brandano as often as possible. And so, I am back. Jorgen makes me a cappuccino and I sit in the sun on the terrace with my book, and it is like looking at a painting, except it’s all real. When I ask Jorgen what I can pay him for the cappuccino, he responds, how about a dinner invitation? So, I invite Jorgen to the farm for the Thanksgiving fest, but he cannot come, and becomes incredibly red and embarrassed that he has actually asked me to dinner. I also learn that the knit shop is never actually open. You have to call one of the old ladies on the phone or physically knock on their door if you want them to open the shop for you to browse.

12:15pm: I walk to Alberto & Anna’s with my red riding hood on. I only take one wrong turn on the path, and get barked at by one dog.

12:30pm: Anna and her friend, Antionella are in the kitchen preparing lunch. Alberto takes Phillipo (Antionella’s husband) and me downstairs to the test cellar. Now I am tasting the wines of 7 different grape barrells for breakfast. Anna and Alberto have coined me “The Wine Spectator” (they actually introduced me in a restaurant the other night as “The Wine Spectator from New York City” and we received a second bottle of wine), all of which I find ridiculously amusing and really quite flattering.

12:45pm We have tasted the wines and discussed their changes and current stages. I am sufficiently giggly.

1pm: We sit down to a delicious lunch of pasta and frittata with truffles.

3pm: With a full stomach and quite a few glasses of vino in my system, I call Barbara & Ugo to tell them I will not be of much use to work on the farm in the afternoon. Especially if it involves driving a tractor. They are also taking the afternoon off to visit a neighboring town, so all works out perfectly.

Between 3pm and 8pm:
Alberto takes out the guitar and our concerto begins. Phillippo (who speaks no English) and I sing Pink Floyd and an entire array of Eric Clapton songs. I am once again translating the meaning of “Wish You Were Here” and “Stairway to Heaven.” I have somehow been deemed lead singer. Anna comes downstairs with her hair in foils. Antoinella is a hairstylist in Milan, and has just put fresh highlights in her hair. There is more singing. I am told to stay for dinner and am offered a shower. My hair could be used to make olive oil, so I accept without much in the way of hesitation. Somehow we all find ourselves back in the kitchen talking, cooking, and opening more wine.

8pm: A light pasta dinner. More vino.

9:30pm: My hip hop moves have made their debut at my first Tuscan dance party. Anna’s ipod has us dancing to the likes of Ricky Martin, Madonna, and Jennifer Lopez.

10pm: I am choreographing a routine to “Thriller” while translating the meaning behind Michael Jackson’s lyrics. Where is the camera?

Fast forward to 8:30am this morning.

I wake up and think maybe I am still inebriated. The wine and grappa fest continued well past midnight. (At 2am however, I did manage to find my way to the clothesline and locate my sweatpants, which thankfully were dry, or I would have been sleeping in jeans that tend to be a bit restricting these days)

10am: Group field trip to the Tuesday morning market in town.

10:30 am: Ugo and I simultaneously feel the magnetic pull to the porchetta sandwich stand. I think either I have had one too many porchetta’s, or am slightly losing my mind (or both) because I am certain that I recognize the man behind the counter. I mention this to Ugo and he says, of course, that is the waiter from the restaurant we went two weeks back. He and his mother also own the porchetta stand. Ugo orders us each a glass of vino with our sandwich, and whaddayaknow, I seem to be drinking wine for breakfast again. For 5 Euro, Ugo and I each have a panino and 2 plastic cups of wine (as he felt the need for a refill). We do the vegetable shopping for the Thanksgiving dinner feast, and I buy a pair of fleece gloves. Minor retail therapy accomplished and major happiness for my hands.

Noon: I am at the supermarket, walking the aisles with Ugo and my blackberry, scanning my Thanksgiving ingredient list courtesy of my mother and sister. I actually find pearl onions in Italy! And have bought so many sacks of potatoes, we may be eating them through December.

Now am finishing up at the internet café and then back to the casa. The guest list for Thursday has increased to 11, and I have two days to learn how to cook…

Olio, Olio, Olio

I am no longer a virgin olive picker. The first crate of Podere Trove 2007 olives was successfully picked by yours truly November 9, 2007.

Five days and a finely trained pair of picker’s hands later…it is a very rainy and cold Toscana Wednesday. No picking today. We were planning to finish the harvest by days end and to take the olives to the press tomorrow, but the skies have told us otherwise. Instead, we spent the morning bottling wine, and the afternoon zoning out in front of the fire. I’m still in my pajamas. The weather gods are threatening snow tomorrow, so we may be in store for another day of greasy hair and comfort food here at Camp Olive.

The crop is actually a bit disappointing this year. Very few olives. Mostly climate and drought related, but also due in part to the lack of pruning and maintenance to the trees after last year’s harvest. With under 5 crates picked, we will be lucky to get 20 kilos of oil, in comparison to the 120 kilos they got last year. In other words, don’t wait by your door for a FedEx bottle of Olio to arrive.

Team Olive ’07 is quite a laugh. Adam, Max, Ugo, and the lone lady, moi. Adam is a 27 year old Aussie, easy-going, patient, good guy. He has been living and working in London for the past year, and just completed the Camino, the 800K, 37 day walk across northern Spain before arriving here. In reference to the title of this blog, I will also note that Adam has a long-term girlfriend.

Max is a charming, intriguing character. He is 67 (single & looking) and has lived and traveled all over the world. He drove his caravan here from Bulgaria. I am still having trouble grasping the road maps for that. He is one of the most even–tempered, tolerant men I’ve ever come across. A strict vegetarian (and computer software consultant), Max runs 10K every other day, and today, took the day off to go in search of Muesili somewhere in Southern Tuscany. What a nut. I don’t think that Max or Adam have one ounce of body fat between them, so I, being the team player that I am, am storing their allotted amount on me.

And, of course, there’s Ugo. The Olive Boss Man. Ugo spends the majority of the day on a ladder in a tree, cursing at the branches. Ugo is a thorough, passionate (and stubborn) soul, but I am not sure that Ugo is synonymous with efficient. Enter Katie. I have felt a bit like the olive picker production coordinator, location scout, cheerleader, director, producer & supervisor of attempted efficiency. Go figure. But note, when trying to accomplish a time sensitive task, sometimes it is inefficient to load a surplus tractor with a few light-weight items to drive said tractor less than 50 feet. Especially when everyone has to walk to the same place as the tractor’s intended destination. Just pick up the equipment and go. And with 4 people and nearly 200 trees, I thought it wise to reduce the level of haphazard picking and doubling of efforts, and to develop some sort of strategic picking roles and order. Ha! That’s when I learned to keep my mouth shut and go to the kitchen where a woman belongs. Just kidding. (Though Barbara did teach me how to make her pesto the other day and I am still practicing Tuscan domestic goddess-ism).

Team Olive shared some good laughs, and exquisitely beautiful sunny days. A few where I had to stop and remind myself that my entire goal for the day was to pick as many olives off of the tree in front of me as possible. To take a deep breath, appreciate the infinite rolling hills on the horizon, and all of the characters surrounding me. And at that point, who gives a shit about methodical picking?

Italian farmers may beg to differ, but I think that we have given these trees so much to smile about, we have essentially guaranteed them health and abundance in the year to come.

Allora.
In case you pass a tree on Fifth Avenue, some techniques for your picking pleasure:

The Basic Grab
This is olive picking in its purest, simplest form. All you need are your hands. Clean or dirty. Think of picking a raspberry off of a bush, or a single grape off of a vine. This is an excellent technique for the lower branches of a tall tree, or for the totality of a smaller sized tree. Merely pick the olive and drop directly into your crate or basket.
Note: The utilization of this technique often results in random olives stored, and hopefully later found, in pant, shirt, and coat pockets.

The Milk The Cow
This technique utilizes the Olive Picker’s Glove. The OPG is a form fitting cotton glove, adorned with little rubber nubbies on the surface of the palm. Think “tote” socks, but for the hands. This technique also utilizes the Olive Net. The Olive Net is a huge mesh net that surrounds the base of the tree and prevents the olives from falling to the ground. It is really like one big tree bib. With a periphery of sticks hammered into the ground, the edge of the net is raised and rested over the sticks, providing a lip that allows for the falling olives to land on the net instead of scattering across the ground. When performing the “Milk The Cow” (Note: these are not yet universal picking terms, but merely, Katie’s terms) place one hand over the other and smoothly move down the branch, letting all olives fall to the net beneath you.

The Bamboo Bash
A favorite of mine. Though I’m not sure it is totally kosher with the more hard-core pickers. This technique involves a long bamboo cane that you beat & shake the branches with until the olives fall to the net. Very similar to a birthday party game of piñata. You can work up a good sweat with this technique, and it is incredibly satisfying when a strategically placed whack frees a very stubborn olive.

The Ladder Techniques: A Subset

All of the above techniques can also be performed while on a ladder in the tree. Additional techniques used with the ladder include the sawing off of and pruning of branches. Often I supervise the ladder techniques from my home base on the ground, as I am not always keen on climbing the “sturdy” ladder that is resting against the “sturdy” branches. Especially after a lunch with Vino Rosso and a shot of Bulgarian Vodka.

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An Anecdote


At 11:33 this morning, I received an email with the subject line:
“Ciao baby, I hope to see you in N.Y.C on Nov 23rd”

The email continued:
I hope you remember me, Michaelangeloleather.it Florence, Italy?

Aha! Alberto the Florence leather store owner. The note went on to ask me out for dinner during his 2 day trip to New York. Let us remember that Alberto is somewhere in his 50’s and wears some sort of eyeliner. Most unfortunately, I will still be in Toscana.

In other male news:
I was also asked out by Marco, the train conductor. On my way home from a day trip to Arezzo, Marco, instead of collecting my ticket, sat in the seat across from me and started to chat. As tends to happen when I engage in these conversations because I think of them as harmless, fun Italian practice, this conversation resulted in my declining interest in a “date.” Marco resembled Chris Farley, with a little more teddy bear in his face. And when Marco put his hand on my leg, I thought, hmmm, wait a minute, I would not tolerate this on an Amtrak train. And that is when I told Marco enough. Marco was a bit over the top in his heartbroken reaction to my lack of desire to see him again, and this is when another woman on the train, a daily commuter, told me that, yes, indeed, Marco is just a little bit crazy.

To top it off, the animals, though all male, have decided to slumber party in my bedroom. I woke up at 4am the other night, surprisingly warm (positive effect of excess carbohydrates?) and upon reaching down to remove my ski socks, found my legs wedged between two cats. While Billy the dog was snoring on the floor.
_____________________________________________________________________
A Second Anecdote

It’s 8:30pm and its fucken cold. I’m wrapped in more fleece than I would ski in, and yet, there seems to be no snow or slopes. There is, however, an abundance of bare olive trees!

We finished the harvest and picked up our oil from the press this evening. I think everyone was a bit tired and disappointed with the small amount of oil, but I think it was quite a celebration to eat dinner tonight with our own bottle of oil adorning the table. At least for me, it was pretty special to soak a slab of bread in the oil that comes from the olives that we hand –picked. (Or bamboo-bashed). Not exactly an every day affair.

And now, quite full on too much bread and oil, a Tuscan facial is in order. This is when I boil a huge pot of water over the stove and stick my face in the steam. A perfect way to feel clean, yet remain fully clothed through out the process.

Minor confession: I cheated and took a real shower last week. Alberto & Anna practically forced me into one of their four exquisitely beautiful marble showers. And I didn’t do much in the way of resisting. Tiles, jets, excellent water pressure, and Anna has an exceptional array of products.

Podere Trove 10/28 - 11/7/07

Saturday, October 28

I am in awe. My head is dancing with speechless overwhelmment and a rampant inner monologue. If at any one moment it is possible to be in your present, past, and future, then this is where you’ll find my mind. An antique mirror adorns the desk I am typing on, and every time I look up and see my reflection, it is like I am pinching myself. Yes, Katie, it is really you. One glance later, and yup, still me.

It is not easy to write. Sensational overload, to say the least. I have just entered a whole new world, and am at a slight loss for how to describe the day’s actions and its emotional counterparts. I need a magic download button that could patiently transcribe the inner workings of my mind. Alas. Tonight is the only time that it will ever be my first night living in a primitive Tuscan farmhouse, and so, it is my self-imposed duty to attempt to preserve my first day impressions.

Let me begin with a few hard facts.
I just washed my face with hot water that I boiled over the stove. Earlier today, there was a lizard napping in my bed. Twice. The wood burning stove that heats the entire house has decided to take a non-working holiday. And I’m not fully confident on the ins and outs of the whole “pit” bathroom thing…

And yet.
I have never set foot in a warmer, more serene, enchanting home. There is so much character and good spirit in this home, you can’t help but feel it take you over.

And my Jack Purcell’s have touched the soil from which the olives grow.

Podere Trove is set between two villages, Petroio and Castelmuzio. Petroio, the home of terracotta - is open on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. Castelmuzio - on Monday, Wednesday, & Friday. I think they have a combined population of 300.

Barbara is pure loveliness. Very sharp and easy going with a great sense of humor. And so much knowledge to share. Ugo is out of town, so we will meet tomorrow. Billy - the dog - and I bonded, taking a long walk on winding dirt roads, getting barked at by another dog, who sat at the foot of an olive tree while its owners furiously picked.

A single Australian male was scheduled to arrive this week as a second helper, but had a last minute change of plans. There may be an American couple joining instead. No word yet on the son.

The scenery is beyond words.

Peaceful silence and happy noise. Only good to come…


November 2, 2007

I have now started, stopped, deleted, and re-started this sentence over 12 times. I think this is the gist: In life, we (or at least I) have expectations. Expectations from people, places, jobs, events, changes in the weather. Expectations that, dependent on context, we are constantly raising and lowering. Expectations that live in our heads, motivate us, and are most often met with a certain level of disappointment.

I am sitting in front of a wood burning stove, typing my way through the final moments of siesta, thinking that I must have won the expectation lottery. Since July, I have been creating my fantasy “Tuscan experience.” My image of the Mariotti’s, of their home, of how I would fit in, and how I would feel. For lack of a better two words, holy shit. It’s like I hit the “on” button, and have now arrived in my own Tuscan fairytale. (Though the sequel may have plumbing).

There is no cohesive way to go about the past few days, so please indulge my schizophrenic rambling:

My Tuscan domestic goddess is in full effect. Barbara & I are cleaning and preparing the house for winter.
Visual: Kate on ladder, broom in hand, de-cobwebbing and dusting the ceiling (which dates back to the early 1400’s) with every sort of dust particle and insect part flying every which way.
Visual: Katie fixing a smoking chimney.
Visual: Katie waxing antique furniture.
Visual: Katie with multiple dusters.
Savor these, because they are unlikely to ever be seen in the states.

The house has electricity and running cold water, but no plumbing. Hence, the “shit pit.” This week, we are “spring cleaning,” for winter. Storing all the summer furniture, tools, laying down heavy rugs, re-potting plants, etc. I’m June Cleaver in 1410. There is a local girl, Stefania, who has been coming in the mornings to help with the cleaning, and together, we are the American/Aussie/Italian housewife version of the three stooges.

At 12:30 precisely, Barbara opens a bottle of vino. (Podere Trove, 2004. It’s not particularly good, but is a unanimously agreed upon substitution for water). Then we have a lovely lunch, siesta, and finish our tasks in the late afternoon. Next week we relinquish our housewife duties and the olive harvest begins.

Ugo & Barbara are a wealth of knowledge with a model-worthy work ethic. If I can retain half of the information that I am picking their brain about, I may be able to start the first West Village olive grove, vineyard, cheese factory, and artichoke patch.

Ugo & Barbara’s tour company, Tuscany Under the Skin, has officially ended for the season, so I will also be helping them explore new walks and conduct research for next season’s tours groups. Since they are now without any tour clients, and I am the only current “helper” at the farm, we’ve had a unique opportunity to bond as a threesome. I get the impression that this dynamic is a really rare occurrence, and it’s felt truly special to have the chance to enjoy an organic “get to know you” period. They are the filmmakers turned farmers, crazy, bickering, Italian/Australian parents that I have on temporary loan. The other night we were driving to a dinner gathering, and I was sitting in the back seat of the car. In between their fighting, they were prepping me on all the people we were on our way to meet. I felt like a shy, curious 11 year old girl. An oddly surreal and perfect moment.

Ugo is a mix between Santa Claus and the Buddha. The other afternoon I jumped on the back of the tractor with him and we went off to gather walnuts. He has a story for everything, and is as down to earth as they come. He also decided that the birthmark that is in the center of my forehead (my Bindhi, or “dot” as some like to refer to it) will now be officially coined my “third eye.” Everyone I have met here thinks I am Indian, and once I correct them, Ugo chimes in with a proper Italian introduction to the third eye.

The first Monday I was here - excuse the vulgarity - but it took all the balls I have to walk into Castelmuzio alone. (Town of 150-ish). If you come across 5 people when you walk through the town, it’s a busy day. Needless to say, I somewhat stand out. And no one has any problem glaring at the stranger on their home turf. I walked into the Coop Supermarket and introduced myself to Carla, the shopkeeper, and then I went to the bar for cappuccino. No one speaks a word of English. The bar owner, who randomly decides what hours he will be open, asked if I was here with my sposito, and, though endearing, had a little trouble believing that I was here alone and unmarried. I have since been told to say I’m engaged…

Barbara & Ugo have truly treated me as one of their own. Introducing me to their friends, to the community, and enabling an utter sense of belonging. We’ve hosted dinner parties, gone to a Contrada dinner and lazed in front of the fire reading. My glass and plate are never empty, genuine conversation flows. Silence is welcome and encouraged.

And only one button on one pair of pants has popped.

There are pages to be written about the appreciation of time, the nature of respect, and defining individuals by what one enjoys instead of by what one does. There’s also a whole lot of talk here about the work that needs to get done, followed by a whole lot more “domani, domani”… “we’ll do that tomorrow”… Yet, somehow, everything gets accomplished, stress & anxiety free.

The Roman-Born Architect Son is Married. With Baby. Living in Australia.

Next week two new helpers will arrive. Adam (a young Aussie gent) and Max (an old Irish gent). Poor guys have no idea that we’ve been sitting around the dinner table speculating about them all week. Since there are no couples coming, I moved out of a single room in the main house and into the downstairs guest house - with double bed, sitting area & kitchenette. It’s a studio version of a wine cellar. The stone is a wee bit chilly on the feet during a 4am “bathroom” wake-up, but this is why I am strategically drinking more wine than water.


November 5, 2007

Let me being by saying that tonight, for dessert, Barbara put a huge jar of cherries soaked in ???? on the table. I opened the jar to serve them, and thought I was going to pass out from the smell of alcohol. Then I tasted one and could hardly keep it down. Ugo and I decided that he had soaked them in Grappa, and hence, the rather strong stench. Then, as Ugo was making his way through an entire bowl of “cherries”, a light bulb went off…He had soaked them in pure alcohol. At least 5 years ago. Aha! While he suddenly found himself drunk, I opted for a piece of store bought dark chocolate instead.

I have a Tuscan social life!
And my future wine bar dreams taking form... Let me properly introduce Alberto & Anna Abliano…
Alberto & Anna are neighbors of Barbara & Ugo’s (Translation: their villa is set hilltop in a direct line of sight from the farm). I first met them briefly one night last week when I went with Ugo to their home, bringing wine in exchange for carrots that Barbara found herself without, and in desperate need of, while home cooking Osso Bucco for the next evening’s dinner party). They have an absolutely stunning home. A farmhouse from the 1300’s that underwent a four year restoration beginning in 2000. It’s beautiful. Simple. Elegant. Modern without feeling the least bit done up. I walked in and thought, okay, keep the sublet going on 93 Bedford, I’m ready to bring over a suitcase and call this home. During the following evening’s Osso Bucco festivities, we talked a bit about getting together for Italian-English language exchange lessons. And then I learned about their vineyard…

I was sitting next to Alberto - who maybe uttered something in English 1 out of every 25 words – but I had had enough wine, ( and at this point we were talking about wine) that the conversation seemed to move flawlessly. Essentially, I expressed my interest in wine/ a wine bar/ the wine business/ their vineyard, and they expressed their interest in my involvement. The rest is a work-in-progress script that I can’t believe I’m living.

The next afternoon they called to invite me over for our first language lesson. I made plans with them for Sunday. Then they called back and invited us all for dinner that evening. Anna cooked the most delicious meal – homemade four-cheese foccacio, a pesto, potato, & cheese pasta, rabbit (yes, I ate rabbit and it tastes like chicken), mushrooms, polenta, and a fruit tart. All accompanied by really, truly, insanely good Prosecco, Vino, Moscato & Grappa. I finally had to stop when the whiskey came out. The best part was the feeling that comes with such an elaborate, festive dinner that is actually a very casual, last minute affair.

There was very little English spoken at the table. I followed the conversation in bits and pieces, until they all got very heated talking about the neighbors and local politics. Then I completely lost it and stared a bit, while Alberto just kept filling my glass.

Sunday was like Part 2 of my Grimm Brother’s role playing lifestyle. While last week, with broom in hand, I felt a bit like Cinderella (without Wicked Step Sisters, and not yet with Prince), Sunday I had a taste of Little Red Riding Hood.

In the morning I went for a run. (This is a story in and of itself – as I took Billy the dog with me, who subsequently got attacked by an olive picker’s dog, I screamed, the owner came and grabbed the attacking dog, Billy was fine, and we both kept running ). Then I bathed (bum to wood burning stove, hair rinsed with various size pitchers) and headed to Alberto & Anna’s. Ugo offered to walk me part of the way so that he could show me a hidden road that leads to their home. Enter Little Red Riding Hood. When Ugo left me amidst thorns of blackberry bushes, I was carrying my basket of goodies (plastic bag with gift of cheese and jam) and skipping (in hiking boots) through the forest, trying to locate the house. I wound up going way past their house and circling acres and acres of their grape vines, before cutting through tomato plants, scaling a stone wall, and finally arriving upon their back door. Substitute the sounds of wild boar being hunted for the big bad wolf.

I intended to visit with Alberto & Anna for a couple of hours since Barbara & Ugo had invited me to attend their friend’s book launch for a new children’s book that same afternoon. (Okay, so I a little bit loved being double booked on a Sunday afternoon in Tuscany). Alas, 9 hours later, Alberto & Anna brought me back to the farm. It’s truly amazing how, within one day’s time, you can feel the influence that someone will have on your life. It’s almost palpable, yet completely indefinable. It was that jumpy good feeling you get in your stomach when you connect with new friends and feel all sorts of new doors opening.

We spent the day speaking English. Then Italian. Then English and Italian. Then the dictionaries would come out, the hand gestures would increase, and we’d have more wine, cheese, and homemade foccacio (with olives). Pretty amazing the subjects that you can cover when you think you are restricted by a language barrier. Music, religion, books, work, family. I saw photos of the villa pre-renovation. I looked at blue prints for the “cantina” – in essence, the vineyard’s complete operation - with plans for the fermentation through bottling process. I tested the sugar levels of the grapes, and tasted and shared opinions on all the wines in their test barrels. I even translated the meaning of Pink Floyd's "I Wish You Were Here" for Alberto.

Alberto & Anna will be ready to go commercial and distribute their wines internationally for the first time in 2009. They invited me to join them next spring at the biggest wine expedition in the world to help them find buyers. They offered me a down comforter for the farm, the use of their shower (a real one) and a bedroom anytime I may need a break from the “wine cellar”. They took me out for dinner and proposed an array of day trips and Tuscan evenings out. The leather seats in their jeep are equipped with seat warmers.
And Anna's hoping that one of the helpers arriving this week will look like Brad Pitt, the other, George Clooney…



November 6, 2007

I thought it necessary to share this snapshot moment of life. Something about this very moment’s mixture of irony, oddity, and natural comfort has just made me burst out laughing. To myself.

It’s 1pm. Barbara & I decided to do lunch on our own since she is knee deep in tax returns for the company, and I have finished mending the olive nets. Yes, my Tuscan domestic goddess-ness also includes olive net seamstress. And - if I did a job well done - no olives will fall to the ground when yours truly is picking them off the tress later this week.

I am sitting at the table in my wine cellar/studio/guestroom cave of coziness that I call home. It’s not exactly warm here today. I am in long underwear and sweater, putting more logs on my fire. I am trying to get the cat off of my bed and out of my room without having to keep the door open very long. I am drinking hot tea and eating bread with fresh pecorino cheese, olive oil and pesto that Barbara made. I did a load of laundry this morning, and now all of my clothes are dangling on drying racks next to the stove. There is a CD of Rod Stewart’s “Stardust…The Great American Songbook Volume III” playing in the portable player. A previous “helper” must have had stellar taste. My blackberry gets a full signal, and yet, I am debating how to wash my hair today without having to get any other parts of my body wet. The thought of taking off layers of clothing make an itchy scalp seem frighteningly more appealing.

November 7, 2007

Everything about today has seemed completely surreal. All of the new elements that constitute my life here struck me today as one big out of body experience.

Alberto & Anna invited me to go the Frantoio with them this morning. AKA – the olive press. At 8:30am, I Red Riding Hooded myself through the woods to their house (only barked at by 6 dogs who were, thankfully, with owner, searching for truffles). We loaded the back of their truck with 12 barrels of olives and then went to the press in Castelmuzio. They had a 9am appointment, but everything was on Italian time today, so their olives did not get started until about 12:30pm. We took a few mini excursions while we were waiting…We wound down back country roads to a mini town (of 5) with a mini restaurant, and picnic tables overlooking a landscape that no photograph could do justice. It is about 10am. Anna has tea, I have cappuccino. Alberto has a glass of wine. We head back to the press, but still have longer to wait. They take me to a church. They share midevil history, and present day agricultural wisdom. We return to the press. Still not olive time. So, we run an “errand” in Pienza. AKA – Alberto needs to get some wine from L’Enoteca di Ghino (Ghino showed me his spread in a Italian wine publication). This results in Alberto & I tasting numerous glasses of wine, Alberto walking out with a few new cases, and all of us heading back to the press.
Mind you, all of this is happening with the three of us sharing equal frustration at “language.” They want to speak English well. I want to speak Italian. Thankfully, laughter can easily be spoken in both.

The press is amazing. I cannot wait to return with the olives that Barbara, Ugo and I have picked ourselves. In less than one hour, the olives go from a crate off the back of the truck to 100% pure, delicious, ready to bottle olive oil. And you can watch the entire process. I will let pictures do the talking…(it they do not upload, it is because I did not want to spend the entire day in the internet café troubleshooting, so stay tuned…)

If only there was a way to display photos on the computer with a scratch and sniff. The aroma in an olive press is one of the more delicious smells to ever be encountered. Alberto & Anna left with 45 kilos of oil, and I am on my way back to their house right now to cook dinner with the nuovo olio tonight…