I am home

It’s a 4,200 mile commute from Italy to New York and I’m whooped. Food is still what you imagine it to be on Air France, but they pull through with a piece of brie and a decent little baguette. My luggage made it onto the plane in Paris in less then an hour and so did I, like a boogie woogie miracle.
I had two weeks of teaching how to cook from the inside out, which isn’t hard when the sun is shining on your soul, roses are blooming around the kitchen door, wine is flowing, cows are munching on grass and chewing their cud, chickens are legging it around the farmyard and pigs are rolling around under the oak trees the way they should be. Strawberries, tomatoes and cantaloupe are ripened in the fields. Once you taste that kind of love, you can’t help but want more. It’s contagious and addictive and you find yourself committed to foods in their purest form the same way the tide is committed to rolling into shore.

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