I’m here

Every Thursday in Mercatale di Cortona, Trabalza, the best butcher as far as the crow can fly, roasts a pig stuffed with fennel and garlic, rosemary and sage, ever so slowly on a spit. The skin is crisped and the meat is as tender as soft butter. It is served on a hard unsalted roll and there is nothing like it. I could have eaten ten of them, but I fell asleep as I was crunching down on the last bite. Thank goodness I was close enough to my bed to inch over to it after my head banged down on the table. Italy is as always, ready to deliver. I have already bought the wine from the local tap, and tomorrow, the day my students arrive, I will buy the rest. We are on top of a mountain this time, so I’m just hoping that everybody finds me. Once they are there though, that’s good enough. The veiws are spectacular, and I’ll keep the food coming.

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