We sloshed through Cortona, Deruta, Montepulciano, Montalcino, Pienza, Montevarchi, Assisi, Perugia and last but not least, Mercatale di Cortona.  We burned wet wood for fires, hung our clothes to dry in the barn and an unflappable few wore their cutest shoes the way a lady does, through the mud and uncut grass of olive groves.  For the love of Italy.  I have never seen so much rain.  We were undeterred.  Arms were enthusiastically outstretched for draping pasta over before we got it in the pot, and sauced with Bolognese.   Snowstorms of flour hit every inch of the table for cutting and rolling gnocchi, we whipped zabaglione, stuffed chicken, basted pork, diced, sliced, and grated a Springtime’s worth of fruit and vegetables and tasted everything we made.  It was accepted that the way to know when a dish was done is:  when you taste it, is it Beautiful?  And it was.  It was beautiful.