The return of Faye to Italy land

Our cooking house as I call it, just outside of Mercatale sits in the valley like a house on the prairie.  I am an Italian Anne of Green Gables.  I walk out the door at dawn, watch the fog rise from the fields, the birds lift from their hiding, and then I march out onto the turned earth to see what has begun to grow.  I have no idea what the farmer has planted, but I have grand illusions of knowing, as one does before the sun is full. 

All week has been a weather dream of sun and warm.  We have been through the whole of Tuscany’s wine region, into the hot springs, over to Deruta, Perugia, back to Cortona, and to the market in Umbertide.  We have cooked and cooked and cooked some more and I can’t believe that the week is nearly over.  Tonight before they go, Mr. Scarpaccini will make an appearance for an olive tasting of La Macchia oil.  I am off to buy the filet from Trabalza, then flowers and chocolates, more wine, Vin Santo, and any tender vegetables that look ripe and ready for a risotto.

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