You can’t pick olives in the rain.  You can’t even pick olives in the fog, and so there are many frustrated farmers drinking an awful lot of espresso at the moment.  Yesterday, there was warmth and sun in abundance as Jairo drove the caravan of ladies off to Deruta–and I think the residual effects of that and the Cointreau in the whipped cream that topped the chocolate mousse, left them unphased by the rain this morning and ready to taste wine with an enthusiam that will carry them through Montapulciano, Montelcino, Pienza, and on through the Gregorian chants of the monks at Sant’Antimo.

I will have a fire ready to light for them tonight, and fresh sausages with cannellini and sage.