Under the Tuscan Sun (14 page)

A week before the wedding, our friends Shera and Kevin
arrive from California. We see them get off the train way down the
track. Kevin is maneuvering something enormous that looks like a
coffin for two. His bicycle! We keep working while they go to
Florence, Assisi, and on the Piero della Francesca trail. At night
we make great meals together and they tell us all the wonders they've
seen and we tell them about the new faucet we want to install for
the hip bath. They fall instantly in love with the whole area and
seem to want to hear our daily saga of cleaning the new bricks
on the kitchen floor. When they're not travelling, Kevin is off on
long bicycle trips. Shera, an artist, is captive here. She is
painting milky blue half circles over the windows in a bedroom.
We've picked a star from one of Giotto's paintings and she makes a
stencil of it and fills the half domes with gold leaf stars. A
few stars “fall” out of the dome and onto the white walls. We're
preparing the bridal chamber. At an antique shop near Perugia, I
buy two colored prints of the constellations with mythological
beasts and figures. At the Cortona market, I find pretty linen and
cotton sheets in pale blue with cutwork in white. We're preparing,
too, for our first houseparty. We buy twenty wineglasses, linen
tablecloths, pans for baking the wedding cake, a case of wine.

There is no way everything can be finished in time for the
wedding (or ever?), but we manage an extraordinary amount. The day
before everyone arrives, Kevin comes downstairs and asks, “Why
does the toilet steam? Is there something peculiar about Italian
toilets?” Ed brings in the ladder, climbs up to the wall-mounted
tank, and dips in his hand. Hot water. We check the other
bathrooms. The new one is O.K. but the other old one also has hot
water. We hardly have used those bathrooms and had not let water
run long enough for the hot water to arrive, so we had not
noticed that neither bathroom had cold water at all. As soon as
guests started using the baths, it became noticeable. Shera says
she thought the shower was awfully hot, once it finally warmed
up, but hadn't wanted to complain. The plumber cannot come
for a few days, so we will go through the wedding with quick
showers and smoking toilets!

The front terrace is still rough but we have potted geraniums
along the wall to distract from the torn-up ground. At least we
removed the rubble. Four rooms have beds. Susan's two cousins from
England and Cole's brother and sister-in-law are arriving. Shera
and Kevin will move to a hotel in town for a couple of days.
Other friends are coming from Vermont.

By day, we are twelve in the house. Many hands to help
with drinks and lunch. The cake must be improvised because the oven
is small. I envisioned three tiers of sponge cake with a hazelnut
butter-cream frosting, to be served with whipped cream and cherries
steeped in sugared wine. We couldn't find a large pan for the
bottom and finally bought a tin dog dish to bake it in. The cake
is lovely, if a bit lopsided. We decorate it with flowers all
around. Everyone is running off in different directions sightseeing
and shopping.

We're having the prenuptial dinner here on a clear warm
night, everyone in pale linens and cottons. Many photos are taken of
us arm in arm on the steps and leaning over the balcony. Susan's
cousin brings out champagne he has brought from France. After
drinks with
bruschette
and dry olives, we start with
cool fennel soup. I've made a rustic casserole of chicken,
white beans, sausage, tomatoes, and onions. There are tiny green
beans, baskets of bread, and a salad of arugula, radicchio, and
chicory. Everyone tells wedding stories. Mark was to have married
a Colorado girl who ran away on the wedding day and married
someone else in a week. Karen was a bridesmaid on a boat
wedding and the bride's mother, in teal chiffon, tipped into the
drink. When I married at twenty-two, I wanted a midnight wedding
with everyone wearing robes and carrying candles. The minister said
absolutely not, that midnight was a “furtive hour.” Nine was as
late as he'd go. And instead of a robe, I wore my sister's
wedding dress and carried a leatherbound Keats down the aisle. My
mother pulled my skirt and I leaned over for her words of wisdom.
She whispered, “It won't last six months.” But she was wrong.

We should have an accordion player, à la Fellini,
and maybe a white horse for the bride to ride, but we do well with
the fabulous night, and the CD player inspires a little dancing
in the dining room. The white peach tart with pine nuts should
end this dinner but Ed's description of the
crema
and
the hazelnut
gelati
in town sends everyone to the
cars. They're amazed that such a small town is still hopping at
eleven, everyone outdoors with coffee, ice cream, or perhaps an
amaro,
an after-dinner bitter. Babies in strollers still
as wide-eyed as their parents, teenagers sitting on the town hall
steps. The only thing sleeping is a cat on top of the police car.

The morning of the wedding Susan, Shera, and I pick a bouquet
of lavender, pink, and yellow wildflowers for Susan to carry. When
we're all dressed in silks and suits, we walk into town over the
Roman road. Ed carries our good shoes in a shopping bag. Susan
has brought Chinese painted paper parasols for everyone because
of the midday sun. We walk through town and up the steps of the
twelfth-century town hall. It's a dark, high-ceilinged room with
tapestries and frescoes and high judicial-looking chairs, an
impressive room to sign a treaty in. The city of Cortona has sent
red roses and Ed has arranged for Bar Sport to come over right
after the ceremony with cold
prosecco.
Susan's
cousin Brian runs all around with his video camera, getting shots
from every angle. After the brief ceremony, we cross the piazza to
La Logetta for a Tuscan feast beginning with a selection of typical
antipasti: crostini,
little rounds of bread topped with
olives, peppers, mushroom, or chicken liver;
prosciutto e
melone,
fried olives stuffed with
pancetta
and spicy
bread crumbs; and the local
finocchiona,
a salami studded
with fennel seeds. Next they bring out a selection of
primi,
first courses to try, including ravioli with butter
and sage, and
gnocchi di patate,
little “knuckles” of
potato served here with pesto. Course after course arrives,
culminating in platters of roast lamb and veal and the famous
grilled Val di Chiana steak. Karen notices the grand piano in
the corner under a massive vase of flowers and prevails upon Cole,
who is a pianist, to play. Ed is at the other end of the table but
he catches my eye as Cole begins Scarlatti. Three weeks ago this
was a dream, a long shot, a frightening prospect. “Cheers!”
the English cousins call out.

Back at home, we're all stunned by the food and heat and
decide to postpone the wedding cake until late afternoon. I hear
someone snoring. In fact, I hear two people snoring.

Though the cake lacks that professional touch, it may be
the best cake I ever tasted. I'll credit our tree for the nuts.
Shera and Kevin are dancing in the dining room again. Others
stroll out to the point where our land ends for the view of the lake
and valley. We can't decide whether to eat again or forget it.
Finally we run down to Camucia for pizza. Our favorite places
are closed, so we end up in a definitely downscale, unatmospheric
place. The pizza is excellent, however, and no one seems to notice
the dust gray curtains or the cat who has leapt on the adjoining
table and is polishing off the remains of someone's dinner.
At the end of the table our bride and groom, holding hands,
are in a charmed circle of two.

Susan and Cole have headed to Lucca then back to France;
their family guests are gone.

Shera and Kevin are here for a few more days. Ed and I visit
the
marmista
and choose thick white marble for the
countertops. The next day he cuts and bevels them and Ed and
Kevin load them into the back of the car. Suddenly the kitchen
looks the way I thought it would: brick floor, white appliances,
long sink, plank shelves, marble counters. I sew a blue plaid
curtain to go under the sink and hang a braid of garlic and some
dried herbs from the wall shelves. In town we find an old
peasant dish and cup rack. The dark chestnut looks great against the
white walls. At last, a place for all the cups and bowls we're
buying in the local ceramic patterns.

Everyone has gone. We eat the last of the wedding cake. Ed
begins one of his many lists—we should paper a room
with them—of projects he hopes to accomplish now. The
kitchen is looking irresistible and we're moving into high
season for vegetables and fruit. July fourth: Much of summer is
left. My daughter is coming. Travelling friends will stop in for
lunch or for a night. We're ready.

A
L
ong
T
able
U
nder
t
he
T
rees

MARKET DAY FALLS ON THURSDAYS
IN
Camucia, the
lively town at the bottom of Cortona's hill, and I'm there early
before the heat sets in. Tourists pass right through Camucia; it's
just the modern spillover from the venerable and dominant hill
town above it. But modern is relative. Among the
frutta e
verdura
shops, the hardware and seed stores, you happen on
a couple of Etruscan tombs. Near the butcher's shop are remnants
of a villa, an immense curly iron gate and swag of garden wall.
Camucia, bombed in World War II, has its share of chestnut trees,
photographable doors, and shuttered houses.

On market day, a couple of streets are blocked to traffic. The
vendors arrive early, unfolding what seems like whole stores or
supermarket aisles from specially made trucks and wagons. One
wagon sells local
pecorino,
the sheep's milk cheese that
can be soft and almost creamy, or aged and strong as a barnyard,
along with several wheels of
parmigiano.
The aged cheese
is crumbly and rich, wonderful to nibble as I walk around the
market.

I'm hunting and gathering food for a dinner for new friends.
My favorite wagons belong to the two
porchetta
maestros.
The whole pig, parsley entwined with the tail, apple—or a
big mushroom—in its mouth, stretches across the cutting
board. Sometimes the decapitated head sits aside at an angle,
eyeing the rest of its body, which has been stuffed with herbs
and bits of its own ears, etc. (best not to inquire too closely),
then roasted in a wood oven. You can buy a
panino
(a
crusty roll) with nothing on it but slabs of
porchetta
to take home, lean or with crispy, fatty skin. One of the lords
of the
porchetta
wagons looks very much like his subject:
little eyes, glistening skin, and bulbous forearms. His fingers
are short and porky, with bitten-down nails. He's smiling,
extolling his pig's virtues, but when he turns to his wife, he
snarls. Her lips are set in a permanent tight half smile. I've
bought from him before and his
porchetta
is delicious. This
time I buy from the milder man in the next stand. For Ed, I ask
for extra
sale,
salt, which is what the indefinable
stuffing is called. I like it but find myself picking through to
see if there's something peculiar in it. Though the pig is useful
and tasty in all its parts and preparations, the slow-roasted
porchetta
must be its apogee. Before I move on to the
vegetables, I spot a pair of bright yellow espadrilles with
ribbons to wind around the ankles; I balance my shopping bags
while I try on one. Perfect, and less than ten dollars. I drop
them in with the
porchetta
and
parmigiano.

Scarves (bright Chanel and Hermès copies) and linen
tablecloths float from awnings; toilet cleaners, tapes, and
T-shirts are stacked in bins and on folding tables. Besides
buying food, you can dress, plant a garden, and stock a household
from this market. There are a few local crafts for sale but you
have to look for them. The Tuscan markets aren't like those in
Mexico, with wonderful toys, weaving, and pottery. It's a
wonder these markets continue at all, given the sophistication of
Italian life and the standard of living in this area. I find the
iron-working traditions still somewhat in evidence. Occasionally,
I see good andirons and handy fireplace grills. My favorite is a
holder for whole
prosciutto,
an iron grip with handle
mounted on a board for ease in slicing; maybe someday I'll find I
need that much
prosciutto
and buy one. One week I
bought handwoven baskets made from dark supple willow twigs, the
large ones perfect for kitchen supplies and the small round ones
for the ripe-right-now peaches and cherries. One woman sells old
table and bed linens with thick monograms, all of which must have
been gathered from farms and villas. She has three mounds of
yellowed lace. Perhaps some of it was made on the nearby island,
Isola Maggiore in Lake Trasimeno. Women still sit in the doorways
there, hooking lace in the afternoon light. I find two enormous
square linen pillowcases with miles of inset lace and
ribbons—ten thousand lire, same as the sandals,
seems to be the magic number today. Of course, I will have to have
the pillows especially made. When I buy some striped linen
dishtowels, I notice several goat skins hanging from a hook. I have
in mind that they would look terrific on the
cotto
floors
at my house. The four the man has are too small but he says to
come back next week. He tries to convince me that his sheepskins
would be better anyway, but they don't appeal to me.

I'm wending my way toward the produce, but walk up to the
bar for a coffee. Actually, I stop with an excuse to stare. People
from surrounding areas come not only to shop but to greet friends,
to make business arrangements. The din around the Camucia market
is a lovely swarm of voices, many speaking in the local Val di
Chiana dialect; I don't understand most of what they're saying
but I do hear one recurring habit. They do not use the
ch
sound for
c,
but slide it into an
s
sound.
“Shento,” they say for
cento
(one hundred), instead
of the usual pronunciation “chento.” I heard someone say
“cappushino,” for cappuccino, though the usual affectionate
shortening of that is “cappuch.” Their town is pronounced not
“Camuchia,” but “Camushea.” Odd that the
c
is often
the affected letter. Around Siena, people substitute an
h
sound for
c—
“hasa” and “Hoca-Hola.” Whatever
the local habit with
c,
they're all talking. Outside
the bar, groups of farmers, maybe a hundred men, mill about.
Some play cards. Their wives are off in the crowd, loading their
bags with tiny strawberries, basil plants with dangling roots,
dried mushrooms, perhaps a fish from the one stand that
sells seafood from the Adriatic. Unlike the Italians who take
their thimbleful of espresso in one quick swallow, I sip the
black, black coffee.

A friend says Italy is getting to be just like everywhere
else—homogenized and Americanized, she says disparagingly.
I want to drag her here and stand her in this doorway. The men
have the look of their lives—perhaps we all do. Hard work,
their faces and bodies affirm. All are lean, not a pound of extra
fat anywhere. They look cured by the sun, so deeply tan they
probably never go pale in winter. Their country clothes are
serviceable, rough—they don't “dress,” they just get
dressed. They wear, as well, a natural dignity. Surely some are
canny, crusty, cruel, but they look totally present, unhidden,
and alive. Some are missing teeth but they smile widely without
embarrassment. I look in one man's eyes: The left one is white
with milky blue veins like those in an exploded marble. The other
is black as the center of a sunflower. A retarded boy wanders
among them, neither catered to nor ignored. He's just there,
living his life like the rest of us.

At home I plan a menu ahead, though I frequently improvise
as I shop. Here, I only begin to think when I see what's ripe this
week. My impulse is to overload; I forget there are not ten hungry
people at home. At first I was miffed when tomatoes or peas had
spoiled when I got around to cooking them a few days later. Finally
I caught on that what you buy today is ready—picked or
dug this morning at its peak. This also explained another puzzle;
I never understood why Italian refrigerators are so minute until
I realized that they don't store food the way we do. The
Sub-Zero giant I have at home begins to seem almost institutional
compared to the toy fridge I now have here.

Two weeks ago, small purple artichokes with long stems were
in. We love those, quickly steamed, stuffed with tomatoes, garlic,
yesterday's bread, and parsley, then doused with oil and vinegar.
Today, not a one. The
fagiolini,
slender green beans,
are irresistible. Should I have two salads, because the beans also
would be good with a shallot vinaigrette? Why not? I buy white
peaches for breakfast but for tonight's dessert, the cherries are
perfect. I take a kilo, then set off to find a pitter back in the
other part of the market. Since I don't know the word, I'm
reduced to sign language. I do know
ciliegia,
cherry,
which helps. I've noticed in French and Italian country desserts
that the cooks don't bother to pit the cherries, but I like to
use the pitter when they're served in a dish. These I'll steep
in Chianti with a little sugar and lemon. I decide on some tiny
yellow potatoes still half covered with dirt. Just a scrubbing,
a dribble of oil and some rosemary and they'll roast in the
oven.

I could complete my shopping for this meal right here. I pass
cages of guinea hens, ducks, and chickens, as well as rabbits.
Since my daughter had a black angora rabbit as a pet once, I
can't look with cold eyes on the two spotted bunnies nibbling
carrots in the dusty Alitalia flight bag, can't imagine them
trembling in the trunk of my car. I intend to stop at the butcher's
for a veal roast. The butcher's is bad enough. I admit it's not
logical. If you eat meat, you might as well recognize where it
comes from. But the drooped heads and closed eyelids of the quail
and pigeon make me stop and stare. Rooster heads, chicken
feet (with yellow nails like Mrs. Ricker's, my grandmother's Rook
partner), the clump of fur to show the skinned rabbit is not a
cat, whole cows hanging by their feet with a square of paper towel
on the floor to catch the last drops of blood—all these
things make my stomach flip. Surely they're not going to eat
those fluffy chicks. When I was a child, I sat on the back steps
and watched our cook twist a chicken's neck then snap off the
head with a jerk. The chicken ran a few circles, spurting blood,
before it keeled over, twitching. I love roast chicken. Could
I ever wring a neck?

I have as much as I can carry. The other stop I'll make is at
the cooperative cantina for some local wine. Near the end of the
sinuous line of market stalls, a woman sells flowers from her
garden. She wraps an armful of pink zinnias in newspaper and I lay
them under the straps of my bag. The sun is ferocious and people
are beginning to close down for siesta. A woman who has not sold
many of her striped lime and yellow towels looks weary. She
dumps the dog sleeping in her folding chair and settles down for
a rest before she begins to pack up.

On my way out, I see a man in a sweater, despite the heat.
The trunk of his minuscule Fiat is piled with black grapes that
have warmed all morning in the sun. I'm stopped by the winy, musty,
violet scents. He offers me one. The hot sweetness breaks open in
my mouth. I have never tasted anything so essential in my life
as this grape on this morning. They even smell purple. The flavor,
older than the Etruscans and deeply fresh and pleasing, just
leaves me stunned. Such richness, the big globes, the heap of
dusty grapes cascading out of two baskets. I ask for
un
grappolo,
a bunch, wanting the taste to stay with me all
morning.

AS I UNLOAD MY CLOTH SACKS, THE KITCHEN FILLS WITH THE
scents of
sunny fruits and vegetables warmed in the car. Everyone coming
home from market must feel compelled to arrange the tomatoes,
eggplants (
melanzane
sounds like the real name and even
aubergine is better than dreary-sounding eggplant), zucchini, and
enormous peppers into a still life in the nearest basket. I
resist arranging the fruit in a bowl, except for what we'll eat
today, because it's ripe this minute and all we're not
about to eat now must go in the fridge.

I'm still amazed that the kitchen is finished. Though there
still is the ghost of a circle above the outside door, where a
saint or cross hung in a niche when this was the chapel for
the house, there is no sign at all of the room's later inhabitants,
oxen and chickens. When the mangers were ripped out, we found the
remains of elaborate scroll designs on the crumbling plaster. As
the nasty pen came down, we saw green faux marble designs. Now
and then in the restoration we stopped and said, “Did you ever
expect to be scraping decades of mold from animals' uric acid off
a wall?” and “You realize we'll be cooking in a
chapel?
”

Now, oddly, it looks as though the kitchen always could have
been this way. Like those in the rest of the house, the floors are
waxed brick, the walls white plaster, and the ceiling has (oh,
Ed's neck and back!) dark beams. We avoided cabinets. It was easy
to construct the plaster-covered brick supports built for thick
plank shelves we envisioned when we spent our evenings drawing on
tablets of grid paper. Ed and I cut and painted them white. The
baskets from the market hold utensils and staples. The two-inch-thick
white Carrara marble tops are smooth to my eye and always
cool to the touch or to the pizza dough and pastry I roll on it.
We hung the same rough shelves on another wall for glasses and
pasta bowls. To secure the brackets, Ed drilled toggle bolts into
solid rock, spewing stones and straining the drill to its
highest whine.