CHAPTER 1

The Gorgeous Things They're CookingAre Zucchini Blossoms

The scent of them is enough to send up a short, sharpthrill in a hungry person. Seething hot beauties, theyrepose in a great unruly pile on the white linen. Theyellow of the naked blossoms shows through the gilt sheaths of theircrackling skin. Skin thin as Venetian glass, I think. But I'm far awayfrom Venice. We live in Tuscany, now. As of this morning, we live inTuscany. I say it breezily to myself as though it was all in a day's work.Yesterday, Venice. Today, San Casciano dei Bagni. And six hours afterarrival, here I am already in a kitchen: in the small, steamy kitchen ofthe local bar, watching two white-hatted, blue-smocked cooks preparingantipasti for what seems to have become a village festival.

The gorgeous things they're cooking are zucchini blossoms, fatand velvety, almost as wide and long as lilies. And the frying danceis precise: drag a blossom quickly through the nearly liquid batter,let the excess drain back into the bowl, lay the blossom gently in thewide, low-hipped pot of hot, very hot shimmering oil. Another blossomand another. Twelve at a time in each of four pots. The blossomsare so light that, as a crust forms on one side, they bob about in theoil and turn themselves over and over until a skimmer is slid in torescue them, to lay them for a moment on thick brown paper. Thepaper is then used as a sling to transport the blossoms to a linen-linedtray. One of the cooks fills a red glass bottle with warm sea-saltedwater. She fits a metal sprayer onto the bottle and, holding it at arm'slength, spritzes the gold blossoms with the salty water. The hot skinshiss and the perfume of them is whipped up and out into the moistJune breeze.

Pan-to-hand-to-mouth food, these are sustenance for the twelve-minuteinterval before supper, and so when the first hundred areready, the cook, the one called Bice, hands me the tray and says, "Vai,go," without looking up. A kitchen directive from one colleague toanother, from one chef to another, she says it with familiarity, asthough we've worked together for years. But tonight I'm not thechef. I think I'm a guest—or am I the hostess? I'm not at all surehow this festival got started, but I'm happy it did.

Happy and still unwashed from the morning's journey, from theafternoon's work, I'm salty as the blossoms I offer to people, whotake them without ceremony. The same familiarity is at work here aseach one smiles or pats me on the shoulder, says, "Grazie, bella, thankyou, beauty," as if I'd been passing them hot, crisp flowers all my life.I like this. For one moment it occurs that I might run with the basketto some dim corner of the piazza to devour the remaining blossomsmyself, eyes half closed in a lusty swoon among the shadows.But I don't. Some can't wait until I reach them but come to me, takea flower while sipping wine or talking over their shoulders. Peopleare collecting about me now, rooks swooping in for the things untilnothing is left save errant crumbles, crunchy and still warm, whichI press onto my finger and suck.

I move toward the edge of a small group that is complimentingthe farmer from whose patch the lovelies were harvested this morning.He's saying he'll have more tomorrow, that he'll drop a bushelfuloff at Sergio's by seven if anyone desires a few. Here ensue threeseparate and simultaneous discourses on the best way to cook squashblossoms. To stuff or not to stuff them? To stuff them with mozzarellaand a salt anchovy, to stuff them with a tiny slice of ricottasalata, to stuff them with fresh ricotta and a few leaves of basil, toblend the batter with beer or white wine, to add olive oil to the batter,to leave the oil out? And the biggest question of all—to fry theblossoms in peanut oil or extra virgin? Distracted by these contentions,I don't hear my name called out from across the short expanseof the piazza.

"Chou-Chou," says Bice, stamping her left foot exasperatedly inthe doorway of the bar, her arms stretched out with another tray.

This time, careening through the crowd more nimbly, I dispatchthe scorching flowers in record time. Though I've neither actuallymet nor been introduced to most of these people, all of them seemto know that Fernando and I have just moved into the Lucci placedown the hill. This intelligence is but a first whiff of the mastery ofthe intravillage broadcasting system, activated, no doubt, by thesmall battalion of San Cascianesi who gathered in our driveway towelcome us earlier in the day. And one thing led to another, but still,how did a thank-you aperitivo turn into a supper party, and why amI holding so tightly to this empty tray?

We had left Venice behind in the pale purply hour of firstlight and followed four Albanians, variously piled into and pilotingthe big blue Gonrand truck that ported our every material asset.We're moving to Tuscany. Eleven kilometers from our destination,a team of spiffy, high-booted, automatic weapon–toting carabinieriinvited our meager convoy to halt on the cusp of Route 321. Wewere detained and interrogated and searched for nearly two hours.Two of the four Albanians were arrested, aliens without papers. Wetold the military police that we were intending to move into one ofthe Luccis' farmhouses and that we needed all of the collected muscleand manpower to do so. They settled themselves in their van andtalked on their radio. They stayed a very long time. They got out ofthe van and parleyed again, roadside.

Some say the carabinieri are selected for their physical beauty,that they represent the glory of the Italian state. Surely these do ithonor, their dark brows and pale eyes an aesthetic diversion duringthe wait. At last one of the booted gentlemen said, "Fine, butit's our duty to accompany you." A much grander colonnade now,we inspired intrigue in the trickle of farm traffic we passed alongthe way until the big blue truck and the police van came to rest behindour old BMW in the back garden of the house. Let's get towork.

There had been a well-defined agreement with Signora Lucci thatthe house would be clean and that it would be empty. Neither is thecase. As the clandestine Albanians begin to carry in our goods, I requisitionthe carabinieri to help me carry out the signora's tokens ofwelcome, all in the form of irrefutable junk. There are armoireswith crushed-in doors and tables and chairs that, in order to stay upright,are cunningly leaned up against each other. There are six setsof bunk beds. We heave it all into the barn. In our bedroom, I'mdusting a handsome print of a cypress-lined lane framed in hammeredcopper. It swings on its wire hanger and behind it I find a wallsafe. This house, this barely restored stable of a house, which has nocentral heating and no telephone and electrical wiring sufficient fora blind hermit, has a safe. Not the little hotel-room sort of safe, thisis a grand, official-looking thing with two levels of knobs and a clock,and I call Fernando to come look at it.

"It's obviously new, something the Luccis installed during the renovation.I don't think it's meant for our use," says Fernando.

"But why would they need a safe here? Wouldn't one in their villasuffice? I think it must be for tenant use. Let's see if we can open it."

We fiddle with it, twirl and push at the knobs, until Fernandosays, "It's locked, and without the combination, we'd never gain access.If we want to use it, we'll have to ask for the coordinates. Besides,what would we possibly put in it?" We each think for half aminute and begin laughing at our dearth of riches: documentstucked inside a whiskey-colored leather portfolio, a rosary thatbelonged to Fernando's grandmother, his father's pocket watch, myson's and daughter's birth bracelets, a few jewels.

"I'd put chocolate in it. Not just any kind of chocolate, but mystash of ninety-percent cacao. And my fifty-year-old balsamic vinegar,"I say, but my plan is interrupted by one of the Albanians, the onewho keeps moving boxes from room to room, seemingly at will.Once again, I tell him about the numbering system and then go backdownstairs to see how the rest of the crew is faring. One of the carabinieriseems to be without a job, so I ask him to help me move anundesired sofa out to the barn. Fernando shoots me evil looks thatsay you can't just tell an Italian military policeman to hoist up oneend of a molding brown velvet sofa that weighs two hundred kilosand pull it backward down a narrow, curving staircase while youpush the other end with all your might, causing him to totter andlurch on the heels of his shiny black boots.

I remember my first sight of Fernando's apartment on the Lido.Scoured of all vanities, it was the lair of an ascetic, the mean hut ofan acolyte. Savonarola could have lived there, all of it bespeakingreverence for a medieval patina, undisturbed by the passing of timeor someone's riffling about with a dust cloth. This is already mucheasier.

By now, a small, trawling knot of townspeople has gathered inthe garden, hands behind their backs or folded across their chests.After greeting them and introducing myself, saying how happy weare to be new San Cascianesi, I approach the only woman withhands on her hips. She looks ready to pitch in. I ask if she mightrecommend someone who would have time today to give us ahand. "Buongiorno, signora. Sono molto lieta di conoscerla. Good day,madam. I'm very honored to know you," I say, extending my handto her.

"Il piacere è mio.Mi chiamo Floriana. The pleasure is mine. My nameis Floriana."

"Ci serve un pò di aiuto. We could use a little help."

"Ci mancherebbe altro. It's the least we can do," she says, as thoughhelping us was already her plan.

We have two new brooms, a plastic bucket, a squeeze mop, andat least one specimen of every gel and foam and spray and wax thatpromises pine-scented refuge from household dirt. This is a pittance.Our neighbors disappear and soon return with their ownarms. Liter-size plastic bottles of pink alcohol, plastic bags full ofwhat seem to be filthy rags, industrial-size mops and brooms.

Soon there are three window washers, a sweeper on each floor,with moppers at the ready. The restoration of the house had beencompleted less than a month before and the disorder is mostly cosmetic.In less than four hours, things have definitely improved. Windowssparkle, floors are somewhat cleaner, appliances are scrubbed,walls dusted, bathrooms shine. The carefully numbered boxes arepiled in their correct rooms. Floriana snaps fresh, lace-trimmed burgundysheets into place on our pale yellow wooden baldacchino, latelyassembled by Fernando and the two carabinieri. And all the squadhas had to sustain it were paper cups of warm Ferrarelle, importedfrom Venice.

Fernando and I conference and, since it's nearly six, we invite thecrew to join us in the village at Bar Centrale for aperitivi. By thistime, the policemen are in it for the long haul, demonstrating not awhit of rush to depart. Only the Albanians seem furtive, signalingescape routes with their eyes. The now-mellowed policemen let thisplay out, having already decided they'll be looking the other waywhen the crew drives off. We trudge up the hill into town, some ofus walking, some of us riding, all of us exhausted and satisfied, eachin his own way. We've had a barn raising, a quilting bee, and we'veall earned our thirst and hunger.

Campari and soda gives way to white wine after which someonebegins pouring red. And what better after bowls full of fleshy, saltyblack olives than a great heap of bruschette—bread roasted over wood,drenched in fine local oil, dusted in sea salt and devoured out ofhand? Still, no one seems ready to say arrivederci.

More conferencing ensues, this time among Fernando and I andthe two cooks, Bice and Monica, who work at the bar's restaurant.Our numbers have grown to seventeen. Can they feed us all? Ratherthan giving a simple yes or no, Monica reminds us that each of theseseventeen people is related to at least one other person, and that allof them are expected home to either sup or cook within the next halfhour. But I needn't have worried. Floriana, formerly with handson hips, has taken over here just as she did back at the house. Somewomen scatter. Others move out onto the little terrace, push tablestogether and spread plastic cloths, set plates and silverware andglasses, plunk down great jugs of wine. More tables are unearthedfrom the cellars of the nearby city hall and soon the whole piazza istransformed into an alfresco dining room.

The fornaio, the baker, had been summoned and, like some sweat-glistenedcentaur, peaked white hat floured, bare knees poking upfrom his aproned lap, he pumps his bike up the hill into the village,alternately ringing his bell and blowing his horn. I watch him and theothers and I think how so simple an affair can inspire their happiness.

He unloads rounds of bread big as wagon wheels from his saddlebaskets, lays them on the table, stands back to admire them, tellingus one was meant for the osteria in Piazze and the others for the folksin the castle up in Fighine. "Let them eat yesterday's bread," he saysremounting, yelling over his shoulder to save three places for him attable. After brief raids on their own kitchens, fetching whatever itwas they had prepared for their family supper, the scattered womenreconverge at the bar. Their mothers and children and husbands intow, they come toting pots and platters under an arm, a free handtucking drifting wisps of hair under their kerchiefs. Like a gaggleof small birds, their high-pitched patter pierces the soft ending ofthe day. Flowered aprons tied—at all times of the day or evening, Iwould learn—over navy tube skirts, their feet slippered in pinkterry-cloth, they move easily between their private spaces and thepublic domain of the piazza. Both belong to them.

A man they call Barlozzo appears to be the village chieftain, walkingas he does up and down the tables, setting down plates, pouringwine, patting shoulders. Somewhere beyond seventy, Barlozzo islong and lean, his eyes so black they flicker up shards of silver. Gritty,he seems. Mesmeric. Much later I see the way those eyes soften togray in the doom just before a storm, be it an act of God or somemore personal tempest. His thick smooth hair is white and blondand announces that he is at once very young and very old. And for aslong as I will know him, I will never be certain if time is pulling himbackward or beckoning him ahead. A chronicler, a raconteur, a ghost.A mago is Barlozzo. He will become my muse, this old man, my animatore,the soul of things for me.

Fresh from their triumph of the squash blossoms, nowBice and Monica come back laden with platters of prosciutto andsalame—cose nostre, our things, they say, a phrase signifying thattheir families raise and butcher pigs, that they artisinally fashionevery part of the animal's flesh and skin and fat into one sort orother of sausage or ham. There are crostini, tiny rounds of bread,toasted on one side, the other side dipped in warm broth andsmeared thickly with a salve of chicken livers, capers, and the thinlyscraped zest of lemon. Again from the kitchen, two large, deepbowls of pici, thick, rough, hand-rolled ropes of pasta, are broughtforth, each one tucked in the crook of Bice's elbows. The pici aresauced simply with raw crushed green tomatoes, minced garlic,olive oil, and basil. Wonderful.

Many of the women have brought a soup of some sort, soup,more often than pasta, being the traditional primo, opening plate, ofa Tuscan lunch or supper. No one seems concerned that the soups siton the table while we work at devouring the pici. Soups are most oftenserved at room temperature with a thread of oil and a dusting ofpecorino,ewe's milk cheese. "There's more intensity of flavor quandola minestra è servita tiepida, when the soup is served tepid," saysFloriana to me across the table, in a voice both pedantic and patient."People who insist on drinking soup hot burn their palates so theymust have it always hotter yet, as they search to taste something,anything at all," she says as though too-hot soup was the cause of allhuman suffering.

There is a potion made of farro, an ancient wheatlike grain, andrice; one of hard bread softened in water and scented with garlic,oil, rosemary and just-ground black pepper; another one of fat whitebeans flavored with sage and tomato and one of new peas in brothwith a few shreds of field greens.