Still dazed from a late night, I awakened to “Peachetta” coming from below my window. My darling, determined husband returning from a run through the Tuscan hills, locked himself out – a ploy to incite this newly minted Tuscan woman to demonstrate my grasp of the 3 minute coffee making lesson and summon to practicality my Fodd network and camping skills combined to produce breakfast. The six serving coffee pot cheerfully produced by the ever so helpful Allesandro actually served 2 for the first round of caffeine. We made three pots! Delicious with warmed latte.
Next experiment was porketta in olive oil and eggs (not sold in a dozen, but 10) The Tuscan bread (unsalted) was toasted in a pan. Ingenuity considering the hour. Yesterday before arrival, I was stressing over coffee. Check. Breakfast. Check. Now once again at 9:30 under the Tuscan sun I have made my peace. Just enjoy. That’s why I am here.
So the sun yilded a beautiful Sunday resplendent with village church bells. The was a cool haven when the sun was excessive. I spent the entire day in and out of pool and sleepy zone. Cecil slept under the shaded respite for hours. Reading, napping both the order of the day. The hours evaporated into sunshine and I emerged from my purple tent to my friend and gourmet chef in her own right Gucci bearing bowls of Caprese – the tomatoes so sweet it felt indulgent and healthy all at the same bite. The soft mozzarella combined with basil oil was the perfect mid afternoon repast. We continued to laze away the day with Dutch and French families at pool side. Exactly the type of day we needed to revive our mind, body and soul.
Feeling opportunistic, I moved my body from its repose and decided to shift gears. After freshening, I ventured down the lane to the one and only landmark – the bar. It is actually a tiny convenience store a la camp store with small necessities like olives and salami. Since our resident gourmande had planned a pasta dish, my Giada cum Ina cum Food Network kicked in to create insalata to accompany. Gucci created a cream sauce with spinach served over fresh pasta that was every bit as comforting as any spaghetteria could offer. I continue to demonstrate skill in cheating the moka out of more than 4 ounces. Dining while the sun set, observing our elderly Italian neighbours pluck vine fresh pommodoro and conversing provided the authentic backdrop to the evening. The time melts away ever so softly, like the pale Italian butten in the pan – waiting to make the sauce. The sense of well being is growing in my inner parts. I’m sitting on the patio listening to crickets and childres enjoying the coolness of the evening.