Let’s start with THANK YOU! And a few free, signed copies of “Pinch Me: Waking Up in a 300-year-old Italian Farmhouse.” Because, heck, why not??

Just over two years ago, I wrote my first “Letter” on Substack for an audience of five subscribers (you know who you are and I thank you!). Now, 100 “Letters” later, I am within inches of reaching 1,000 readers! (I actually have 950 subscribers at this moment, if you want to know) How amazing is that??

But more importantly, this has been one of the most gratifying things I have done in my life. My promise is “to write these letters every week or two, with stories of Piemonte, recipes that I have fallen in love with, tales of people I meet, places I discover and anything else that I think you might find amusing, curious or worthwhile. It’s a way to look at the world from a different window, and hopefully let a little Italian sunshine into your day.”

I really do feel each one of you as you read my letters, and it means the world to know that you are sharing this Italian adventure with me. Your comments, on Substack, and when I see you in person, knock me out. You are funny, curious, and kind, and I could not be more grateful.

What is more incredible, is that some of you have elected to be paid subscribers, following the “public television” model, supporting me purely to let me know that you support me. There are no freebies, or extra articles to read, no buttons to put on your lapel, nothing except my true and deep gratitude which spurs me on as I continue to write my Substack and more importantly, my next book. Still, you are there for me! Yes, people can be amazing, can’t they?

So to you, all of my subscribers, THANK YOU! I feel you. And that is why I am giving away three of my books. But first, let’s take a quick look back.

We started out enthusiastically, but not knowing where this would all go:

MARCH 2024

Have your ever dreamt about packing up and leaving your home to try something completely new? Are you curious about what goes into restoring an old home? Or do you simply love travel, world class food, and life changing wine?? Share your own stories here, your own recipes. I want to hear. Let’s celebrate them all. Isn’t that what life is all about?

Along the way, we have had some good laughs:

MAY 2026

“I love to garden, and take some pride in the pretty flowers we have growing in our yard. So you can imagine how it feels to throw that pride out the window and show you the carrots from our vegetable garden last season.

There are shades of Chernobyl, carrot abuse and pornography in these photos, and they have caused me sleepless nights all year. It shouldn’t be that difficult to grow nice carrots, right? Didn’t we all learn how to do that in third grade? Or were those avocado plants?”

We have taken time to reflect on the world around us:

APRIL 2026

“What freedom really looks like.”

We have enjoyed some delicious food and drink:

AUGUST 2025

“Give yourself an hour or so the first time, but after that, you will see 40 minutes is all it takes to transport you from New York or San Francisco or Monforte to Sicily.

Buon appetito, and buon viaggio!

Pasta alla Norma

2 medium eggplants, sliced into 1/4 inch rounds

Coarse salt

8 large, fresh ripe tomatoes or 28 ounces canned San Marzano’s

2 cloves of garlic, peeled and left whole

1/3 to 1/2 cup olive oil

1 cup basil leaves, chopped

1 pound (500 grams) best quality pasta noodles, short and fat, such as macaroni or penne

6 ounces Ricotta Salata, crumbled

A few pinches of red pepper flakes

Sprinkle salt over each of the eggplant slices (how much salt? Antonio says, “not too much, not too little”) and set the slices aside for 30 minutes or so to draw out the water and the bitterness.

Meanwhile make the tomato sauce. Peel and coarsely chop the tomatoes, then place in a large saucepan. Add one whole clove of garlic and cook with the tomatoes over medium low heat for 10 to 20 minutes, until most of the water has cooked off and sauce is somewhat thickened. Do not let the garlic brown.

In a large pasta pot, begin heating ample water (4 quarts or more) to which you have added a tablespoon of salt. This is so the water will be ready for you to add the pasta, just before it is time to serve.

Next, in a deep, wide non-stick frying pan, heat olive oil until hot, but not smoking. (The oil should be about 1/4 inch deep all around.) With a paper towel, blot the eggplant slices, wiping off the water and most of the salt, and place the slices one at a time into the hot oil. Add the second whole clove of garlic to this pan, being careful not to brown it at all. If all the oil becomes absorbed into the slices, do not add more oil. Simply flatten the slices with a spatula and squeeze out excess oil and use for the remaining slices. Simmer gently, turning occasionally until golden brown on both sides. Working in batches, cook all of the slices and then drain on paper towels. Discard oil and garlic clove.

Taste the tomato sauce. Add a dash or two of red pepper flakes, if desired. Do not add salt, as the eggplant slices and the cheese are already salty enough. Discard garlic clove.

Cook the pasta until al dente. Drain in a colander, then pour the pasta onto a platter, top with the tomato sauce, and then the eggplant slices. Sprinkle generously with the Ricotta Salata, and garnish all over with the basil. Pass additional cheese at the table.”

And I would venture to say, we have even forged some new friendships. How cool is that??

So, thank you, truly, for all of it. And now, about the free books…

I would love to give away a copy of my book, “Pinch Me: Waking Up in a 300-year-old Italian Farmhouse” to any reader who would like it. It will take some time to get to you from Italy, but I will happily personalize it for you, sign it, pop it in the Italian post and send it off for you to enjoy. Unfortunately, I can not send one to each of you but if you send me a note by commenting on this post, I will put your name in a hat and next week I will draw three winning names. Each winner gets one of my books.

It would mean so much, too, if you would click the green share button below and send my letters on to a friend and suggest that they subscribe, free or paid. Either works. Or if you happen to write your own Substack and would recommend me, that would be fantastic. Then I can hit that magic 1,000th subscriber all the sooner, which will trigger all kinds of good things in the Substack algorithm and help “Letters from a 300 year old Italian farmhouse” to grow even more.

All you need to do is message me below and make sure I have your email or a way to contact you, and I will add your name to the hat.

Next week, I will let you know the (first) names of the three winners who will be getting a book.

Meanwhile, wherever you are, whatever you are doing, thank you for taking time to look in on “Letters.” I hope it gives you a taste of the many amazing sides of beautiful Piemonte, and inspires you to find the sunshine in your own community, each and every day.

What about you? What is going on in your life? Any milestones to celebrate? Any moments you want to share with me or the other readers on “Letters?” Let me know. Tell me whatever you are doing, what you are enjoying, big or small, I want to hear.

Tell me how you are feeling, in your homes, in your community. Your comments mean so much. What are you dreaming about, working towards? Are you finding hope, and joy in what you are doing, where you are going and who you are with? I want to know. And as always, wherever you are, I wish you all the blessings there are to be found in this life.

Meanwhile, it’s good to be here on “Letters” with you today. I will be back to you next week and let you know the (first) names of our three winners. I will contact you directly, if your name is chosen, and we can plan where to send your book.

This is how I stay close to everyone far away. I write these letters every week or two, with stories of Piemonte, recipes that I have fallen in love with, tales of people I meet, places I discover and anything else that I think you might find amusing, curious or worthwhile. It’s a way to look at the world from a different window, and hopefully let a little Italian sunshine into your day.

A presto!

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How Slow Food found a home in Italy, and why it really, truly matters.

On May 21st, we lost a visionary and a force in Carlo Petrini. He first appeared on the world stage in 1986 when McDonald’s opened its doors near the Spanish Steps in Rome and in response, Petrini and his cohorts launched the ultimate Italian protest— cooking and serving spaghetti to passers by.

What better way to fight BigMacs than with Nonna’s ragu??

Clearly, their point was well made, because that is how and when the Slow Food revolution was born.

Two years later, in Paris, more than 20 delegations from around the world signed the official Slow Food manifesto, and Petrini was elected president of the Slow Food Organization.

Now, I am not someone who necessarily gets all excited about topics like biodiversity or ancient grains, but I really do love and appreciate great food; a strawberry that tastes like a strawberry, fish that tastes like the ocean or warm sourdough bread with a tang that makes your mouth water. And one of the best things about living in Italy is that food here almost always tastes that way. So, so good, so, so fresh, and pure. It is different. And I have come to realize that it is no accident.

Slow Food, respect for the traditions that create it, is at home in Italy, for a reason.

In fact, it is hard to imagine what food would be like today had Carlo Petrini not shepherded the Slow Food movement. In retrospect, it is so simple. Local food. Seasonal food. All produced by small purveyors who, even if they have to take a little longer and charge a little more for their products, can survive on their family farms, generation after generation, without fear of being forced out of business by big corporations. It shows such respect for the people, the land, their way of life, and of course, the wholesomeness and deliciousness of the food.

Part of Carlo Petrini’s super power was his ability to articulate this philosophy, simply but powerfully. He advocated for “good,” “clean” and “fair” food. Good flavor that delights the senses and honors the people who grow and cook it. Clean food, that minimizes harm to the land, water, and animals. Fair food — and this is the tricky one—speaks to justice in the food system, demanding fair wages for farmers, fair prices to consumers and respect for culinary cultures that risk being lost in globalization. This last point is where this one humble human being succeeded in taking on the industrial food machine in the US and elsewhere.

No easy feat.

But people who knew Petrini have described him as very charismatic and opinionated, which he surely must have been. And I suspect he had a hand in the branding and marketing of Slow Food, which in my opinion is also nothing short of genius (the logo is a snail!).

I wonder. Without him, would the Pope have taken notice? Would the Italian government have participated? Would Alice Waters and the American food world have been so quick to come on board?

I feel a special kind of affinity towards him as his roots were deep in Piemonte’s Langhe area, living in Bra, just minutes from our home. He was born there in 1948 to an automobile electrician and a teacher, a humble beginning, and he studied sociology in Turin after the Slow Food movement began. But what I truly admired about him was his passion for food and his insight that food is so much more than simply what we eat. He saw how it defines how we live, and how we treat one another and the planet.

Really, what could be more fundamental?

In recent years, the Slow Food movement has also spawned the far reaching Terra Madre (“Mother Earth”) network, an ongoing collaboration of food producers, fishers, and gastronomes who share knowledge and organize around sustainable practices. Through Terra Madre and its many local events, Petrini’s idea has translated into real changes: farmers markets everywhere connecting eaters with growers, school meal programs emphasizing seasonal produce and local sourcing, and a broader cultural shift toward appreciating the labor, knowledge, and ecosystems behind every bite.

In 2022 when Petrini finally stepped down, Slow Food was a global network active in more than 160 countries, with 1,500 local branches and youth programs. Edward Mukiibi, who joined the movement from Africa, took over the role as President of Slow Food and he spoke this week here at Petrini’s memorial. His message, too, was powerful and simple. He said, “Carlo, you made us believe that a better world is possible.”

Carlo Petrini used to say, “An environmentalist who isn’t a gastronome is sad; a gastronome who isn’t an environmentalist is foolish.” What a wonderful way to remind us how intrinsically gastronomy, the environment and we are all linked.

May we never forget it.

If you’re looking to honor Petrini’s legacy in your own kitchen or neighborhood, here are some small, meaningful steps you might take, and maybe already do:

• Always try to buy seasonal, locally produced foods and seek out farmers’ markets or community growers where you can.

• Make a point of trying traditional, regional ingredients—whether a forgotten corn variety, a rare bean, or an indigenous fish—when you cook.

• Support producers of all types who demonstrate sustainable farming or fishing practices and fair labor conditions.

• Whenever possible, cook with friends and family (especially our children), turning meals into rituals of sharing and storytelling about where ingredients come from.

• I am a card-carrying, snailpin-wearing member of Slow Food in Italy. It feels good. Consider joining and supporting them or other similar initiatives, yourself.

Wherever you are, whatever you are eating, think of how what you are enjoying connects us all, and above all, enjoy every bite.

Buon appetito!

What about you? What is on your menu this weekend? Are you enjoying the first tastes of summer produce where you are? Sweet, juicy strawberries, savory, ripe tomatoes, tender zucchini? Are you grilling, or just chilling? Let me know. Tell me whatever you are doing, what you are enjoying, big or small, I want to hear.

Tell me how you are feeling, in your homes, in your community. Your comments mean so much. What are you dreaming about, working towards? Are you finding hope, and joy in what you are doing, where you are going and who you are with? I want to know. And as always, wherever you are, I wish you all the blessings there are to be found in this life.

Meanwhile, it’s good to be here in Italy and on “Letters” with you on this last day of May. I hope to see you right here again next week, for a SPECIAL EDITION of the column.

This is how I stay close to everyone far away. I write these letters every week or two, with stories of Piemonte, recipes that I have fallen in love with, tales of people I meet, places I discover and anything else that I think you might find amusing, curious or worthwhile. It’s a way to look at the world from a different window, and hopefully let a little Italian sunshine into your day.

A presto!

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Just in time for Memorial Day, the weather here has turned absolutely perfect, even though here it isn’t Memorial Day. Funny though, I can’t help but celebrate, as these quintessential American summer holidays still make me yearn for a burger or a dog over a plate of pasta. Of course, the summer salads and sides that go with them are all part of the attraction.

On one such holiday two summers ago, I discovered an unbelievably delicious salad that somehow crosses over from a salad dressed up in American finery, but with a little European touch to remind us we aren’t in Kansas anymore. It was a huge hit with friends and readers (are they becoming the same thing?), so I am sharing it with you again today.

I will keep it short (and sweet), since as beautiful as the weather is, I have been under it for about 10 days, and am just this morning starting to feel like myself again. So, my apologies for the brevity, but I did want to check in, and I know this salad will make you smile. It would work beautifully anytime watermelon and tomatoes are at their peak, like, say, also for the big 4th of July celebration this summer, too. That should be one for the ages.

Be sure to seek out the very best tomatoes in your area, preferably fresh from the local farmer’s market or from someone’s garden, and look for a nice, sweet, ripe watermelon. Enjoy every sweet, juicy, zesty bite!!

Tomato and Watermelon Salad

1 pound of freshly picked tomatoes, chopped into bite size pieces

2 cups (about) of seedless watermelon

⅓ to ½ cup extra virgin olive oil

Zest from 1 lime

The juice from the same lime, or a second one, too, to taste

Flaky sea salt

Chop the watermelon into nice, neat cubes, and the tomatoes into wedges or symmetrical chunks as best you can. Place in a pretty glass bowl. Drizzle all over with the olive oil. Zest the lime right on top of it, and pour the lime juice all over, then sprinkle lightly with flaky salt. Chill nicely, and serve.

Wherever you are, whatever you are celebrating, may you have a beautiful day filled with sunshine and good health. Fortified with the vitamin C from this watermelon salad, I have no doubt I will be back here in good form next week!

What about you? Are you enjoying the first taste of summer where you are? Celebrating grads, or Memorial Day or just the beautiful end of May weather? Tell me whatever you are doing, big or small, I want to hear.

Tell me how you are feeling, in your homes, in your community. Your comments mean so much. What are you dreaming about, working towards? Are you finding hope, and joy in what you are doing, where you are going and who you are with? I want to know. And as always, wherever you are, I wish you all the blessings there are to be found in this life.

Meanwhile, it’s good to be here in Italy and on “Letters” with you, even briefly today. I hope to see you right here again next week.

This is how I stay close to everyone far away. I write these letters every week or two, with stories of Piemonte, recipes that I have fallen in love with, tales of people I meet, places I discover and anything else that I think you might find amusing, curious or worthwhile. It’s a way to look at the world from a different window, and hopefully let a little Italian sunshine into your day.

A presto!

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When my husband first announced his intention to make wine, my reaction was that he was 1) joking, 2) joking or 3) joking. We live in Piemonte, noted for its wine, particularly Barolo wine. They call it “the king of wines; the wine of kings,” which is pretty serious praise. Our home is literally surrounded for miles by world renowned vineyards and winemakers. There is no way we could ever come close to growing and making the kind of wine they have been creating for generations.

Moreover, my husband knew nothing about making wine, I pointed out helpfully, if not very supportively.

“But I bought a book!” he replied, holding up said book.

And the rest is history. I should have known never to underestimate my husband and his ability to take on a challenge.

Ever curious, he said that with wine being such a part of the culture here, he wanted to understand and appreciate what goes into every bottle, not just what comes out of it. And I wholeheartedly agreed that if we were to make wine as a kind of an homage to the greatness that is around us, it would be a worthy undertaking.

One detail, however, is that we had no room for a vineyard. Undaunted, my husband decided to cordon off a part of our backyard and plant as many vines as would fit, which turned out to be 75. Our 75 vines yield, with any luck, about 100 bottles of wine. It is actually plenty for us to drink and to share with friends, and not too much for us to harvest, bottle and store each year.

We agreed that growing and making a Barolo wine would be an impossible reach for us, but we both love Barbera, which is much more approachable, and when he decided to name his wine Barbera di Barbara, I was all in.

What I have learned, that has most surprised me, is that making wine is truly a year round project. Having grown up around fruit orchards, I thought all that would be involved after planting the grapes, was to harvest them and put them in bottles, wait for the designated months or years, and enjoy. But five years into this venture, I have seen that there is something to do nearly every week of the year to make even a simple bottle of wine.

Right now, the vines are showing off their spring green finery, growing lush, leafy and tall and producing tiny little buds, if you look closely, that are soon to be grapes.

They need to be trimmed, coaxed upward along the wires, checked for mold or other maladies, fed, weeded and nurtured. Meanwhile, back at the cantina, wines have been bubbling away in vats since last fall’s harvest, and require weekly trips to the lab, filtering and tasting of the juice.

And this week, in mid May, many of those wines are being bottled, particularly those who have sat for 6 or 18 months in wood.

We were invited over to our friends’ beautiful winery, Cinque Sogni, to watch the process as they bottled their 2024 harvest.

It was truly remarkable. The following videos do not do justice to the operation, but picture an odd-looking tank-like vehicle, a kind of a triple long food truck, that can pull into a winery driveway, one that has been retrofitted into an assembly line that can wash, sterilize, fill, cork and label about two thousand bottles an hour, spitting them out at the end of the line for the winery staff to hastily grab, pack into cartons, and load onto pallets to be stored until sale.

The whole trip takes about a minute and a half per bottle.

A hose ran from their 100-liter stainless steel vats to the truck, pumping out their various delicious wines, Barolos, Chardonnays and Barberas. Working seamlessly together, the family filled, labeled and stored 14,000 bottles one day and 16,000 the next. It made my back sore just to watch them.

And, really, who came up with such a gizmo?

Our bottling process requires a little bit of grit and care, but as we are only bottling, corking and labeling about a hundred bottles at a time, you can see it is a much smaller enterprise, involving our kids and grandkids, when we are lucky enough to have their help.

In the end, I am realizing that living in Piemonte, making even a small amount of wine here, being a part of this generous and hardworking community is teaching me about respect. Respect for every glass of wine I enjoy, for the land that it springs from, for the people who put so much into the food and wine we enjoy, and, yes, I must admit, for my husband and his dreams.

What about you? What are you discovering or exploring these days? Are you getting out and enjoying all the wonders that spring offers where you are?? Whatever you do, however big or small, may it bring you joy and happiness and perhaps chance to learn and grow. Tell me. I would love to know…

Tell me how you are feeling, in your homes, in your community. Your comments mean so much. What are you dreaming about, working towards? Are you finding hope, and joy in what you are doing, where you are going and who you are with? I want to know. And as always, wherever you are, I wish you all the blessings there are to be found in this life.

Meanwhile, it’s good to be here in Italy and on “Letters” with you. I will see you right here again next week.

This is how I stay close to everyone far away. I write these letters every week or two, with stories of Piemonte, recipes that I have fallen in love with, tales of people I meet, places I discover and anything else that I think you might find amusing, curious or worthwhile. It’s a way to look at the world from a different window, and hopefully let a little Italian sunshine into your day.

A presto!

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To all those amazing moms out there — mothers, grandmothers, godmothers, step mothers (the non-wicked ones), mothers-to-be, mothers-in-law, favorite aunts who help with mothering from time to time, and for all of us who are lucky enough to have had mothers, here’s to a wonderful holiday in Italy, the U.S. or wherever you are today. Each and every one of you deserve our respect, admiration, and just pure love for carrying and caring for the future of our world.

You rock.

To my mom in heaven, ti voglio bene. Wish you were here in Italy with us (although, it often feels like you are).

I will be taking the rest of this day off, but wanted to send you all my wishes for a beautiful day.

What about you? Anything special planned for Mother’s Day?? Whatever you do, or don’t do, may it bring you joy and happiness. Let me know how you celebrate. I would love to know…

Tell me how you are feeling, in your homes, in your community. Your comments mean so much. What are you dreaming about, working towards? Are you finding hope, and joy in what you are doing, where you are going and who you are with? I want to know. And as always, wherever you are, I wish you all the blessings there are to be found in this life.

Meanwhile, it’s good to be here in Italy and on “Letters” with you. I will see you right here again next week.

This is how I stay close to everyone far away. I write these letters every week or two, with stories of Piemonte, recipes that I have fallen in love with, tales of people I meet, places I discover and anything else that I think you might find amusing, curious or worthwhile. It’s a way to look at the world from a different window, and hopefully let a little Italian sunshine into your day.

A presto!

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I love to garden, and take some pride in the pretty flowers we have growing in our yard. So you can imagine how it feels to throw that pride out the window and show you the carrots from our vegetable garden last season.

There are shades of Chernobyl, carrot abuse and pornography in these photos, and they have caused me sleepless nights all year. It shouldn’t be that difficult to grow nice carrots, right? Didn’t we all learn how to do that in third grade? Or were those avocado plants?

My husband suggested the carrot-like veggies would probably be ok if I just chopped them up with a knife, into little pieces, and pureed them in a blender. But somehow I just, well, couldn’t. I threw them gently into the compost.

All of our neighbors, indeed, all self respecting Italians I know, have a gorgeous vegetable garden, an orto, that boasts perfect tomatoes, luscious zucchini with flowers, tender, gangly string beans, and of course, carrots that Bugs Bunny would be proud to munch.

We are clearly out of our league. I grew up in the suburbs of California with prune and apricot trees that basically grew themselves, and I later played with herb gardens, which are easy. But I do not recall any of our neighbors growing serious vegetables. I had no idea how tricky it can be.

We have been lucky with some wonderfully tasting tomatoes every year, and lots of zucchini, and even some delicious potatoes, through no skill of our own. But on the whole, I would give our gardens in the past about a C- , especially compared with what everyone else around us is doing.

I would like to put some of the blame on our soil here, which we learned about when we were rebuilding our house; it is full of very heavy, sticky clay. (The first time I tried to walk through our muddy construction site wearing rubber boots, my boots stayed lodged in the mud, like quick sand, and my feet slipped right out of the boots. I finally escaped through the muck in my stocking feet, then threw the boots in the garbage.)

So last year, we dug down several inches and added a nice load of good top soil to our garden plot. Still, those sad, confused, complicated carrots are what the orto yielded.

Undaunted, we decided that this year we would dig down even further, a good foot or more, rototill three different times, and enrich the soil with some excellent organic fertilizer (aka goat poop) that our neighbors recommended. The whole yard smelled like bad gorgonzola for a few days, but if that is what it takes, I am good with a little smelly cheese.

Then we selected some beautiful tiny plants from a nursery a 40 minute drive from our house, and loaded up.

And before you could say pomodorini, we had the little veggies planted in their new home, stakes and all.

It is hard to tell, but there are tomatoes, eggplants, melons, zucchini, string beans, asparagus, lots of potatoes buried underground, and a row of basil and parsley. We watered it all as soon as they were planted.

But then, to my shock, we learned we were watering our veggies all wrong. I didn’t even know that that was possible. Our dear neighbor, Zucchero, came over, took us aside, and after seeing that we were clearly trying our best to up our game, gave us a pro tip. We had been watering all over, like we used to water lawns in California, back and forth, either by spraying a hose, or with a sprinkler. Who knew, that was the wrong way?! It produces shallow roots, and well, painfully ugly carrots, among other maladies.

He showed us that we needed to water deeply, gently, plant by plant, in rows, leaving the soil on either side dry, in between the plants. We were instructed to just let the water dribble way down into their roots.

It is funny, this morning I spent nearly an hour in the garden watering each sprout, one at a time, and discovered how much more enjoyable it was that way. I was able to spend a little time with each plant, and get to know it a bit. I thought it would be harder, and in fact, it felt easy.

Maybe it was my imagination, but each little plant seemed to perk up after our time together. And I did, too. Leave it to the Italians to know how to take a task, take their time, and make the moment a true pleasure.

As for the results, I am not sure how the carrots will feel about all this, or if they are even meant to be in our garden at all. I do hope they like it here. I promise, I will do my best, and will let you know how they turn out, or up, or down.

And, funny story, just as I got to this point in my letter to you, Zucchero arrived at our kitchen door. He said he was really not satisfied with how our plants were planted. So he took a little mini-hoe and carved out little trenches around all of the plants, and told us to water in the troughs, not directly onto the plants, and only every other day.

Before Zucchero:

After Zucchero:

There is really no reason for this kindness. We do nothing to deserve it. But I must say suddenly, I am feeling pretty darn good about our vegetables for this season.

Even the carrots.

What about you? Any spring projects that you are enjoying? Any gardens, in the yard or on the balcony, that you want to share with other readers? We are all trying to find joy in the season when and where we can. How about you? We would all love to know…

Tell me how you are feeling, in your homes, in your communities. Your comments mean so much. What are you dreaming about, working towards? Are you finding hope, and joy in what you are doing, where you are going and who you are with? I want to know. And as always, wherever you are, I wish you all the blessings there are to be found in this life.

Meanwhile, it’s good to be here in Italy and on “Letters” with you. I will see you right here again next week.

This is how I stay close to everyone far away. I write these letters every week or two, with stories of Piemonte, recipes that I have fallen in love with, tales of people I meet, places I discover and anything else that I think you might find amusing, curious or worthwhile. It’s a way to look at the world from a different window, and hopefully let a little Italian sunshine into your day.

A presto!

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I stood this morning in the town square of my little comune, against the backdrop of the snowy Alps, under brilliant spring sun, as a young woman read a letter. It was written by another woman who had joined the Partisans in Roddino fighting for Italy’s freedom in the Second World War. Today is Liberation Day, which commemorates April 25th, 1945 when the Allies helped free Italy from the yoke of Fascism, and here in Roddino the community shined a light on the critical role played by the local Partisans who participated in the resistance.

There were no fireworks, no marching bands, no fanfare, just members of the community gathering to listen to stories written by their grandparents about the way things were 80 years ago.

The mood was thoughtful, respectful and I think, grateful. Little children played around the piazza while their parents listened attentively to the speeches and music, almost like one would in church. They came to learn, to remember and to never take for granted the freedoms they enjoy today.

I could not understand all of what was said, but I heard that the woman Partisan wrote, “They sent me everywhere because I was only 17 and looked even younger; I had fake papers, declaring me two years younger. They sent me to Alba, sometimes carrying orders, wearing a cape and always with a gun in my pocket.”

It took my breath away.

There was simple immediacy to the woman’s words, saying how they were so tired and dirty, hungry and worn, but still persisted in their fight to protect their families and their homes. When she thought of her young friend, Enrico, who was killed, it still made her emotional. Her motivations were intensely personal, yet her actions, by definition, needed to be political. She was courageous, not glamorous.

It struck me, as it always does, how amazing these people were in this little town in the hills of Piemonte, living ordinary lives while World War II was raining down upon them. War was in their backyards, in their front yards, in their barns and pastures. Literally.

Mayor Marco spoke, of course, as did his eloquent daughter.

Our next door neighbor, Angela, choreographed the event. Our other neighbor, journalist Sante Altizio, spoke as well, sharing his characteristic wisdom and insights on freedom. https://substack.com/@santealtizio

And our local members of the Alpine military guard kindly protected our event.

The ceremony reminded me how freedom requires something from all of us. Indeed, the names of those who lost their lives in the war were written on the wall behind the day’s speakers, including Enrico’s. The sacrifices that they and all of the Piemontese made in the 1940’s are what allowed us all to stand in that piazza on this glorious morning under a flawless blue sky, watching little children play tag (as quietly as they could manage), coming together as a community.

I was the only American there, and being able to witness this intimate ceremony made me feel things I would never have felt at home. It made me think about how freedom isn’t guaranteed. And I wondered if I would have found the same courage the women partisans showed.

Above all, I felt grateful, that these people stood their ground and have been able to live peacefully in these enduring hills ever since, and that I have the good fortune to live here as their neighbor, now.

It was a simple, beautiful day that required no John Philip Sousa to build emotion.

But I am guessing the Dolcetto wine, meatballs and patatine offered at the end of the ceremonies added an unmistakably Italian touch that was enjoyed by all.

.

What about you? Any touching events or commemorations you are attending? Any things to make you stop and appreciate the gifts we enjoy each day? Are finding joy during this odd period in history? We would all love to know…

Tell me how you are feeling, in your homes, in your communities. Your comments mean so much. What are you dreaming about, working towards? Are you finding hope, and joy in what you are doing, where you are going and who you are with? I want to know. And as always, wherever you are, I wish you all the blessings there are to be found in this life.

Meanwhile, it’s good to be here in Italy and on “Letters” with you. I will see you again next week.

This is how I stay close to everyone far away. I will be writing letters every week or two, with stories of Piemonte, recipes that I have fallen in love with, tales of people I meet, places I discover and anything else that I think you might find amusing, curious or worthwhile. It’s a way to look at the world from a different window, and hopefully let a little Italian sunshine into your day.

A presto!

Share

I am sure my friends in Rome will laugh when they read this: everybody knows about puntarelle, right?? Me neither. I have spent decades eating green salad just about every day of my life, and this little vegetable has escaped me until this happened.

Against my will, I agreed to go out to lunch to a restaurant where we had never eaten, a few miles outside of our little town. (I admit I am a bit obsessive; I much prefer going out to dinner than lunch, so I can have a glass of wine, and I always dread going to unfamiliar restaurants, but that is another post for another day.) Throwing caution to the wind, I accepted my husband’s invitation and we found ourselves in the Alta Langa region at a little coffee place. At least we thought it was a coffee place, because it is. But it turns out, that behind the well-stocked coffee bar is also a whole other world of beautiful dining, with tablecloths, candles and a fire. Even at lunch.

Of course, because it was a new restaurant, at least to me, I had no idea what to order. As my panic subsided, I settled on a salad called Puntarelle alla Roma. The lovely server said it was light, no onions, nothing fried, just one green vegetable I had never heard of and a light vinaigrette. I cautiously ordered it with a side of comfortingly familiar focaccia. Then I immediately searched google translate for “puntarelle”and learned that the English translation was “puntarelle.”

When it arrived, accompanied by some hot, tender, buttery focaccia, it was possibly the prettiest salad I have ever seen. Pure white and shades of green in color, the graceful shoots curled up on the plate, nestled in an ethereal dressing of oil and something else I loved but could not identify. The secret, is placing the shoots in icy cold water for a time, which is what makes them curl up so beautifully. The vegetable was crunchy and delicate, tasting like a subtle mix of fennel and endive, but the dressing gave it a sexy kick that elevated it to something more.

“Puntarelle?” I asked again.”Where has this been all my life?” “Roma,” she said. “It is very famous and loved there.” The waitress said it’s name means “little points,” and is also called “cicoria di catalogna.” Aha, the chicory family, now that was starting to make sense. A sister of Belgian endive, she said. So that is where the elegance comes from. I was becoming quite enamored with and delighted by this new discovery in my life.

And, really, the name is just plain fun to say. “Puntarelle,” (poon-ta-REL-lay). It sounds like a charming but offbeat character from a Walt Disney film, doesn’t it?

I finished every bite, mopping up the dressing with the last of the focaccia, then headed for home to figure out how I might make this again. I did find a head of puntarelle at a tiny vegetable market in nearby Dogliani, a town much bigger town than ours. I brought it home and had the best time studying cookbooks and playing with it and now I would like to share two recipes with you.

I do so, of course, with deep apologies to Emily Nunn, who is the Queen of Salads and High Priestess of Greens and one of my favorite writers ever. I am sure she has a better version of it somewhere in the archives of her amazing column: Emily Nunn Let me know…

But here, below, are mine: the first is my version of the delicious salad I enjoyed that day for lunch (shot while on ice, just starting to curl), liberally adapted from Marcella Hazan’s Marcella Cucina. And the second is my variation on avocado toast, which I thought worked beautifully, with the tender greens on top as a crunchy counterpoint (ready to eat…it didn’t last long).

If you do not live in or near Rome, do not fret. You may be able to order puntarelle on line, or in some local stores, as I saw on Ask SF-Reddit. Or you can substitute endive or even chicory, you just won’t get those pretty curls on the plate. And the wonderful dressing will work with any green. No need to make a big announcement about the anchovies in it. They melt right in and just leave a subtle, salty umami hit that gives the salad depth and excitement. I know you will love it.

Puntarelle alla Roma

1-2 medium cloves of garlic

2 tablespoons white wine vinegar

3 excellent quality anchovy fillets

1 pound puntarelle shoots

Good, course salt

4 tablespoons of the best extra virgin olive oil you can find

Freshly ground black pepper

Take off all the outer leaves. Detach the hollow stalk and slice each lengthwise and in half. Keep cutting lengthwise until you have strips ¼ inch wide. Put a few ice cubes in a large bowl and fill with cold water. Add the puntarelle strips and soak for at least one hour until they curl. Do not refrigerate.

After the puntarelle has soaked for about half an hour, peel the garlic cloves and lightly crush them. Add them to a small bowl with the vinegar. Finely chop the anchovies and add them to the bowl. Mix well and let stand for half an hour.

When the salad is ready to be served (but no longer than one hour after you’ve created the dressing), discard the garlic cloves. Pour the dressing over the salad, season lightly with salt. Then add the olive oil, a spritz of fresh lemon, several grindings of pepper, and serve.

Puntarelle Avocado Toast

4 slices of good rustic bread

Good butter

1/2 pound of puntarelle shoots

1 Haas avocado, nicely ripe

1 fresh lemon

4 tablespoons of the best extra virgin olive oil you can find

Good coarse salt

Freshly ground pepper

Take off all the outer leaves. Detach the hollow stalk and slice each lengthwise and in half. Keep cutting lengthwise until you have strips ¼ inch wide. Put a few ice cubes in a large bowl and fill with cold water. Add the puntarelle strips and soak for at least one hour until they curl. Drain well.

Just before serving, toast the bread. Spread the butter generously on each slice. Halve the avocado, remove the pit and cut into 16 slices. Place 4 slices neatly on each piece toast. Halve the lemon and squeeze lemon juice over the avocado. Drizzle with olive oil and top with the salt and freshly ground pepper to your liking.

What about you? Any exciting new discoveries in your life? Something small but delightful and unexpected? Even curly??? Tell me, and other readers, what is making your day brighter or more fun? How you are finding joy during this odd period in history? We would all love to know…

Tell me how you are feeling, in your homes, in your communities. Your comments mean so much. What are you dreaming about, working towards? Are you finding hope, and joy in what you are doing, where you are going and who you are with? I want to know. And as always, wherever you are, I wish you all the blessings there are to be found in this life.

Meanwhile, it’s good to be back in Italy and on “Letters” with you. I will see you again next week, right here.

This is how I stay close to everyone far away. I will be writing letters every week or two, with stories of Piemonte, recipes that I have fallen in love with, tales of people I meet, places I discover and anything else that I think you might find amusing, curious or worthwhile. It’s a way to look at the world from a different window, and hopefully let a little Italian sunshine into your day.

A presto!

Share

I used to think it was just us. But every time we return to Italy from the US, it takes a full week or two to really slow down and get into the lovely, slower rhythms of our days. Now I have learned that it is a thing, and that Italians have a name for it: “fare le cose con calma”—doing things with calm. I do find that like jumping off a treadmill, or turning off a freeway ramp onto a local street, it requires actively hitting the brakes and getting your balance, or you can stumble. But the rewards that comes from a bit slower way of life are rich and many.

Take, for starters, how we eat.

In America, everyone loves a breakfast on the run, by the hand, or in a hurry. I used to drink my morning smoothie while making my bed and getting dressed or driving my car on the way to my trainer at the gym at 7am. The faster I could slam down the most important meal of the day, the better. McDonald’s and Starbuck’s have made billions on our breakfasts, as we are racing through, driving through and even better, standing up while eating it.

Lunch was the same. I rarely left my desk to go out. Instead, I would bring in a salad and sit at my desk and work and eat, dripping 1000 Island Dressing on whatever I was writing. And do Americans sit and have relaxing phone free dinners together anymore? Maybe??? Sometimes??

In Italy, breakfast is small, but delicious, and eaten at the table. Coffee and a croissant with jam, a small cup of yoghurt or a coffee latte with toast and Nutella, it is simple and sweet and delicious. When we are here, my husband and I take our coffee/tea in bed, and linger for an hour or so, chatting, before leisurely heading downstairs for our breakfasts. Why not? The gym here doesn’t even open until 9:30, and no meetings ever start before 10:00. Then we can always get a second coffee and croissant in the piazza around 11:00. We have time.

Share Letters from a 300-year-old-Italian farmhouse.

Lunch starts promptly at 12:30 (ok, maybe 1:00) and goes until 3:30, and all the stores close during those hours, for riposare. Not only does that make lunch more leisurely, it leaves plenty of time for a nap afterwards. With nothing open, why not?

Dinner begins at 8:00 pm even though we and the tourists still try to arrive at 7:30. The restaurant will seat us, because they are nice. But they never feed us because the chef does not arrive until 8:00. So we end up sitting at our table, dressed nicely, looking at each other, drinking a glass of wine and talking to each other, actually talking. It is nice.

Speaking of naps, I find that when we are here, I don’t take naps. They take me. Like Dorothy falling under the spell of poppies on the road to Oz, overcome with the lazy warmth of the afternoon,

I often find myself pulled by an unavoidable urge to close my eyes, and lie down. And before I know it, I fall into a sweeter, deeper slumber than I can ever manage at night. When we first moved here, I was astounded by this. I would hear my neighbor’s cuckoo clock through the open window, and I would count one cuckoo, two cuckoos, three, four, five cuckoos and wonder how I could have possibly slept so long. This happened a few times before I realized that it was not a clock, but the real deal. A cuckoo bird who had just flown in from neighboring Switzerland, was rousing me from my nap.

Talk about “calma.”

And of course, we have talked before about Slow Food, the movement towards supporting locally made, locally grown, small scale food of all sorts: meats, fish, pastas, cheese, fruit and vegetables, even wine. It first began in the 1980’s, in Bra, the town next to us, by Carlo Petrini. He was appalled when he heard that McDonald’s was coming to the Spanish Steps in Rome. To counter the fast food wave, he enlisted support from the Pope and the government of Italy to create and fund the Slow Food organization, which is still growing in number and strength, throughout Italy, Europe and the US. It is why the food here is so flavorful, delicious and nourishing, and why small farmers and artisanal growers thrive, generation after generation. Wherever and whenever possible, their food is raised and produced “con calma.” Everyday, at almost every meal, I taste the difference.

And most importantly, with our friendships here, daily, we enjoy the benefits of “fare le cose con calma.” There is no errand or chore so urgent or critical that our neighbors won’t pull over to the side of the road, or put down their rake and stop and say hello to chat or share a gift from their garden.

With every encounter, we are always left with a smile and a warm feeling inside. I feel like the feeling is mutual. I hope so.

I wonder if it will make us live longer, doing things with calm. Maybe, maybe not. But I know it makes each day a little bit sweeter and richer.

And these days, with the world so often anything but calm, living life “con calma” is priceless.

What about you? Are you ready for a little more calm in your day? Do you see ways to slow down here and there? A leisurely walk, a long telephone call, an extra cup of tea with a friend? Tell me, and other readers, how you are finding peace and calm in this less than calm time. We would all love to know…

Tell me how you are feeling, in your homes, in your communities. Your comments mean so much. What are you dreaming about, working towards? Are you finding hope, and joy in what you are doing, where you are going and who you are with? I want to know. And as always, wherever you are, I wish you all the blessings there are to be found in this life.

Meanwhile, it’s good to be back in Italy and on “Letters” with you. I will see you again next week, right here.

This is how I stay close to everyone far away. I will be writing letters every week or two, with stories of Piemonte, recipes that I have fallen in love with, tales of people I meet, places I discover and anything else that I think you might find amusing, curious or worthwhile. It’s a way to look at the world from a different window, and hopefully let a little Italian sunshine into your day.

A presto!

Share

I used to think it was just us. But every time we return to Italy from the US, it takes a full week or two to really slow down and get into the lovely, slower rhythms of our days. Now I have learned that it is a thing, and that Italians have a name for it: “fare le cose con calma”—doing things with calm. I do find that like jumping off a treadmill, or turning off a freeway ramp onto a local street, it requires actively hitting the brakes and getting your balance, or you can stumble. But the rewards that comes from a bit slower way of life are rich and many.

Take, for starters, how we eat.

In America, everyone loves a breakfast on the run, by the hand, or in a hurry. I used to drink my morning smoothie while making my bed and getting dressed or driving my car on the way to my trainer at the gym at 7am. The faster I could slam down the most important meal of the day, the better. McDonald’s and Starbuck’s have made billions on our breakfasts, as we are racing through, driving through and even better, standing up while eating it.

Lunch was the same. I rarely left my desk to go out. Instead, I would bring in a salad and sit at my desk and work and eat, dripping 1000 Island Dressing on whatever I was writing. And do Americans sit and have relaxing phone free dinners together anymore? Maybe??? Sometimes??

In Italy, breakfast is small, but delicious, and eaten at the table. Coffee and a croissant with jam, a small cup of yoghurt or a coffee latte with toast and Nutella, it is simple and sweet and delicious. When we are here, my husband and I take our coffee/tea in bed, and linger for an hour or so, chatting, before leisurely heading downstairs for our breakfasts. Why not? The gym here doesn’t even open until 9:30, and no meetings ever start before 10:00. Then we can always get a second coffee and croissant in the piazza around 11:00. We have time.

Share Letters from a 300-year-old-Italian farmhouse.

Lunch starts promptly at 12:30 (ok, maybe 1:00) and goes until 3:30, and all the stores close during those hours, for riposare. Not only does that make lunch more leisurely, it leaves plenty of time for a nap afterwards. With nothing open, why not?

Dinner begins at 8:00 pm even though we and the tourists still try to arrive at 7:30. The restaurant will seat us, because they are nice. But they never feed us because the chef does not arrive until 8:00. So we end up sitting at our table, dressed nicely, looking at each other, drinking a glass of wine and talking to each other, actually talking. It is nice.

Speaking of naps, I find that when we are here, I don’t take naps. They take me. Like Dorothy falling under the spell of poppies on the road to Oz, overcome with the lazy warmth of the afternoon,

I often find myself pulled by an unavoidable urge to close my eyes, and lie down. And before I know it, I fall into a sweeter, deeper slumber than I can ever manage at night. When we first moved here, I was astounded by this. I would hear my neighbor’s cuckoo clock through the open window, and I would count one cuckoo, two cuckoos, three, four, five cuckoos and wonder how I could have possibly slept so long. This happened a few times before I realized that it was not a clock, but the real deal. A cuckoo bird who had just flown in from neighboring Switzerland, was rousing me from my nap.

Talk about “calma.”

And of course, we have talked before about Slow Food, the movement towards supporting locally made, locally grown, small scale food of all sorts: meats, fish, pastas, cheese, fruit and vegetables, even wine. It first began in the 1980’s, in Bra, the town next to us, by Carlo Petrini. He was appalled when he heard that McDonald’s was coming to the Spanish Steps in Rome. To counter the fast food wave, he enlisted support from the Pope and the government of Italy to create and fund the Slow Food organization, which is still growing in number and strength, throughout Italy, Europe and the US. It is why the food here is so flavorful, delicious and nourishing, and why small farmers and artisanal growers thrive, generation after generation. Wherever and whenever possible, their food is raised and produced “con calma.” Everyday, at almost every meal, I taste the difference.

And most importantly, with our friendships here, daily, we enjoy the benefits of “fare le cose con calma.” There is no errand or chore so urgent or critical that our neighbors won’t pull over to the side of the road, or put down their rake and stop and say hello to chat or share a gift from their garden.

With every encounter, we are always left with a smile and a warm feeling inside. I feel like the feeling is mutual. I hope so.

I wonder if it will make us live longer, doing things with calm. Maybe, maybe not. But I know it makes each day a little bit sweeter and richer.

And these days, with the world so often anything but calm, living life “con calma” is priceless.

What about you? Are you ready for a little more calm in your day? Do you see ways to slow down here and there? A leisurely walk, a long telephone call, an extra cup of tea with a friend? Tell me, and other readers, how you are finding peace and calm in this less than calm time. We would all love to know…

Tell me how you are feeling, in your homes, in your communities. Your comments mean so much. What are you dreaming about, working towards? Are you finding hope, and joy in what you are doing, where you are going and who you are with? I want to know. And as always, wherever you are, I wish you all the blessings there are to be found in this life.

Meanwhile, it’s good to be back in Italy and on “Letters” with you. I will see you again next week, right here.

This is how I stay close to everyone far away. I will be writing letters every week or two, with stories of Piemonte, recipes that I have fallen in love with, tales of people I meet, places I discover and anything else that I think you might find amusing, curious or worthwhile. It’s a way to look at the world from a different window, and hopefully let a little Italian sunshine into your day.

A presto!

Share

It is amazing to see beautiful, elegant Italy, so classy and uncommercial at Christmas, become downright giddy at Easter. No one seems immune.

Maybe it is because here in Italy, they take Lent seriously, with its 40 days of fasting and penance ahead of Easter Sunday. On Ash Wednesday, February 18th, the beginning of this extended time of abstinence, you really did see people going about their day with ashes smeared on their foreheads in the shape of a cross, signifying humility and Lenten sacrifice. And ever since, our neighbors would mention what they might have “given up for Lent,” perhaps wine, chocolate or other tempting indulgences.

Not I, of course, but others.

And this goes on for over six weeks.

So by the time Holy Week comes around, they are getting ready to cut loose. Yes, there is the solemnity of Holy Thursday with commemorations of the Last Supper. And of course, on Good Friday, the most solemn and perhaps most sacred day of the whole year, the world here stops between noon and 3 pm, remembering Jesus dying on the cross. The day becomes hushed and beneath the intense blue skies and cotton white clouds, all you hear is the chirping of birds.

But by Saturday, everyone is out at the markets stocking up on all the spring lamb and asparagus they can find, although what they call rack of lamb here never manages to yield more than a few ounces of lamb per serving. Remember, the butchers are actually going out to the nearby farms to procure the little spring lambs, which are, well, little. Italy would never succumb to flying in meaty racks of New Zealand lamb, like we do in the states. It is simply not in their Slow Food DNA. So when you pick up your spring lamb for Easter dinner, it is local and you get baby sized portions. Makes sense.

There is a frantic feeling at the stores on Saturday, much like the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. People are madly shopping for family and friends arriving, for the Easter Sunday feasts and for those of Easter Monday, which is just as big of a holiday here.

But importantly, they are also scrambling to build their collection of chocolate eggs. Not the sedate, little ones the Easter bunny hides, these eggs are huge. They are thin-shelled, delicious milk chocolate eggs, from one to four feet high, filled with toys. I am not kidding. And everybody gives them and gets them.

They do not mess around with an Easter bunny. Grandparents and parents give the chocolate eggs, sometimes as big as the kids are, directly to the kids. Friends give them to friends. Then everyone gets to eat a fairly giant portion of chocolate while they play with the toys, kind of like Cracker Jacks on steroids. The toys they contain are real, like stuffed bears, little model Porsches, Disney character action figures or dolls. The one I picked up for my husband, or really for me, had Batman hidden inside.

I mean, what says Easter better than Batman??

The feasting goes on from the moment Easter mass is over, all day Sunday, “Pasqua,”and again on Monday, “Pasquetta.” Most schools and many businesses are closed from the Thursday before Easter, to at least Tuesday or Wednesday after, and sometimes for the whole two weeks.

Add all this to the fact that the winds have died down, the sun is finally out, blossoms the size of ping pong balls are on trees everywhere, candy-colored tulips and irises compete with each other to see which can look more cheerful and the clocks have sprung forward so the sun stays up an hour later.

It is heaven. Or Monforte.

In many ways, Easter in Italy is a bigger deal than Christmas. They have a saying here, “Natale con i tuoi, Pasqua con chi vuoi.” It means, in essence, one spends Christmas with one’s family, and Easter vacation with whomever you want, family, friends, or your own true love. That makes me giddy, too.

My own true love and I celebrate each year with whatever lamb we can find, and sit down to a delicious dinner. On Easter morning, church services optional, we break open a colomba, the dove-shaped panettone that all the bakeries make for Easter.

It is a rich, slightly sugary, slightly boozy breakfast bread, soft and crunchy, with almonds and candied oranges, and we heat it up and slather it with butter. (We usually buy two: one for Easter Sunday and one to eat in the car on the way home.)

Whatever you are celebrating this year, Easter, Passover, Ramadan, Holi, or even spring, I wish you a beautiful celebration, too.

With or without Batman.

What about you? What rites of spring are you celebrating? And how are you celebrating? With friends, family, or on your own, can you make a simple dinner at home with a special dessert?? We all deserve it after this winter, don’t you think??? I hope you find a chance to go a little bonkers, too! Let me know!

Tell me how you are feeling, in your homes, in your communities. Your comments mean so much. What are you dreaming about, working towards? Are you finding hope, and joy in what you are doing, where you are going and who you are with? I want to know. And as always, wherever you are, I wish you all the blessings there are to be found in this life.

Meanwhile, it’s good to be back in Italy and on “Letters” with you. I will see you again next week, right here.

This is how I stay close to everyone far away. I will be writing letters every week or two, with stories of Piemonte, recipes that I have fallen in love with, tales of people I meet, places I discover and anything else that I think you might find amusing, curious or worthwhile. It’s a way to look at the world from a different window, and hopefully let a little Italian sunshine into your day.

A presto!

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It was great being in America, meeting our 4 day old granddaughter, with her perfect pink toes and long fingers, who chirped and gurgled and never once cried in the nine days we were with her. But coming back to Piemonte has been an adjustment: going from a balmy 82 degrees to 32 degrees with whipping winds stripping the blossoms off the trees and swirling them in the air like snow flurries; from crowded freeways to gently meandering country roads; from groceries delivered by Doordash to farmers markets overflowing with spiky artichokes and purple radicchio.

It always takes a day or two to recalibrate. And we never really feel like we are back, until we step into the Barolo Bar.

Last night, still feeling a bit off our game and suffering from jet lag, we stumbled into Silvia’s incomparable establishment for a relaxed dinner and a good glass of wine, and as I settled into my chair I said, “We’re home.” It felt wonderful.

Amy, whose Bottega is the hot spot in nearby Roddino, had closed her place for the night and was there having a glass of arneis at the bar. Hugs and kisses on both cheeks quickly followed.

Silvia, herself, was behind the bar and came out to hug my husband and me, and the couple that runs the bakery came in and greeted us as we were being seated. All of the usual crowd was there.

Even though it was early, only 7pm, the place was full, and people were spilling into the street to chat, flirt, have a cigarette, and a glass or two of wine.

When we are at the Barolo Bar, it always feels like we are at a party to which we have been personally invited by the guest of honor. Silvia’s wine list is curated to be exceptional, though not necessarily expensive. Her menu is simple, and includes a pasta of the day, which I ordered—fresh, delicious cavatelli served with ragu and pure comfort.

The Barolo Bar has been a fixture in this town for decades, and has always been popular, I am told. When we first moved here, before Silvia took it over, we would drive by and marvel at how it was always packed with locals, but it didn’t really look like the kind of bar where we would be welcome. Silvia is a natural hostess and gifted proprietor. She makes everyone feel like they belong.

One evening, soon after she had taken over management of the bar, we stopped by for some wine and a plate of antipasti. We were both impressed at how delicious the salami was, and told her so. As we paid the check and were leaving for the night, she handed us a whole salami to take home.

I mean, who does that? Silvia does that.

She keeps a fire going in the winter and has live musicians playing every Wednesday night, mostly American rock and roll with an Italian accent, and dancing often ensues. In the summer, everyone is seated outside on the patio by the old church, even though it means she and her servers have to run up and down the stairs all night long.

Rome and Venice are, of course, amazing and lots of Americans go there. Everybody should. Tuscany is certainly good enough for Frances Mayes and others, and Lake Como works well for George and Amal. But there are still only a handful of us Americans who know and love Piemonte, Monforte, Roddino and the Barolo Bar in particular.

The Barolo Bar is the first place we go when we come back, and the last place we go before we leave. There is a real connection to our neighbors there, even if we don’t know all of their last names, or exactly where they live. It is such a small community, we all know what we need to know about each other, that we already have something important in common.

It is a little bit the way I used to feel every evening when I walked into Benson Center Dining Hall at my very small university. Or how Norm must have felt every time he walked into Cheers.

Being off the beaten path here is precisely what makes living in this town feel so sweet. When you are in the middle of nowhere, everybody knows your name.

What about you? Do you have a go-to place where you feel at home? Do you sometimes step off the beaten path, somewhere no one else knows about? Some place special where you belong? We could all use that about now, right? Please tell me your stories…

Tell me how you are feeling, in your homes, in your communities. Your comments mean so much. What are you dreaming about, working towards? Are you finding hope, and joy in what you are doing, where you are going and who you are with? I want to know. And as always, wherever you are, I wish you all the blessings there are to be found in this life.

Meanwhile, its good to be back in Italy and on “Letters” with you. I will see you again next week, right here.

This is how I stay close to everyone far away. I will be writing letters every week or two, with stories of Piemonte, recipes that I have fallen in love with, tales of people I meet, places I discover and anything else that I think you might find amusing, curious or worthwhile. It’s a way to look at the world from a different window, and hopefully let a little Italian sunshine into your day.

A presto!

Share

This week our new granddaughter arrived into this world, full of grace and curiosity. The look of trust in her eyes brings me to my knees, and I can not wait to hold her in my arms.

It is not lost on me, who had always hoped for but could never manage to have a baby of my own, how blessed I am to now have six grandchildren, each uniquely amazing and filled with great plans for the future of our world. It assures me that everything is going to be ok.

We will spend the next week or so visiting her and her family in the US, so I will be taking this week off from writing my usual post, then pick up where we left off, as soon as I get back to Italy.

I mean, really, pinch me.

What about you? Have you found something in your life to feel hopeful about?? We could all use that about now, right? Please tell me your stories…

Tell me how you are feeling, in your homes, in your communities. Your comments mean so much. What are you dreaming about, working towards? Are you finding hope, and joy in what you are doing, where you are going and who you are with? I want to know. And as always, wherever you are, I wish you all the blessings there are to be found in this life.

Meanwhile, its good to connect here on “Letters” with you. I will see you again next week, from Italy, right here.

This is how I stay close to everyone far away. I will be writing letters every week or two, with stories of Piemonte, recipes that I have fallen in love with, tales of people I meet, places I discover and anything else that I think you might find amusing, curious or worthwhile. It’s a way to look at the world from a different window, and hopefully let a little Italian sunshine into your day.

A presto!

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Take for example, our neighbors, Piero and Ines, whose home is literally attached to ours. They were well into their 80’s and 90’s when we met, and would come out from Torino for the summer every year to work their garden and enjoy the country air. We admired how they would plant the beautiful vegetables the minute they arrived, tend to their orto all summer long, and then happily reap the bounty all year.

Their home is on the second floor, which kept them spry, scrambling up and down stairs all summer without missing a beat.

They were amazing. No matter how many hours they worked each day, no matter how hot the day might have been, they would climb into their Fiat a little before 8:00 p.m. and disappear until midnight, when we would hear them pull into the gravel driveway and climb up the stairs back home. Every single night. There is no way I could sustain that kind of social life. I wondered where they went, and what they did. And I worried a little about them, out late at night, party animals, and at their age. It was such a mystery. Yet it was just one more reason to admire them.

Piero was always quick to offer me a greeting each morning, comments about my morning walk, the weather, the plans for the day, or any number of pleasantries that we all enjoyed. The conversation was a little more awkward between him and my husband, as my husband was more hesitant with his Italian. But they shared a love of bicycle riding and Piero was always enthusiastically praising my husband after any trip he took, short or long. “Bravo!” he would say, smiling and shaking his head in awe.

Later he would say to me how he wished my husband would learn Italian so they could chat.

One day, as his own way of communicating friendship, my husband baked a loaf of his special, crusty San Francisco-style sourdough bread and brought it over to Piero, still warm from the oven. The gesture was clear in any language, and Piero was plainly touched. However, in the Langhe, people love to offer gifts. It is who they are. It is what they do.

So not to be outdone, Piero showed up at our door the next day with a loaf of bread he had baked, plus a basket of green beans picked moments earlier from his garden. “I’ll see your bread, and raise you green beans,” in essence. It was clearly Game On.

Delighted with both of Piero’s offerings, and taken aback by his kindness, we had to plan our response. But how could we top freshly picked produce? We had no vegetable garden in those days, no bountiful orto with which to compete. So the following Monday at the Monforte farmers market, my husband went to his friends at the cheese truck and ordered a half kilo of thirty month-old Parmeggiano Reggiano, sliced fresh from their huge cheese wheel and nicely wrapped in paper. Any proper Italian could put that to good use, and it was probably one of the few items Piero and Ines used every day but did not grow themselves.

The cheese was a success, and Piero thanked us profusely, as he shrewdly plotted his next maneuver.

What we had not planned for was that Ines was a cousin of Gemma, proprietor of Osteria Da Gemma in Roddino, our famed local restaurant…

the very one that Italian people drive for miles just to visit, and the place where on Wednesday mornings, Gemma and her friends make the pasta, plin and tajarin, for the week ahead.

That following Wednesday, Piero knocked at our kitchen door. I opened it to find him standing there holding a large wicker basket overflowing with fresh, tender tajarin. He and Ines had just come from Da Gemma, where they had joined their neighbors in the weekly pasta making, and were able to take a little extra home, which he insisted was too much for the two of them. To the basket, Ines had added two jars of her salsa di pomodori, made with tomatoes from their garden, of course, and Piero with his blue eyes twinkling said,

“Buon appetito.”

That was it. It was priceless. He had won fair and square. We called a truce. There was no way for us to ever top the generosity of their gift.

Later that summer, we walked back to our house after dinner at another neighbor’s home. Just as we came around the corner of our driveway, at midnight and well past our bedtime, we encountered Piero and Ines getting out of their Fiat, about to climb up their stairs after another one of their evening outings. It was the perfect opportunity to probe. Casually, I asked, “Come è andata la vostra serata?” How was your evening?

“Meravigliosa,” Piero replied. “Siamo stati da Gemma.”

They were coming from Osteria Da Gemma, at this hour? Yes, they play cards there with their friends and cousins in Roddino, and tonight Piero won, he told us jubilantly.

So that was what they were doing. Mystery solved. All this summer, every night, they were just a kilometer away, ensconced at Osteria Da Gemma, playing cards, drinking coffee and perhaps savoring a glass of wine, while certainly enjoying Gemma’s desserts and their friends’ company. I felt instantly better knowing they were not out driving for miles on the dark, winding roads in their little car, but were somewhere close by, somewhere so nurturing, enjoying their community and family. It was yet another example of lives well lived, and a further reason to admire them.

Over the years, our friendship with Piero and Ines grew. And when we returned to Roddino after 8 months of my cancer treatment, Piero was ready for Kim and me. He met us with a sign his daughter helped him make, written phonetically.

My husband framed the sign and has it hanging in his office.

We lost Piero the following year on a warm September night. My husband was there at the end, holding his hand as he took his final breath. Now his daughter and her husband come out from Torino, and tend to the house and the thriving garden, as our friendship with them blossoms and grows.

As they say here, avanti, avanti. Ever forward.

Each day I am learning more how life should be, and how a community can be.

What about you? Are you connecting with your community? Feeling accepted and cared for? Are you reaching out to others when you can? It meant the world to us, as foreigners here. Community can make such a difference, can’t it? Tell me your stories…

Tell me how you are feeling, in your homes, in your communities. Your comments mean so much. What are you dreaming about, working towards? Are you finding joy in what you are doing, where you are going and who you are with? I want to know. And as always, wherever you are, I wish you all the blessings there are to be found in this life.

Meanwhile, its good to connect here on “Letters” with you. I will see you again next week, right here.

This is how I stay close to everyone far away. I will be writing letters every week or two, with stories of Piemonte, recipes that I have fallen in love with, tales of people I meet, places I discover and anything else that I think you might find amusing, curious or worthwhile. It’s a way to look at the world from a different window, and hopefully let a little Italian sunshine into your day.

A presto!

Share

Maybe it is the sight of those beautiful snowy Alps framing Milan and Cortina throughout the Olympic coverage each night in the US, or those glorious shots of Milan’s Duomo. Maybe it is being introduced to the Italian locals by American TV hosts, their charming accents and genuine warmth winning us all over. Or perhaps it is just that we are all feeling a yearning for a simpler, slower, kinder life of late. But it seems that I am hearing more and more from people who are interested in the idea of moving to Italy.

I do not think it is a coincidence.

They are asking really serious questions now, big sweeping questions and small specific ones, like:

How is the health care? How do residence permits work? What is the cost of living in Italy? Can I bring my dog?

And why not? For those dreaming of Italy, as the saying goes, if you dream it, you can do it.

Of course, I am far from an expert on relocating to a foreign country. But I am always happy to openly and honestly share with them (and you) my experience in creating a life with my husband in Italy these past ten years.

So here goes.

How is the healthcare in Italy?

From everything I read, Italy’s healthcare system consistently ranks amongst the best in the world. And that sounds about right to me.

I will spare you the photographs, but my two most dramatic health visits have included a trip to the Urgent Care Department of our local hospital for stitches in a wicked slice of my finger (a pesto injury), and even more stitches on a slash across my forehead (a going out to dinner injury), when I tripped on a wacky irregular step entering a restaurant. The last one included a ride to the hospital in an ambulance and 5 hours of emergency care. I survived both accidents in good form, and while I would have preferred a cosmetic surgeon’s touch on my forehead, I healed well. The entire out of pocket cost of the event was 20 euros. The doctors were professional, kind and extraordinarily compassionate, and I have nothing but good things to say about them.

Most Italian residents enjoy the benefits of Servizio Sanitario Nazionale, giving them universal coverage for primary care, hospital stays and preventative care, like mammograms and colonoscopies, for nominal fees. Even undocumented immigrants (or tourists) can receive urgent and essential services. The SSN is paid for mostly through taxes, although as foreign residents, we would need to pay several hundred dollars additionally for it annually. Because of this, we usually choose to see private doctors, whose fees are fairly modest. If something big were to happen to us, God willing, we would fly back to the US for treatment covered by our Medicare plans.

One downside to the care here is that wait times to see a doctor can be long, and hospital urgent care waiting rooms can be crowded. Even in our relatively wealthy region of Piemonte, wait times are longer than we find in the states.

And not all regions offer the same quality of care. We are lucky we live in a small town out in a hilly wine country. It is clean, organized and the communities near us are thriving, thanks to the wine industry and gastro-tourism that fuel the economy. Our local doctor holds weekly office hours in our little town of 300 souls and that seems to be sufficient for the community.

But what is wonderful about Italy, is how they rely on their local pharmacies.

For most small issues, we simply run over to Monforte, a five minute drive, and see our pharmacist, Paolo. He is wise, capable and trained to advise us on medications for many small maladies, like bug bites, strange rashes, simple colds or intestinal disorders, and other non-urgent issues. If we need something more, he can always recommend a nearby specialist or send us to the emergency room at the brand new, very modern hospital in Verduno, a 30 minute drive away.

For all serious or life threatening medical events, we would still feel best being cared for in San Francisco where we speak the language perfectly and know the lay of the land.

Can we get residence permits?

My husband and I both have a Permesso di Soggiorno, which require a few euros, piles and piles of paperwork and more patience than I ever thought I could muster. Still, it allows us to stay for up to two years at a time. I highly recommend one to anyone thinking of making a home in Italy as it makes life so much easier.

Start with your nearest Consolato Generale d’Italia and be prepared for a whole lot of signatures, paperwork, and patience.

How is the cost of living in Italy?

The cost of gas and electricity in Europe is nearly double what we pay. But the taxes on our home are a fraction of what they would be in the US. So we live differently. We only drive when necessary. We use solar energy for our home, turn off lights when we leave the room, and build a fire to stay warm in the winter, which is lovely, and I often hang clothes to dry, which saves on ironing. As for food, not only is the cost of it way less, almost half, of what it is in California, it is simply better.

The fruits and vegetables are grown nearby all year long, and are seasonal. The meat is raised in farms a mile or two away, and cheese and butter is often made nearby, too. I wish we had more seafood, but what we do find, is fresh and delicious, either from the Ligurian sea, or flown in from Norway.

Can I bring my dog?

Yes, you can. And you can bring him/her with you to most restaurants, as well.

So there you have it, for now. If you have any other questions, please ask! I will be happy to weigh in on them and share my very biased opinion. I can say with great certainty, that these last ten years have been the most interesting, fun, interesting and satisfying of my life so far.

Who would have guessed?

What about you? Intrigued by Italy? Feeling nostalgic for when life seemed simpler? What questions do you have about actually making a dream home in Italy or Europe? I am happy to share whatever I have learned, so far!

And as always, please tell me, how you are feeling. Your comments mean so much. What are you dreaming about? Are you finding joy in what you are doing, what you are eating, where you are going and who you are with? I want to know. And as always, I wish you all the blessings there is to be found in this life.

Meanwhile, its good to connect here on “Letters” with you. I will see you again next week, right here.

This is how I stay close to everyone far away. I will be writing letters every week or two, with stories of Piemonte, recipes that I have fallen in love with, tales of people I meet, places I discover and anything else that I think you might find amusing, curious or worthwhile. It’s a way to look at the world from a different window, and hopefully let a little Italian sunshine into your day.

A presto!

Share

February 1, 2026: Barbara Boyle

Newly retired and on her honeymoon, after spending a week in the south of France, Barbara Boyle and her husband arrived in Italy, and she fell in love. With Monforte, a small town in the Piemonte region. After the honeymoon, Barbara began taking Italian lessons, and her husband Kim signed them up to receive house listings in the Piemonte region. Pinch Me is Barbara’s story of making a dream come true.

It was eighteen months before they were able to return to Italy, but when they did, they met with a real estate agent.

We wanted character and tranquility and were not afraid of a ruin… I wanted birds, grass, mature trees, sun, and shade. My husband wanted a wine cellar.

The day before they were to head home to San Francisco, the real estate agent called to say he had a property to show them, not in Monforte exactly but in nearby Roddino, which was not exactly a town, and actually the house was not exactly in Roddino. “But my husband felt it was worth a quick look, so I reluctantly agreed to go along.”

I turned and faced the empty old house and barn sitting demurely in the afternoon sun—tall, proud stone walls and rusted iron doors, broken windows and shutters, crowned with a roof of old terra-cotta tiles, logs, and twigs. There were two or three outbuildings, crammed with wood, wine barrels, old farm tools, wires, tiles, and stones. The house was situated precariously on a narrow level plain that sloped up the hill behind it and slid into the valley in front. And it looked out over the whole world—vineyards, hazelnut orchards, farms and forests, and even the little hill town of Monforte, all the way out to the craggy Alps, still brushed with just a smattering of snow on the highest peak… I touched him on the arm and said, “This is it.”

These more detailed descriptions of the walls and the roof made me feel as if I were standing in the house looking around and up.

[The walls] are a disorderly combination of Langhe stones and handmade terra-cotta bricks, held together with mud and mortar.

[The roof] was a patchwork of weathered terra-cotta tiles, coppas, interspersed with old logs and branches.[The walls] are a disorderly combination of Langhe stones and handmade terra-cotta bricks, held together with mud and

Plin actually means “pinch” in the Piemontese dialect, and it is in fact that characteristic little pinch that separates these raviolis from all others on Earth…. the pinch forms little pockets all around the outside that cradle the ragu or melted butter with sage and Parmesan.

Spending time in Italy was teaching me, firsthand, how something as primal as eating and as simple as shopping, as essential as being part of a small community, creates a life.

How We Spend Our Days: Barbara Boyle

by Cynthia Newberry Martin | Feb 1, 2026 | How We Spend Our Days

Annie Dillard wrote, “How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.”

On the first of each month, Catching Days hosts a guest writer in the series, “How We Spend Our Days.”

Today, please welcome writer

BARBARA BOYLE

Morning…

I am on a treadmill.

No, really. I am in a hotel gym.

Far from the home I left behind in Italy, no longer at home here in San Francisco, in that awkward place between home and not home. I am running, pounding on and on, going nowhere, breathless.

It is a rainy morning, deep in January, with thoughts of faraway Italy tucked away in my heart. It snowed there today, said the neighbors, and I can picture the steady, pristine silence. Faded scenes of my childhood in San Francisco occupy other corners of my heart, comforting and innocent.

On I run.

Out the window, I watch a family trying to take selfies while holding umbrellas in the wind and rain. A cable car comes click click clicking past them, ringing the bell as it crosses the intersection. I admire their determination. A helpful passerby takes the camera from the young family with their umbrellas and takes the photo for them, the old school way. It is a great shot. The little girl is laughing and so are her parents.

The San Francisco I know from my childhood, my city by the bay, is famously grey and foggy and beautiful. But this wet, rainy town with a whipping wind throws me. I am happy that the tourists don’t seem to mind. Downtown is coming back, they say, though homeless still wander 6th street, bent over in fentanyl-fueled gyrations, talking animatedly to the air.

It has a ways to go.

My little town in Italy, Roddino, has no homeless people. No one sleeps on the cobblestone streets. No one goes hungry. Osteria da Gemma routinely serves a hot meal to neighbors who may be in need of one, for whatever reason. Gemma says there is always enough to go around.

I hit the down arrow on the treadmill, slow to a walk and begin to recover. Scribbled notes and pieces of paper are waiting for me in my room, strewn across the unmade bed. It is time to focus on them.

Midday…

Back in room 328, I am propped on the bed, half-packed suitcases piled to one side, computer on my lap. I need to create something, some sketches, a timeline, or perhaps a back story. It is hard to write in the limbo of my room. Colorless. Temporary.

But writing is like that. I cannot always put life aside and focus purely on the craft, or escape to an ideal setting without interruption, the need to prepare dinner, or look after someone besides the characters in my head.

My first book was a memoir, and it was a thrill to write, to see it accepted, published, and sent out into the world. I took my time with it. Writing it felt almost too easy. But in the end, all I had to do was tell what happened. I did not focus on arcs, plots, character development, and all those technical aspects of a novel that I will need in the story before me now.

Now it is daunting. I keep looking at my notebooks, the yellow sticky notes, the messy phrases on scraps of paper and on the backs of envelopes, and hope, trust, that it will all come together at some point. I hope, trust that those scraps of paper are pieces of a puzzle yet to reveal itself.

Probably not today, however.

What I do have is a character I love; the woman who was born in my house in Italy, and died there ninety-eight years later, having never married. Emma was her name.I am fascinated by her. Who was she? What did she experience in her long life? Did she ever fall in love? Where did her enormous strength and will to survive through two wars come from?

I feel her spirit in the walls and halls of my three-hundred-year-old home and want to imagine the story of her life. If I were there, I could simply put a log on the fire, lie on the couch, and study the stones in our thirty-foot walls, their echoes and whispers revealing tales they have heard for over three hundred years. I know the setting well, because it is where I live. I know how noisy the birds are at dawn in April, where the sun sets in winter and in summer, and how the autumn mists curl over the valleys below.

Before I left, I was able to write the first chapter, or at least a draft of it. How and when this will become a novel keeps me up at night. Sometimes, as I toss and turn, an entire scene comes to me, almost like a memory, or a piece of film, and I know what my heroine will do and how. In the morning, sometimes, it becomes a paragraph or more. Those are good days. But the road ahead is long.

Finally, sitting quietly in my stark beige room, some thoughts and half-finished phrases come to me. I scrawl them by hand, in blue or red ink:

“Emma adores the power of the tractor she drives and tunes the engine like a skilled mechanic.”

“early one morning in May, she comes into the barn and witnesses the bloody and beautiful birth of a baby goat.”

“an American paratrooper lands in the gully below the house, and her cousin protects him from the enemy; after she tends to his wounds, they fall in love, he goes back to the front, leaving her carrying his child.’

My back begins to ache. I find myself hoping that the rain will let up so I can take a walk outside, away from the scattered scraps and notebooks.

Paragraphs are for another day, I suppose.

Later in the day…

I stride past the hotel bar, football games blaring, glasses clinking, and venture outside to breathe in the cool air.

The rain has become more of a heavy mist, and the sun is just beginning to set as I head up the hill towards Grace Cathedral. The lights from the Nob Hill hotels twinkle reassuringly in the dusk.

Entering the cathedral, I am welcomed by the warmth, the majesty, the hushed beauty. There is a positivity to its architecture and the soaring grandeur of its stained-glass windows. It is an icon in the city that has always stood for equality and unity and love. Amidst the candles and plants in the vestibule, I find origami birds with handwritten messages of hope and kindness. “No more racism.” “No more poverty.” “Peace.”

My heart is in Italy, but my life today is here.

I can only imagine what lies ahead for me, for my book, and for our world in these next few months. I do not know how far along I will be with my story of Emma, or where she will take me. But I do know that while I am here, I need to keep my eyes open, making notes of my journey, all that is around me, and hope to make some sense of it all.

To keep going. To keep writing. To keep running.

~

THOSE SAME 3 NEW QUESTIONS…

1. What one word best describes your writing life?

• Purpose.

2. Is there a book you’ve read over and over again?

• The book I have been keeping by my bed and reading and rereading this past year is Guidance from the Universe by Jill Amy Sager. Aside from that, I love reading and rereading Portrait of a Lady by Henry James, and anything by Jane Austen. Old school. (English Lit major!)

3. What is your strangest obsession or habit?

• My strangest habit might be always counting stairs anytime I go up and down. A therapist would have a field day with that one.

Did you enjoy this brief departure from my Letters?

It has been such a difficult few weeks, I think the timing is perfect for a little something different. And I love author Cynthia Newberry Martin’s idea of featuring a different writer each week, behind the scenes, in their real “days.” I am sure you would enjoy visiting her website: https://www.cynthianewberrymartin.com/catching-days/

I will be back next week, all on my own, with Letters as you have come to know them.

As always, please tell me, how you are feeling. Your comments mean so much. Are you finding joy in what you are doing, what you are eating, where you are going and who you are with? I want to know. There is much to celebrate, really. And I wish you all, all the blessings there is to be found in this life.

Its good to connect here on “Letters” with you. I will see you again next week, right here.

This is how I stay close to everyone far away. I will be writing letters every week or two, with stories of Piemonte, recipes that I have fallen in love with, tales of people I meet, places I discover and anything else that I think you might find amusing, curious or worthwhile. It’s a way to look at the world from a different window, and hopefully let a little Italian sunshine into your day.

A presto!

Share

But it is hard to ignore the wisdom of the wildly popular and trending #2016. It seems that suddenly, people of all ages are longing to look back at a “more innocent time.” Yes, it was just ten years ago, and here we are already feeling nostalgic about it.

Honestly, I get it. Before AI. Before Covid. Before Katie Couric and James Patterson were on Substack. Before fake everything, where there seems to be nothing on line or on tv or in the news that you can completely trust. In my own life, it was before we had completely finished renovating our barn in Italy, before I spoke any Italian, before I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

Those are pretty big befores.

It was when I had a blog, remember those?? And it really was just me sharing my new and thoroughly enchanting life in Piemonte with family and a few friends. I had no idea what I was doing, in Italy, or writing a blog, but it was great fun and a new adventure. Fresh out of retirement, I felt like a school kid let out of class early on a warm spring day, full of energy, excited to jump on my bike and just ride.

And while I knew my husband and I had stumbled on to something special, our 300-year-old stone barn and the life in Italy that went along with it, I did not fully realize how special this new life would be, and how lucky we were to find it.

Now, I do.

So to join in the celebration of nostalgia, and as a salute to the early days, I want to share with you a post from 2016 about my struggles to learn Italian, on the way to building our life in Piemonte.

January 2016

MY SEVEN WORDS OF ITALIAN

Our friends, Rob and Carolyn, were just visiting and helping us, as we are in the thick of construction. Each day, the four of us would drive over to our property and tramp around, looking, measuring, and pondering the possibilities. We ate out some nights, and cooked at home some nights. After dinner, we played bridge, and then said good night. I normally slipped off to bed, and the next morning, my husband, Rob, and Carolyn would appear at breakfast with multiple new floor plan sketches they had drafted late into the evening. It became a routine. Each morning, I took part in the discussions of the merits of each plan. But they did the heavy lifting, the measuring of the elevations, the calculating of the topography for the parking and entrances, the designing of the foundation, heating, and electrical. I was, admittedly, out of my league.

I helped a little bit by trying out my Italian. And I mean, a very little bit. But I had made some progress over the winter after taking classes on Tuesday nights at the formidable Istituto Italiano Scuola in San Francisco. I also logged on to Duolingo when I had time, which seemed to be almost never. And there were yellow stickies all over the house with the Italian names for things on them, so when I needed a bathtub, I would know to ask for una vasca da bagno. I felt like I was starting to understand a few more words and phrases, but usually when I opened my mouth to say something, nothing came out. It was humbling and frustrating. Fortunately, there were a few words I had down cold. Seven, to be exact. And as I was able to use all seven of them that week, I felt pretty darn good about myself.

Here they are:

1. La macchina: Literally, the machine, this also translates to “the car.” Obviously, this is a very important word when you are traveling around looking at homes in the Italian countryside.

2. Mio marito: Another very important word, this is the person who was kind enough to drive la macchina all over creation, also known as “my husband.”

3. Cattivo: This is an excellent word. Google translates it as “naughty,” and in class we learned it as a word to describe terrible weather, or something evil.

I had the good fortune to use all three in an exchange with the stooped octogenarian who lived across the street from Mille Luci. We were having a bit of a hard time getting out of our driveway and onto the wet, narrow road one morning and found ourselves sliding down her grassy hill toward her barn. No farm animals were harmed, but we flattened some grass and dislodged a large stone before gunning it back up the hill and onto the road. The next morning this tiny, weathered old woman approached me on my walk and I was foolish enough to say “Buongiorno,” which, incredibly, prompted her to begin speaking to me. Rapidly. I had no idea what she was saying but she was pointing to the tracks and the newly replaced rock and then muttered, “Cattivo.” I don’t know if she was referring to the trespasser or the weather, but I nodded and pointed to our car: “La macchina. . . mio marito.” “Si, si.” She smiled. “Mio marito . . . cattivo!” said I, throwing my husband under the proverbial bus. She seemed pleased with my confession and happily went on about her day, as did I.

4. La carta: I learned this word from Rosetta Stone. It means “paper”. And when you are working on plans for renovating a home, you go through a lot of it. We came equipped with a few tablets, but our sweet friends must have drawn up three or four floor plans a night, and my husband was going through almost as much by himself. Plus, we were getting to the point where we needed graph paper and transparent tracing paper, to fine-tune the plans. So we headed into town one morning in search of some transparent tracing paper. The task seemed fairly daunting. But I couldn’t believe it when I spotted the sign: Cartoleria. Yep, it was a stationary store tucked away from the main square, filled with tracing paper, graph paper, and any other kind of paper we might have wanted. I felt like I had won the lottery.

5. Quindi: So, quindici means “fifteen,” which is a word I felt pretty confident about. But every time we met with another architect or builder, they used the word quindi, over and over, at which point the person translating for us would stop, and not translate the word. I was getting pretty confused. I wondered if it was a slang word for fifteen, and why everything we were talking about took fifteen days, or was fifteen meters, or cost fifteen euros, and why no one was translating that for us. Turns out, it simply means “so”, or as Google says, “then or therefore.” I must have heard it quindici times a day. But now I know it.

6. Il tulipano: Really. This is the best way to learn a language. I will never forget that the word for that beautiful red flower blooming courageously in our yard is il tulipano. And now, neither will you.

7. La tettoia: Actually, my husband learned this one before I did. He kept pointing to the overhang above our porch and the architect would nod, and say, tettoia. And they used tettoia when we pointed to the eaves out back, and they used tettoia when we pointed to the canopy by the bedroom and the shed out back. Quindi . . . we know exactly where our tettoie are and what they look like. We just don’t really know what the word for all of that is in English.

It was a start.

What about you? Feeling nostalgic for 2016, when things seemed simpler? Or are you a fan of any other hashtags? Tell me what you are missing, what you are glad to say goodbye to, and how you are, here in 2026. I would really love to hear from you.

As always, please tell me, how you are feeling. Your comments mean so much. Are you finding joy in what you are doing, what you are eating, where you are going and who you are with? I want to know. There is much to celebrate, really. And I wish you all, all the blessings there is to be found in this life.

Meanwhile, its good to connect here on “Letters” with you. I will see you again next week, right here.

This is how I stay close to everyone far away. I will be writing letters every week or two, with stories of Piemonte, recipes that I have fallen in love with, tales of people I meet, places I discover and anything else that I think you might find amusing, curious or worthwhile. It’s a way to look at the world from a different window, and hopefully let a little Italian sunshine into your day.

A presto!

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As it turns out, it wouldn’t have mattered because apart from a modest amount of sour cream, this mushroom soup is wonderfully healthy and satisfying, and with just a few ingredients, simple to make.

I only wish I had known about my friends’ recipe this past October when we came across a bounty of porcini mushrooms, fresh off the truck from Sicily.

A vendor was selling them on the roadside just outside of the town of Bra, so of course, we loaded up. It is a short season, I guess, because he was only there a few days. Thank goodness we stocked up when we did. They were truly beautiful works of art, earthy and caked with rich, dark soil.

At 30 euros a kilo, I thought they were quite expensive. But now that I know them more intimately, I realize it is because big, fresh tender porcini are rare and beautiful and worth every centesimo. The soup I had at David and Marcy’s was made with dried porcinis, and it was still really rich and flavorful.

I have always loved and and admired fresh porcini’s from afar, but wasn’t really quite sure how to make the most of them. So I made them into a soup by simply adapting my recipe for zucchini soup, and it was quite good. After all, how bad can a soup be with a kilo of porcinis sauteed in good butter.

But now that I have this new dreamy recipe, I will be much better prepared for the 2026 porcini mushroom season.

NOTE TO READERS: If you ever come across fresh porcini, buy as much as you can eat. And use this delicious soup recipe.

Or, you might want to just stop by our place next October.

*** Magical Porcini Mushroom Soup***

One pound of fresh porcini mushrooms, carefully washed and dried. Or, 2 ounces of dried porcini mushrooms.

2 tablespoons butter

1 1/2 quarts of good broth— beef, chicken or turkey, preferably homemade

1/2 cup pearl barley

1/2 tablespoon flour

1 cup sour cream

1/4 cup minced parsley and/or good olive oil, for garnish

If using fresh porcini, chop into half-inch pieces. Or, if using dried porcini, soak them in 2 cups of hot water for an hour or two; when mushrooms are pliable, lift them from the liquid, being careful not to disturb the grit. Check that they are nicely clean, then chop into half-inch pieces, discarding any woody parts. Strain the mushroom liquid through a fine sieve lined with cheesecloth and set aside.

In a 5-6 quart pot, saute the mushrooms for a few minutes. Then add the broth, as well as the reserved liquid, if using dried porcini. Add the pearl barley and bring to a boil.

Reduce heat, simmer and cover until barley is tender, about an hour.

Just before serving, combine 1/2 tablespoon of flour with 3/4 cup of the sour cream, and add to soup. Bring to boil, and add salt and pepper to taste.

Garnish each bowl of soup with a sprinkling of parsley, a swirl of the remaining sour cream and/or a drizzle of olive oil.

What about you? Have you had any some magical moments this past holiday season? Any new discoveries? Any resolutions worth sharing? Or any resolutions you have decided to discard? Tell me what you are doing, and how you are in this new year. I would really love to hear from you.

As always, please tell me, how you are feeling. Your comments mean so much. Are you finding joy in what you are doing, what you are eating, where you are going and who you are with? I want to know. There is much to celebrate, really. And I wish you all, all the blessings to be found in this brand new year.

Meanwhile, its good to connect here on “Letters” with you. I will see you again next week, right here.

This is how I stay close to everyone far away. I will be writing letters every week or two, with stories of Piemonte, recipes that I have fallen in love with, tales of people I meet, places I discover and anything else that I think you might find amusing, curious or worthwhile. It’s a way to look at the world from a different window, and hopefully let a little Italian sunshine into your day.

A presto!

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What followed would be a warm, noisy blur of sensations rich with tradition and ritual, filling me with both the swagger and the grounding that comes from a deep sense of belonging, that comes from home, from family.

Decades and three thousand miles later, my Christmases in Piemonte are different. Steeped in the dark and quiet, sprinkled with snow and that far-away- from-family feeling. They are still beautiful and sacred. Just different.

So when Angela, our dear next door neighbor, mentioned that there would be a concert at the church on Saturday evening, with music of the season, I was intrigued. Who would be playing, I asked. She wasn’t sure. An ensemble. Classical songs. A cello, piano and a flute, was all she knew. She didn’t press me to come, but she was just kindly letting me know.

I often avoid crowded local events here, blaming the too hot weather, the language barrier, or anything requiring me missing my bedtime. This concert would be at 5 pm, the church is always cool, and music works in all languages. I told her we’d do our best to come.

When Saturday rolled around, I found myself trying to find an excuse to stay home. It was so very chilly out. We could just build a fire. Heat up some soup. I could stay in my sweat pants.

But because I adore Angela so much, and do love music, I rallied. I told my husband, we can sit in the back of the church and slip out early. No one would notice.

The stone church that crowns our tiny hill town is beautiful in a modest way, sturdy and strong, built some hundred years ago and still proudly standing. I can not help but think it is a bit like the people of Roddino themselves.

When we arrived, Angela was at the front of the church, chatting with our neighbors. Her face lit up when we walked in and she immediately came over to greet us. Wouldn’t we want to sit up close, to hear the music? Oh, thank you, I said, but we’ll be needing to leave early. We can sit back here. So she sat in the pew behind us, next to another neighbor, but making sure we felt welcomed.

The church was barely half full. Three musicians, two pretty young women and a tall young man, were standing in front of the altar rehearsing, warming up, shuffling papers, as if they might have been back stage. But of course, a church has no curtain, and no back stage. So they tuned their instruments, the young man sang a few lines to warm up his voice and they fiddled with the microphones.

At ten past five o’clock, the mayor arrived, and everyone sat up a little straighter in the pews. He shook hands, sat down, and the musicians took their places.

The church was nearly full now, but completely still.

In perfect synchrony, the trio began. It was a song I had never heard, sung in Italian, evoking a soft murmur of pleasure throughout the audience. Everyone settled in listening to the performance, and we did, too. They were a handsome group, the young man’s voice was a rich tenor-baritone, and the acoustics were wonderful in the tiny church. When the song ended, I was thrilled to be there in our straight backed wooden pew listening to beautiful music in this intimate space with a few dozen of our neighbors.

What happened next took my breath completely away.

I heard the chords of familiar opening of “Ave Maria.” On cue, the singer began in Latin. And in that instant, I was young again, back with my family, in our home, sitting around the tree, playing Christmas carols on the stereo in front of the fire, the manger lit beside us. I felt my mother, my father, and my brothers, all beside me again. When he came to the end “Amen, amen,” hot tears were streaming down my face, and as I turned to look at Angela, I saw I was not the only one moved to tears by the magic of the music.

Next, the singer began to sing “O Holy Night"in English. I was stunned. When his words rang out, “Fall on your knees, O hear the angels’ voices,” I heard, the angels, the voices, and felt the memories all flooding over me. He went on to sing more Italian songs, as well as “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas” and even John Lennon’s “So This is Christmas,” creating a rendition even John might not have imagined. It was magical.

He poured his heart and soul into every song that night, and once tried to hit a note so high, he missed it. It was the most touching moment of all, because we were all rooting for him, and he came so close. It made me love his performance all the more. I don’t know why I was so surprised at the quality of the trio’s music. Yes, this is a tiny town in the middle of the countryside, but this is Italy. Of course they know great music, and art, and style. I really should have known.

After the standing ovations and the final bows, we floated out of the church, shaking hands with anyone within reach, wishing one another Buon Natale and Buona Festa, feeling warm from the night, the community, the energy and the beauty of it all. We were among the last to leave.

And then I felt a surge of that wonderful feeling again, the swagger and the grounding that comes from a deep sense of belonging, that comes from home, from family.

May all of you feel the joys of the holidays you are celebrating.

Buona Festa.

What about you this holiday? Have you had some of those amazing magical moments? From the lights on the tree, or the lights of the menorah? Are you thinking back and remembering, too? Or are you busy creating new memories? Tell me what you are doing, where you are celebrating, and how. I would love to hear.

As always, please tell me, how you are feeling. Your comments mean so much. Are you finding joy in what you are doing, what you are eating, where you are going and who you are with? I want to know. There is much to celebrate, really. And I wish you all, all the blessings of this special time of year.

Meanwhile, its good to connect here on “Letters” with you. I will see you again next week, right here.

This is how I stay close to everyone far away. I will be writing letters every week or two, with stories of Piemonte, recipes that I have fallen in love with, tales of people I meet, places I discover and anything else that I think you might find amusing, curious or worthwhile. It’s a way to look at the world from a different window, and hopefully let a little Italian sunshine into your day.

A presto!

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