Jumping In

Having spent the weekend listening to writers at the Calabash Festival, I’ve been thinking about the different ways I approach the reading of poetry and prose.

To me, there is nothing better than sitting down—even better lying down on my futon in my study--with a nice fat novel, confident that I have the time and the freedom to walk through the words at a leisurely pace, to swim my way backwards and forwards in the flow of the narrative until I reach the end. It’s an exercise, an experience that is relaxing and stimulating for me at the same time.

Not so with reading poetry. I always approach a poem with a certain degree of anxiety. Like diving into the deep end of the pool, or anticipating the shock of cold water when I jump into the lake in Maine. Stimulating yes, relaxing maybe not. I hold my breath, maybe even close my eyes and plunge right in. There’s the shock of entry and then the satisfaction of knowing I did it and, even better, that I like being here in the deep end, in the cold but refreshing water.

Back on the Road Again

Packing my bags tonight for another trip--this time to sunny and hot Treasure Beach, Jamaica, site of the Calabash Festival.





This is the 10th anniversary of the festival and the line up of authors is awesome. I am particularly interested in hearing Sharon Olds, my most favorite poet. Click here to read one of her poems.

Home Again

Well, we're back in the U S of A suffering no significant after effects from our six week sojourn in Bella Italia except for some lingering jet lag and a strong desire for spicy Asian food.

To see a slide show of our month in Tuscany, click here.

Heading Home

I took my last long walk today—3 hours up the hill, across the ridge to La Foce and then on to Castelluccio. The sun was out the whole way, a parting gift. We leave tomorrow for a day and a half in Rome and then back home to Philadelphia.

I’ll miss my rambles through the Val D’Orcia. In one month, I’ve watched the wheat on the hills grow from insignificant green shoots to tall stalks of greenish gold rippling in the wind. I’ve seen wild flowers--new ones every day--speckle the fields in red, white, purple and yellow. I’ve heard the cuckoo bird in the distance. I’ve watched baby lambs stumble awkwardly beside their mothers. I’ve learned to dismiss the angry barking of the sheepdogs with an authoritative “Zut.”

I used to tease Steve about never wanting to leave the house but this year I felt the same way. There’s something so wonderful about just being here—watching the sky and the landscape, drinking in the beauty of this place, breathing in the quiet. Respiro profundo.

Friends

The Kaufman clan has left Casselaccia and Steve and I are left alone to ramble through the house in our fluffy white robes like inmates in some posh sanitarium. Very Magic Mountain only the food is so much better. Weather is still unstable. That’s a nice way of saying it’s cold and wet with occasional spells of sun. We did manage to play unreasonable amounts of bocce with our guests. Even Jeelu participated looking quite adorable if not truly athletic.

There was an excursion to the flower festival in Pienza in our zippy Alfa Romero with the Kaufman clan—fortunately all small people--squeezed into the back seat. Steve rushed out as soon as we got there for porchetta aka roast pork sandwich. Jeelu and Sanaya bought shoes. And for those of you who have had the pleasure of shopping with Jeelu, yes, there was serious discussion and much deliberation about the size, the color and overall appropriateness of the purchase before money finally changed hands.

We all agreed that a good time was had by all.

La Cena e Pronta

Or in English, "Dinner is served." But how much more elegant, how much more promising than “Pigs to the trough!” which is how we herd people to the table in Maine. I begin to salivate at the mere sound of those words when spoken by Marcella or Giovanna. Never more so on my birthday when the table was set formally with a linen cloth and candles and flowers. I, of course as the birthday girl and a pesco-vegetarian, had selected the menu with Marcella’s invaluable assistance—-a first course of melt-in-your-mouth ravioli stuffed with stracchino cheese and arugula followed by a secondo of a gorgeous whole fish baked in the oven with potatoes and accompanied by spinach sautéed with oil and garlic. The final course or dolci was a beautiful surprise--a fresh fruit tart constructed like a work of art by Marcella and carried to the table with a Roman candle on the top sending sparklers to the ceiling.

Thank god I didn’t have to blow out 63 (yes, I can’t believe it either!) candles.

Un Pranzo Buonissimo

One of the joys of eating dinner alla Marcella is knowing that you can double dip: All that fabulous food, albeit a smaller quantity, will be waiting in the refrigerator come lunchtime the next day. (I hate to use the word "leftover" to describe this bounty which in no way resembles the half empty boxes of indeterminate Chinese takeout often to be found in my fridge at home.) So today, for example, I got to eat the remains of a truly extraordinary risotto alle fragole--yes, rice cooked slowly with strawberries and wine, the whole thing a delicate pink color--which Marcella prepared for us last night.

Of course, I now have to spend the rest of the afternoon walking up and up and up the hills to pay for my double dipping. But, as I said to myself as I sat down to lunch, when will I have the chance to eat risotto alle fragole again?

Slow Life

I am living in Maine. Well, not really. Nobody’s living in a trailer near by, but there is so much about being at Cassaloccia that reminds me of my summers in Maine. Our life revolves around food, for example. Dinner most definitely being the main event of the day, especially when Marcella and not Jane or I is doing the cooking. As in Maine, Steve never wants to leave the property. He’s content to sit in a chair, read a book or stare out the postcard spread all around us. And then there’s our nightly sunset ritual of drinking prosecco and watching the sun disappear behind the hills in a blaze of red and gold, only instead of a lake we look out over gently undulating green fields.

And, of course, there are my almost daily walks up the hills and along le strade bianche passing an occasional car and lots of sheep. Yesterday, was a particularly beautiful walk taking me through landscapes that oddly reminded me in parts of the Coon Road/Scribner Hill walk that goes through the woods and then up to a view of the White Mountains in the distance. I was with my new hiking companion, Lucia Norrito, owner of a small travel agency here, Viaggi Senza Fretta (Travel Without Haste) and with whom I have been walking twice a week with great pleasure.

We began in the resort town of Bagni Vignoli, climbed up and up to the small village of Vignolo Alto. From there, we wound our way around past vineyards, olive groves and wheat fields, past old and renovated farmhouses, many selling their own production of pecorino cheese, wine or extra virgin olive oil. Then we headed down a trail that took us through forest and eventually to the river Orcia. . .where we lost the trail and spent a good hour or so wandering up and down various paths—all beautiful--looking for landmarks. Fortunately, it was a beautiful, sunny day and we had plenty of water and time to get lost in. And, of course, this story has a very happy ending: Lucia figured out what direction to take and we were back at Bagni Vignoli feeling quite satisfied with our adventure, although seriously hungry.

I have to admit: My legs were sore when I woke up this morning!