Miss Peach And Her Peaches

miss peach and her peaches

The peach tree was laden down with the softest, peachiest peaches you can imagine. Although a small tree, she took the burden of the bountiful crop. It was a Sunday, a good day for making pies. Miss Peach, took her wooden bowl and filled it up with the sweet, downy fruit. It was a better idea than reading. After all, she's only six. And reading is far too serious for a summer day with school already just around the corner. Master Peach agreed.

 For one's first pie, success is important. So, grandmother Peach decided to give a go as a crumble. When one doesn't eat certain things, other things will have to do. A crumble of almond meal, butter and cinnamon will give it a Spanish flair!

  

 Master Peach thought it much more interesting to throw rocks in the pond. 

 

Getting ones hands in the crumble and spreading it around is a fine mess. 

 

Ms. Peach's finished product ready for the oven. 

Voila!!

Becoming Mothers

"Well here's to you.. Mrs. Robin..son. Jesus love you more than you will know.. "

Where does the instinct to mother come from? A mother robin builds a fine nest in a bird feeder, quite smartly with windows on three sides and a safe opening. She will sit there most of the time waiting for her little blue eggs to hatch, unless she needs to fly away to feed herself occasionally or perhaps sip water from the stream. I'm curious about natural inclination.

As I watch my 6 year old granddaughter grow, I am struck by her female core of emotion. When her 4 year old younger brother is sad or crying, she sings sweet songs to him. She has just enough of a melancholic strain that she seems genuinely feels the suffering of the world.

Just the other day her mother and father both had the flu. I told her we needed to make them some chicken soup. She ran and got her apron. Makena is not a big eater and certainly not adventurous, but she is curious and likes to do things. I was surprised that she took to chopping vegetables with a cumbersome knife so quickly and willingly. I showed her how to hold the knife steadily, how to bend her non chopping hand a certain way to keep her fingertips back and hold her vegetable firm, so it wouldn't slip around when she was chopping. She first started with a small knife, which made sense, but was not really getting the job done. So, we graduated to a larger more serious one that at least sliced. A dull knife is more dangerous than a sharp one of you don't know what you are doing. She impressed me with her attention and skill. I was not overprotective and enjoyed watching her. She chopped and talked as if she had done it all her sweet life.

As she chopped she said, "Grandma,  I like to focus when I'm making medicine. "

Aniello Sposito: The Poetic Portmaster of Amalfi

Call it love at first sight. Call me a sucker as it happens more times that my fingers can count. Sometimes it’s romantic. Sometimes it’s not. But magic it is.

Being on a sailboat is one of life’s great feelings of liberation. Pulling into port has it’s own metaphor, right out of The Ancient Mariner. The going out to sea.. the coming home. There is a sending off and a welcoming back that is as potent as an in-breath and out-breath of a meditation. 

Puttering into the port of Amalfi the first time with our Captain Antonio, I felt an unexpected experience of immense respect. The Port Master, Aniello Sposito, held his gaze with Antonio for the longest time until our boat had been steered into the proper spot. (If you know anything about boats, this is tricky at best, but risky as well with the neighboring real estate.) 

At 63, Aniello is as nimble as an amphibian, jumping in and out of the water for tangled anchors, hopping from boat to boat to secure the fenders, tossing the ropes to the first mate to draw the boat up to the dock and to secure with sailor knots. I have been out of many ports where the marina guys do the same work, usually lazily and not with much presence. But Aniello was different. His work was easeful, skillful and dare I say? Sexy. His job is an opera del’arte a piedi nudi (a barefoot work of art).

A quiet man with deep, piercing eyes, his presence has more than dignity, he has heart. He nods knowingly when the boat is secure and shakes hands with the Captain. He raises a welcoming hand to the others on board, then sets off. It has felt similar to a blessing; an Ave Maria of sorts. As we settle in, put out our gangplank and set up for an aperitivo, Aniello is already back with a bottle of Limoncello. His bright eyes flash a smile as he hands over the bottle, the other is over his heart. We ask him to stay and join us. Even though he nods positively and politely, he is gone again. The next thing we know, he is back with a few boxes of fresh pizza from his favorite place.

This sort of generosity is not uncanny for the Costiera Amalfitana or the Neopolitan way, yet the vein of his intelligent humility is exceptional. His job and the people he meets who recognize this mean the world to him. His father and his grandfather were port master before him. The respect he has for them is

sacred. He carries a brilliant lineage from times gone by. He will tell you stories of how his father treated everyone fairly and respectfully from Fiat giant Agneilli, President Kennedy, down to the local fisherman. Aniello is also one such man. He will tell you everyone loved his father. If we were to say, ‘everyone loves you too’, he would then again, hand over his heart, say, “my father was ‘un grand oumo,’ a great man, a great man. I am simple”. He also says this is a different time. People don’t have the same ‘simpatia’, a mutual feeling of respect and recognition, like they used to. He is married to a German woman a few heads taller than him and has triplet boys. “They love the work,” he says, “but I don’t want them to stay here. They are educated and should take a different route.”

Meanwhile, his sons come and go, each one of them blonde and tan and more handsome and capable than the next. At 17, they will always have Amalfi as home and their father as an inspiration of how to live a meaningful life with meaningful work.

Aneillo stops by again with a present of large, yellow, sfuso amalfitano lemons that we will perfume our water with and make a sauce for spaghetti al limone. We say goodbye, eye to eye. I feel like I am in the presence of an unsung legend. Another one of the greats who are still present, but in transition with their work. I don’t leave without giving Aniello a jar of homemade jam. I am now prepared for the exchange of gifts, something he isn’t prepared for, but accepts willingly.

Now I get the hold the gaze of the port master as we sail out into the bay until the harbor is no longer visible. He does not move.  

* Photos by Ashley Mulligan. 

A Poem, Under Anna's Palm

Here in a Sicilian courtyard,
under a palm
we speak of times past with Anna
in the garden and her beloved
forgotten fruits

the sorb apple, quince and mulberry

we bloody our hands with juice
and pick less forgotten figs high up
in the tree

we are surrounded by 1000 acres
of vines and olive trees with a canopy

of blue sky that fades slowly into
dusk with a pink blush that matches
the Rose' that we drink

for an aperitivo with a crostino
of fresh ricotta and anchovy

the night is as quiet as the moon that
promises to be full, for tomorrow will
bring more flavors to the forefront
to fulfill our Sicilian dreams.



Written in Sicily at Casa Vecchie, Regaleali, the wine estate of Tasca D'Almerita.

I have been visiting Anna Tasca Lanza for 15 years. Her daughter Fabrizia came on the scene a few years ago, to work in tandem with her mother. Unfortunately, Anna died a year ago, July, unexpectedly. I had last seen Anna in 2009 and had not been back to Sicily until this September. I felt quite sad to be without her there. Yet, Fabrizia filled her shoes so brilliantly, I thought surely that I must keep coming back, if nothing else to see how far Anna's trees had grown and taste the fruit from year to year. This simple poem is a tribute to her.  Anna not only left her trees to us, she left Fabrizia to carry her muse forward.

Paella ~ A Spanish brush stroke.

Being Like Bob.

I was not surprised when Ms. Kinney told me she wanted to bring her husband of 30 years along on her trip to Morocco.

It was, however, a surprise that he was 93 and able to travel well. My father would have not wanted to go anywhere at 90; he was quite content to stay at home.

Bob Kinney, on the other hand, was ready to go. Each morning in Morocco Bob showed up for breakfast bright eyed. I would ask him, "How are you?" and he would say, "I'm fine! Just happy to be alive! You know, I never expected to live this long."

I asked him, do you have a motto? He replied with certainty, "Do it now." That's different than "Just Do It," I thought. "Do It Now" means that we have no time to waste on not doing, on complaining or sitting around feeling sorry for ourselves. He seemed to understand the "go with the flow" mentality that my guests must slip into, once they realize that I am absolutely in charge not only of our itinerary, but also of their relaxing.

Bob was born in Maine and still speaks of it fondly. He wasn't drafted into the war, as he was better suited to run a certain food company called "General Mills." He would have liked to go straight into officer's training, but stayed home instead to his company like a tight ship. "You must put the responsibility of the product into the hands of the workers. This way, you will always have them listening and working on your behalf, because they feel invested in the success of the company." Bob was in charge of 120,000 employees.

It was with that same spirit and dedication that he accompanied his wife Margee, equally adventurous and enthusiastic about everything, on this fall's program to Morocco. Bob's other motto was, "Say YES to everything." Even riding up to 6,000 ft, to the Kasbah du Toubkal in the Atlas Mountains, on the back of a mule. I was more reluctant at first, having had folks 10 years his junior not comfortable with such a thing. Bob is not a jock, but he has a lot of joie di vivre.

He stayed well the whole trip and delighted us all. On our final night, he was even up dancing alongside the belly dancers. I asked, "Okay Bob, which was more exciting: the mule ride up and down the steep slopes or belly dancing with those lovely women?" He looked at me shyly and said, "The belly dancers for sure!"

I'm printing tee shirts that say, "Be like Bob." Happy to be alive. We should all take that as our motto for living a long life.

Giving thanks for all that we encounter and for the incredibly inspiring people I get to meet on my trips.

Here's a toast: Crumbs on tongues! Sips on lips! Wild Adventures at home and on trips!

With love and wishes for a Happy Thanksgiving,

Peggy

Stories that need to be told. Lia. Isola d'Elba

Luciano Casini's aunt Lia and me. Elba 2005

Letter to Sally April 3, 2003.

Last night was the festa for Luciano's restaurant as you know. 30 years! It was one of those parties where you don't know but one or two people apart from the host. I started to wonder why I came. That odd moment of getting all dressed up and standing around with your plate in your hand, trying to find a corner to put one's glass down.

I felt rather like a bird with my plumes spread, somehow there for the looking but not for the talking. Then I heard the name 'Lia'. I saw on old woman sitting in the back with longish gray hair

and sun glasses on, surrounded by people. I realized that this was Luciano's beloved aunt that I had heard so much about but had never met. She is almost 80 now; an alumni of Columbia University when Eisenhower was the president (of the school). She studied philosophy and taught in Rome for many years. She is the real story.

She quotes Dante, the Greeks, Shakespeare, sings Frank Sinatra, and can drink almost anyone under the table. She see's your very soul. The drink might as well have been coffee this night, as her performance grew more intense and passionate without a waver. She was the most awake of all of us in every sense and was still going strong until 3 am. Dagmar, Luciano's x wife and I took her home. We arrived and she said.."Peggy, Peggy, questo e il mio castello! Guarda come bello!" This is my castle, see how beautiful it is! Like my aunt Sarah, she lives alone without a car deep in the countryside in a glorified hut. Books were stacked unevenly on all tables. There was not much light in the house. She is legally blind but her memory is stellar.

When I first came to Elba and met Luciano, I knew then why Fabio was Fabio (Picchi~ of Cibreo fame in Florence) and why he had sent me there. He was heavily influenced by Luciano as he spent every summer in Elba and learned Luciano's gregarious, fearless, rustic ways of cooking. He took it and refined it. His habit of wearing red pants and orange shirts came from Luciano. He borrowed his fascination, as Luciano's 'devil may care' attitude, also suited his.

Now upon meeting Lia, I understood where Luciano's gioia di vivere' came from. His first trip with Lia to the movies when he was 10 years old, changed his life. She transported him away from the provinciality of Capoliveri in his mind and from there, she became his mentor. Luciano went on to live and work abroad, learn a few different languages and even became an actor in films. The restaurant, a stage for all of his talents.

The story does not end there. Lia had a mind of her own. Islands make strong women, especially if they are educated. Her sister's family moved to Australia with young children. When the nephew's returned grown and gorgeous, she fell in love with one of them, 8 years her junior.

It was shocking for everyone including them. They asked to be married by permission from the Pope and he granted it. Yet, they never married. He died early in an accident.

Lia remained unmarried, but not unhappy. She would raise her fists and quote Dante with bravado! She loved the world and it's mystery.

These women keep showing up..whether in Alabama, West Virginia, or here in Capoliveri. Their stories need to be told.

I'm off to the beach. Soon it will be a conversation 'voce a voce'. We'll be discussing how sweet the tomatoes taste this time of year..and how gentle the breeze feels today.

Big kiss,

Peggy li. ( she called me Peggy li as a form of endearment all night, not knowing my name was

Peggy Leigh.)

ps. she can't wait to meet you. New York never leaves a young woman's soul.

...........................................

Lia died some years later. She had magic in her bones. She could quote the greats with great command, never missing a line. Sally came to Elba for a big birthday from New York. She brought Lia the New York Times. For a few years after that, she couldn't stop talking about the kindness of Sally li. Lia will be sorely missed. Her legend, a strong, shooting star.

Anna's Passing~ Fabrizia Lanza

There is much to say about Anna Tasca Lanza. My affection and respect for her is immense. It will take me a while to digest and post a proper tribute.

Here is her daughter Fabrizia's moving account of her mother's last days for all of those who knew her.

.......................................*.............................................


Anna Tasca Lanza, my mother, passed away on the evening of July 12. It happened with no suffering at all, while she was sleeping.

In these last months I have been so very close to her that it is difficult for me to talk about her or about our relationship. I think that memories and feelings will rise up, floating like oil on water, little by little, every day now for the rest of my life.

Nevertheless, I would like to share some of my thoughts with all the friends who receive my newsletter and who know about our cooking school, which Anna built from nothing in 1989 and that I have been proudly pursuing since 2004.

The first sign of my mother's illness was that she was not willing to cook anymore. She completely lost her appetite, and when I went on holiday last summer, I found upon my return that Mum and Dad had simply stopped eating, a fact complicated by the heat, the loneliness, the loss of enthusiasm.... The moment I came back I suddenly found myself inverting the usual familial roles; I had to start cooking for my parents and found that it wasn't simple at all!

Mummy was fussy, like anyone who has lost her appetite and doesn't feel like eating anything but a very few and precious things. I realized I had to catch up with food, which in my childhood had meant comfort food for both of us, the food we used to eat on the blue table of the kitchen when Dad wasn't home (he hates peasant food!)...Anna and I, whispering and giggling together about anything we talked about.

At that point I realized that these comfort foods were the only things my mother would enjoy eating: capellini in brodo con la ricotta, spaghetti con la salsa, fave bollite, gazpacho, pasta con le zucchine fritte, minestra di zucchine e tenerumi, plus an endless variety of sweets, which she had always adored: lemon curd, taralli, blancmange, almond brittle, chocolate mousse. In fact, what she most demanded in her food was love, and I would use "all my love" as the main ingredient.

In her last month she was completely out of the world of food, managing only fruit juices and pistachio and walnut ice cream. She wouldn't talk, she wouldn't open her eyes. Now and then she would move her right arm or squeeze my hand very gently when I told her about my children, Ruggero and Virginia. I was afraid to experiment with foods because she very quickly got tired with our timid feeding temptations.

One day I decided I would dare something new, since she had always had a love for fresh, rather acidic and sweet flavors. With the fresh citruses from the garden, I made a lemon granita.

She ate it, and in a whisper she said, "Squisito."

This is the last comprehensible word I recall my mother saying. I love her so much for this last present, for being capable of appreciating quality and pleasure up to her last moments...I will never forget it.

Our Captain: A Man of Substance

His head fell into my lap with exhaustion, preceded by the rest of his Neapolitan body. He was wet and cold and the night sea water was rough and dangerous.

A fisherman’s trawling net was caught in the motor of our sail boat. A family of seven and a crew of three were with us on an overnight transfer from fire-breathing Stromboli in the Aeolian islands, off the northern coast of Sicily, to the great seaside city of Napoli. Darkness fell and the boat motored on. It was rough, our 46-foot Beneteau swimming upstream directly into the wind. Tough conditions for sailing in any case, but more pleasant to navigate if not been in a rush. We needed to get the family back, so we motored full-throttle.

We waited for the darkness to bring calm, a chance to sit down to a proper dinner, but that calm never came. Unusual for the Mediterranean.

We were hungry but afraid to eat. The sky was clear and stars appeared, but the sea churned as if the wind had an invisible hand in the stirring. It was going to be a long night. I gave my guests bread with honey as to comfort.

I went to my own cabin near the prua to try for sleep though the dishes were crashing around in their holds. A stray closet door kept breaking loose, swinging open with a bang. With my son, Graham, helping watch I shut out the chaos in my small cabin. Five minutes later, hearing a huge noise, I bounced up and ran out to the poppa, the stern, to take a look.

Captain Nardella, 36, knife in hand, was stripping off, heading into the crashing water. A fisherman’s trawling net was tangled in the motor. If he couldn’t get it loose by hand, he would have to cut it. He knew that if he didn’t free it, we would have to wait for the fishermen to come to us, which would take hours, equivalent to a flat tire in the middle of nowhere in a storm.

Dripping, he came up onto the deck and revved the motor stronger, standing in his wet tee-shirt. I offered him a dry one. He wouldn’t take it, the wet shirt drying on his body in the cool wind. His bare legs were exposed; hairy, tan and strong. Once he was sure we were out of danger, he felt the cold. A deep chill set in alongside the exhaustion. He bundled in a wind parka while I took a turn on watch.

Sitting cross-legged with my back to the boat, I told Tony to rest his head in my lap. It would keep my legs warm and give him a place to lay his head. There were no other dry places to sit on the boat. He collapsed and I covered him in the only wool blanket on board.

Jumping into the waves had been heroic, risky and a bit renegade. A short rest was in order. He was tense and trembling. Trying to get a few winks in between watches is a captain’s classic dilemma. He would get comfortable, then shoot up to look around, then close his eyes again.

I stroked his forehead, trying to relax him. It relaxed me as well. We were in this together. He turned onto his side and ever-so-gently put his hand on my crossed leg to brace himself. It was the touch of a gentleman. I looked down at this man in my lap, this hunk of courage, so gentle, sweet, capable and intelligent and…felt a pull in my heart. His broad shoulders fit into the curl of my legs. It was not just his love of the sea, his spontaneous opera when at the helm, he was not only a capable captain, but a sensitive intellectual with a PhD in wild orchids. (Napoli was once the cultural capitol of Italy and the place to send your children to be educated.)We spoke once, on the bow of the boat, about his good fortune. He was full of gratitude to be born in Napoli, the son of a doctor, at the foot of Vesuvius in a village of sailors. He spoke willingly about his Napolitanita, how they thrive on drama, deep feeling and the friggatura; the clever getting away with va fan cuolo rule-breaking that delights a free soul and their appetite for living in the flesh, eating well,living large, simply and sensibly.

When the elements were with us, instead of against us, sailing with him was a blue dream, like being on the back of the surfboard of a skilled surfer, going up and down the swells with controlled abandon. Whehew! Fantastico! Che pezzo di oumo! What a man!


How I appreciated the man he had become. One to scoop up, to have and to hold. It wasn’t the years between us or the fact that he was already taken that made it impossible. Or that I have no Neopolitanita’ in purezza to match, fiery and demanding enough to hold the line. Nor do I have soft cappuccino-colored skin. It wasn't about that.

I missed in that moment, a man of my own to adventure with, wondering if there is such a match for me. There was no rain, but my cheeks were curiously wet. Emotions tumultuous as the the sea.

Then I realized; I am forever meeting and adventuring with amazing men and women in my work, all the time. Relationships can be geographical, about place, and connection. About the wind. Something unspoken. A glance. Trying to keep others and each other safe in a storm. An unconditional relationship, strong, available and true.

A smile cracked through like the sun.


Tony Tony, moi e Anello, Amalfi portmaster.
We eventually arrived safely in port after 22 hours of rough seas, what normally takes 16 on smooth. The drama, and the tenderness, now a thoughtful memory.

Tributes to Sandro Benini from previous participants of La Cucina al Focolare

Thank you everyone for sending in such heartfelt condolences. Sandro's family will be very touched as am I.

Peggy - It has been a little over 5 years since Sue and I attended your class in Tuscany and had the pleasure of meeting Sandro. Strangely enough, we were talking to friends about our experience just 2 weeks ago. As is always the case when we discuss the cooking experience, we quickly came to mention Sandro's bakery, his personal story and our great honor to have him join us at the closing supper. I know that you have had many students over the years and I am sure that many if not all clearly remember Sandro's performance.

You might recall that I related the fact that in Japan many artisans are awarded the honor of being designated a National Treasure. Clearly, Sandro was and is a National Treasure for us all. His memory lives with us all.

Paul


Dear Peggy - I had dinner last night with Karen Miller and she was so saddened at Sandro's death. Myself, not having had the wonderful opportunity to know him (or his bakery),I read your tribute to him with tears coming. We both recognize what a loss he is to you personally and to all your past and future travelers. Our condolences. Peggy Skornia

"That was such a nice piece on Sandro--I remember him so clearly. I have some great shots of our graduation with him singing( as i am sure so many people do) So sorry-I know how much you will miss him-like family for you.
xo
BB"(Brenda Bacchi)


----Hi Peggy so sorry to hear about Sandro. He made our trip so enjoyable. Rooz Hopp


Peggy - It has been a little over 5 years since Sue and I attended your class in Tuscany and had the pleasure of meeting Sandro. Strangely enough, we were talking to friends about our experience just 2 weeks ago. As is always the case when we discuss the cooking experience, we quickly came to mention Sandro's bakery, his personal story and our great honor to have him join us at the closing supper. I know that you have had many students over the years and I am sure that many if not all clearly remember Sandro's performance.

You might recall that I related the fact that in Japan many artisans are awarded the honor of being designated a National Treasure. Clearly, Sandro was and is a National Treasure for us all. His memory lives with us all.

Paul Revere


Peggy
I sent this to the others that attended your cooking school in Tuscany with Michael and I. We are so saddened by Sandro’s passing and your writings about your adventures with him was amazing. We all remember his bakery and being there on that special day as well as his singing at our final dinner. Those memories will be in our hearts forever. Take care.

With heartfelt condolences.

Lynne Walker

Peggy,

I remember Sandro very fondly.
He shared his work, home and beautiful voice with the group in 1999.

I was going through an unexpected loss during my trip to Tuscany and was also in heartache.
It touched my heart and brought tears to my eyes when he sang to you on our final evening.

I am sure that you miss him deeply,

Tina


Hello from Eleanor and Chris Larsen -we were at your wonderful school April 1997. So sorry to hear about Sandro-he was one of many highlights of our week with you. We still also talk about the farmer who made the cheese and dancing in the barnyard. Enjoyed seeing you on gourmet travels. Looks like ya'll were having a great time. Eleanor

Peggy

Thanks so much for this story on Sandro. I did your program about 14 years ago and my memory of the day with Sandro was exactly as you described it..

I will never forget the visit to the Forno, his home in the back, the amazing spread he had for us, the fantastic view of the Tuscan hills from his chalet and the beauty of his voice at the Gala dinner. I cried when I heard it then and reading about it now still brings chills to my spine.

I need to get back over there with you and bring my Dad and my wife.

Take care,
Chris Hodges


I know you lost a great friend, I play his CD at all of fundraising dinner events, Sorry, He is in my thoughts. Mick Wilz


Dear Peggy,
I was heartbroken seeing your email.
I was in Tuscany, "Class of '99" I guess I was & have a lot of the pictures of the bakery and Sandro singing to us the last evening. I am truly sorry you lost this wonderful, sweet man at such a young age. Your Culinary Adventure was one of the highlights of my life and left to many more trips back to Italy. I have taken several sets of friends back to Cibreo.
Continued success,
Karen Tobia
California


Peggy

Thank you for sharing the sad news about Sandro. We will never forget him. I just got out our pictures of him from our visit with you at La Cucina al Focolare in 2000. The visit to the bakery and his overwhelming hospitality at brunch were impressive enough. But when he showed up in white tie and tails at our dinner and cemented himself in our hearts and memories with his incredible voice, I knew this was a unique experience, to be savored forever - and it has been. In every retelling of our week with you, the story of Sandro features prominently. Thank you for introducing us to him.

We have been back to Italy 3 times since then, the last time for a month, in which we stayed at a farm outside of Vicenza and drove from the Dolomites to Ravenna to Cinque Terre and most everywhere in between. It is a marvelous country with warm, genuine, unforgettable people. Thanks for helping us to appreciate it.

Jack and Pat Meckler
Charlotte, NC USA

Dear Peggy,

I didn't hear about Sandro. I am so very sorry. He was the loveliest man and I don't think I will ever forget his singing for us in the wine cellar. He was an original. I am so so sorry. What a loss. But what a life! I am glad I have his CD.

Sally Schneider, NY, NY


Hello Peggy,
I am so sorry to hear about Sandro. That was one of the highligts of my trip in Tuscany. I do hope someone is continuing on with his "bakery". I know that's not what the call them in Italy, but I am blanking out on the right word.
I was very envious of you when I read about your trip with David Whyte, what a marvelous adventure that would have been. I have read a couple of his books and love his insight and perspective on things.Since I am so close to Santa Barbara, I would love to be able to see you when you are in Southern California. What is your schedule going to be like? Tell me all about it.

My trips with you in Italy and Morocco were some of the best trips I have ever taken, the inspire me still. Do let me know what your schedule will be.

Un abrazzo,
Monica Sullivan

The Tao of Sandwich Making

'I will express this only once, but strongly. A sandwich is made from bottom to top on 2 pieces of bread. If it is a roll, the bottom half is the beginning. First it's the meat, then the cheese, then in this order whether you want of it, lettuce, tomato, onion, hot peppers, oil, vinager. If you want mustard mayo or something... else, it goes in theTOP piece of bread. Please spread the word.'

Jonathan Edge. Chef, traveler and farmer wanna be.

Jonathan came to La Cucina al Focolare while in Culinary School. He was an all-knowing young 21 yr old whippersnapper with pearly whites and an Irish sense of humor. We took to each other and I became his fairy godmother, finding him a job in Italy
working with Fabio Picchi of Cibreo. He chopped onions for 4 months. He got so good at it, he could do it double fisted with the rhythm of a Japanese working at Benihana. He eventually left to go work on a farm in Denmark. We lost touch for awhile. Then he found me again, no doubt to talk to someone about his passion for real cooking. He is downright serious about all of it. Right down to which piece of bread one should put the mustard and mayo. There is a science to everything, a way. Or perhaps we should call it the Tao.

Jonathan is working in an Italian restaurant in NY and takes the train in from NJ. He reads and writes and calls me once in a while to talk food. Quite the philosopher, he describes the precision and purpose of his passion for food. I listen. There are things he knows. The way he describes what he knows should be written down. He's barely 30. A good cook to say the least. He took a rest from breaking down a pig he got from a farmer upstate the other day and called me. 'I thought you would appreciate that I'm making my own proscuitto.' I can't say that he waxes Shakespearian, but it's close. I could listen for hours. I told him, 'you should at least be writing some of this down, or be a little more vocal about your passion for detail'. I guess he took my advice. 'Please spread the word' he says about the correct way to build a sandwich. 'This is serious business.' I asked him, 'should that be the top or the bottom piece of bread?'

"We must fight back with beauty!" Sandro Benini

'Parlami d'amore Peggy Sue!! Tutta la mia vita, sei tu!'

'Speak to me of love, Peggy Sue! Throughout my life, there is always you.'

This was a song made famous by Vittorio de Sica,'Parlami d'amore Mariu!'Sandro inserted my name and added Sue so it would rhyme with Mariu. I am sure he sang it to me over and over again as I seemed to be in constant chronic heartache. He sang 'Musica della Camera'also known as the 'Belcanto' on the last nights Gala dinner of La Cucina Al Focolare for 15 years. Sandro, the village baker and talented tenor, was an integral part of my program. The singing was the icing on the cake. The cake was the bread he made at the 'Forno'; The Forno was in Donnini, just a few miles down the road. The guests and I would walk there on Tuesday mornings for a visit and view into the making of the famous and traditional Tuscan unsalted bread and it's history.

Sandro, up since 2 am , after having baked 300 loaves of bread, would arrange a table of various flours and the breads he made from it. There was always a basket of fresh biscotti di Prato, an apple cake. Sometimes a surprise Easter bread or 'Castagnaccio', a chestnut flour bread made with rosemary and raisins, or 'Sciaciatta al l'uva'made at harvest time, a flat bread baked with grapes and sugar, known as a 'dolce povera', a dessert for the poor. The bakery was small, but beautiful on those mornings. He would show us 'la madre', the mother starter that he used for all his bread, while he mixed and kneaded it in front of us. His hands as fine tuned as his voice.

The canvas mats would be brought off the trolley and he would magically shape perfect weights of a kilo loaf, called a 'filone' or a half kilo loaf called a 'filoncino'. There was the 'pane tondo'(the round loaf), the 'ciambello', the ring, and the famous 'paniotta'. The paniotta was the half-kilo round rationed to every family during the war. I used to translate a little story about people meeting each other in the street. 'Buongiorno dove vai? Vado a guardagnare la mia paniotta'. 'Good morning! Where are you going? I'm off to earn my bread!'. I suppose it's where we took the term 'bread' to mean money.

The bread needed to rise for an hour. He had already prepared a batch previously, which was ready to demonstrate how it goes into the ovens. 30 years ago they cooked with wood. But now, they use a state of the art gas oven that shoots steam in the beginning to insure a good crust. It fascinates me to see the difference in traditional and modern ways to put the bread into the oven. The modern way is to put the bread on the canvas conveyor belt rack that hooks onto the oven and when pulled, the canvas slides around, leaving the bread on the oven floor. The traditional way was more labor intensive, but more artisan. Bread loaves were placed on a floured canvas on a wooden board. The canvas would be bunched around the loaves making them look all snug. Then a wooden horse-like support was placed on the floor to hold a long wooden paddle that the bread could be placed on. The bread is taken from the canvas and flipped over, leaving the floured side up. One could put their finger tips into the bread stretching it out for a 'ciabatta'(an old slipper) or leave it as is. The paddle is then placed deep into the oven and the bread is shimmied off onto the oven floor. More time consuming or not, it's astounding how different the bread looks after it's cooked, even if it's made with the same ingredients. It is, basically, the same bread. I prefer it by far. The crust is crunchier, pleasing to the eye, and it just looks and tastes more soulful.

Afterwards, we leave the bakery and make a procession out the front door, parading in front of the cafe' and la Posta, and go around to the back of the building where we have our breakfast picnic. All the fresh bread comes out in a basket, with a knife and cutting board. We have a fine selection of cheeses and spreads that Sandro has collected just for us. Sandro continues to run back and forth to the bakery where he has made hot crostini out of the 'frusta'- the whip-a long thin loaf that he has sliced thin and covered in fresh tomato and mozzerella, some with onions and curry, some with sausage and cheese. There is fresh coffee and tea. After we have chowed on bread in various expressions, we can't resist the apple cake and biscotti! It's a breakfast of Champions! We have earned it with our hour walk, but we are hardly going far after this. A walk around the market of Figline will not burn hardly a calorie. (especially if Giocomo fills us with a few tastes of Pamigiano Reggiano from a freshly cut wheel.)

I have learned a great deal from Sandro about generosity. He was constantly giving. The Tuscans, I must say, are not known for their warmth. They are rather reserved. But Sandro was intent on making people feel welcome. His hospitality was paramount. My favorite story came at a time of great uncertainty during the September 11th, 2001 tragedy. I had over 60% cancellations for my programs. Yet, a few people who were still registered for La Cucina al Focolare, were already in Europe from previous traveling. Only 4 made it. Sandro insisted that we come to the Forno. We took our sunrise walk through the countryside and arrived to the village just in time for a feast! He had made things extra-abundant. There was an American flag thrown over the bread mixer. With great excitement he said, 'Dobbiamo combattare col la bellezza!' 'We must fight back with beauty!'. There was such conviction in his voice. We all had tears in our eyes. This humble, but fierce baker wanted to show us his unwavering support. Not only compassionately for the loss to our country, but to bring attention to what is beautiful and tasteful and not let negative forces bring us down. In a nutshell, this was Sandro's philosophy and approach to everything.

Sandro knew about fighting for diversity and what was right. He grew up gay in a small village in the Tuscan hills. Luckily, his mother accepted and celebrated him, sewing his clothes and costumes to match his creative mood. He was after all, theatrical. He had a passion for Opera and a good voice. She supported his studies for music up until he was 18 whend she died unexpectedly. The father died shortly after and Sandro's singing career came to an abrupt halt. He had to go into the family business with his brother Andrea. Otherwise, who was going to bake the bread? The industrial revolution had sent farmers into factories. No one was using their own forno's to bake their own bread. They relied on the village 'Forno'. Which meant Sandro.

The town of Donnini had always been a crossroads. The monks of the Vallambrosa would leave Florence every summer and head to the monastery in the Pratomagno hills to escape the heat. They would stop in Donnini to rest and stock up on bread, re-thread their sandals and re-shoe their horses. In fact, it was called, 'un posta di sosta'. A place to rest.

I met Sandro through his uncle, Danilo. Danilo, in his 80's back then, delivered the bread to the school every few days. He was jolly, full of jokes and a real Toscanaccio. One day, I asked him. 'Who is baking this extraordinary bread?'He told me about his nephew. We were soon invited to come to the bakery the very next day.

Who wouldn't love to be invited into the heart of the bread shop? What a smell! We met Sandro, who seemed too elegant and gracious to be a baker in whites. In fact, he was more comfortable in 'smoking', with a velvet cape and boots. He offered us not only fresh bread, but coffee, biscotti and of course, Vin Santo. That is how our friendship started. I in turn, invited him to come and see us later that day as we would be making biscotti and asked for his expertise. He came, dressed sharply in navy blue. He even gave us his secret for edible biscotti, the kind that won't break your teeth. 'A spoonful of honey', he said, 'softens it'. Indeed. He left us and as he did, he let slip an aria. It filled the 14th century building like the smell of his bread. We were amazed and delighted. Shortly after, I asked him if he would like to sing for us on our last evening. He accepted.

Thus began a long relationship between myself, Piero our chef, Pierre, our illustrious French Shepherd of Herbs and all the people who came to be with us. He was a magic element that made 'La Cucina al Focolare' sing.

The question I am left with is a timeless one. 'Who will bake the bread?' There are no heirs. It's possible to find a baker, although rare these days to find one who will willingly wake up at 2 in the morning. 'Who will bake the bread like Sandro?'. No one. Who will sing at weddings and Gala dinners? Someone. But no one like Sandro. Who will tend the flower pots? Who will have the heart to gather tasty things for foreign visitors to savour? Who will add panache to the village with style? Anyone?
No one. At least not like Sandro.

I guess it fair to say to you Sandro, that even though you died early, you lived a grand life. Even in a small village, you touched thousands of lives in just your
way, by being your exquisite self. I say, Grazie caro. Grazie tantissimo per il tuo amore grande. I hope you find 'un posta di sosta', a place to rest peacefully, after so many mornings of getting up so early. Ciao amore, Ciao. Dormi bene. Sogni d'oro..sweet dreams..

I am still here. Love. Your Peggy Sue.

Pierre Cusseau, Shepherd of Aroma's

Sitting in Pierre's garden at 'Le Fontenelle', has been a rich respite to take my students for the last ten years. Walking through the garden, having a picnic, sitting and talking.. we usually fall into one of those conversations that wake the mind into paying attention in a different way. Cher Pierre..