Italy Day 5 – Cooking and Connections

We have a relaxed day planned.  As we leave Lupaia, we are still amazed at the beauty of the world around us.  We stop to take yet more pictures along the dirt road leading out.  I wonder how the landscape is not all faded out by the countless tourists taking countless pictures over the last hundred or so years since photography was invented.  I can only assume that preservationists from each town retouch the landscape at the start of every season.

We head to Cugusi, the cheese maker who supplies our inn, just a few miles away.  I come to understand that the long dirt road to our inn isn’t some rustic anomaly, it’s just how things are here.  A few paved main roads circle and bisect the town, and all the roads off it are the dusty unpaved type immortalized in the paintings.  As we approach the shop, we slam the brakes as a heard of sheep are shepherded across the lane.  Mandy thanks them for this morning’s ricotta as she takes their picture.  The shop, set on its own lovely vista, sells primarily Pecorino in a number of varieties.  We chose a number of varieties then meander the grounds, taking in the landscape and grazing livestock. 

Back at Lupaia, we meet Chef Andrea for a private cooking lesson.  Andrea has an Italian charm and teasing sense of humor.  We start by cutting the vegetables for a ragu, which are sautéed in plenty of local oil.  Once the veggies change color, we add a full kilo of ground beef to the heavy pot.  Meanwhile we prepare a fresh salad with fresh vegetables and fruits.  For a twist, we make Pecorino bowls for the salad in an omelette pan, melting the cheese the draping lacey result over a ramekin for shape.  We make three different types of bruschetta, which when complete, are arranged red, white and green like the Italian flag.  For the entrée, we hand make pasta, but Chef adds a second pasta dish and second sauce to our lesson when Mandy brings up a favorite dish from a restaurant back home.  Lunch was delicious.  (editors note: details of this episode have been left out to protect the invitees of our upcoming dinner party.)  We enjoyed the property for the remainder of the afternoon, happily sleepy from our carb-heavy meal. 

We wander back up the mountain to Montepulciano with no plan.  The town is winding down for the evening and we start looking for somewhere to get a nightcap.  There is no American bar culture here, so we look for a restaurant to get a glass of wine.  We pull into a rare available parking spot in front a nice café across from San Biagio, the town’s famous massive cathedral.  As we park, the bells of the church start to sound.  I turn to Mandy “see, we’re meant to be here.”  I had no idea what a harbinger those bells were.  We walk into the café, but are rejected as they are fully booked.  Walking out we see signs for a wine shop offering tastings next door, rare to be open after 7.  Seems to be our last option so we walk in. 

The shop is tiny, maybe twelve feet square.  It is packed, packed, packed with wines, cheeses and meats, generous samples on every conceivable surface.  We start speaking to Stella, the shopkeeper, a petite woman who turns out to be the owner.  She is animated telling us about her offerings and encourages us to try everything.  Varieties of Pecorino, including pepper and fruit variations, are among the best we have had, high praise considering the last few days.  “Do you love Truffles?” she asks.  I don’t really, but she’s so enthusiastic about the white truffle cheese that we oblige as she drizzles thick balsamic reduction over the soft formaggio.  Wowsers.  Now I understand what all the fuss is about.  A smartly dressed younger woman enters, carrying an armful of colorful folders and is introduced as “my economist”.  I’m thinking accountant, but Sara actually has a Masters in Economics.  Sara knows the shop well, plucks a few of her favorite samples, and effortlessly joins the conversation.

We learn of the farm, in the family for generations.  The fields, the vineyards, the livestock.  The traditional methods still employed today, organic since before you had to call it so.  The pours of her family vino, Pulcino, are as generous as her natural warmth.  Stella’s conversation turns to life and love, space and air, peace and fulfilment.  Both she and her husband are both yoga masters with a studio in their estate in Sicily.  Mandy practices yoga regularly, and we all feel this connection growing.  Somehow, we are supposed to be in this place at this time.  Stella mentions her age, same as ours, and Mandy uncharacteristically askes what month she was born.  “August”, Stella replies.

“I knew it! What day?” Mandy presses.

“Venti quattro.  The 24^th”

The room falls silent.  Stella is confused.  “That’s his birthday, too”, says Mandy, pointing to me.  Stella wells up.  “It’s my husband’s too.”

I speak “And my grandfathers”.

We WhatsApp her husband, a man published in Metaphysics and we feel his energy through the ether.  Stella gives us books in Italian, one of her husband’s titles and one her family’s history.  We are invited to the estate to stay, “make yoga, cook, eat and be.”  We leave with hugs and kisses and blessings, woozey from whatever that was that just happened.  It’s just been that kind of trip.

(editor’s note: on day 8 of this trip, we visit Pompeii.  As it turns out, the day Vesuvius erupts and changes the course of history for Pompeii is August 24^th, 79AD.  Chills.)