Primo, his many cousins, their kids, and two green Americans, joined together at the farthest row. I felt a little unprepared when I noticed everyone had boots, long sleeves, gloves, and clippers specific to this activity. Maybe my tennis shoes, shorts, and white t-shirt made it clear that this was my premier as a vineyard worker. My first job didn’t include clipping anything. I was to load 55 gallon plastic bins full of grapes on a trailer 30 inches off the ground. For the previous several months, the heaviest thing I lifted was a fork full of spaghetti. That must of been obvious when I nearly dumped the second plastic bin all over myself. Fortunately, I was able to get the tractor driver to give me a mano (hand). We lifted the bins to the front of the aged tractor. This “fun” adventure turns out to be two full days of manual labor that greatly elevated my respect for those who work the land full time. Once the red wine grapes had been through the crush and into the giant holding pool, it was time to head back out and pull the white wine grapes. Each year, Primo reserves about 10 bins of white grapes to hang in the attic until just after Christmas. Nearly raisins, they are pressed, pumped into a barrel and become Vin Santo, a golden, very sweet after dinner digestivo. The monks dip rock hard biscotti in Vin Santo to soften them.

I fell in love with autunno (fall) because it represents the beginning of a bounty season that requires community muscle and a common mission. For their efforts, the entire village shares in the production throughout the year. In one weekend, we crushed 2000 bottles of red wine and 1000 bottles of white. For their efforts, anyone who participated in the harvest can bring their three litre “fiasco” into Primo’s cantina and fill up, no questions or cost. I love autunno.
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Today’s driving challenge is keeping up with Paolo, who spends his road time working off the day on his feet at a news stand in Camucia. Although his Nissan compact SUV wasn’t built with standard equipment found on a Formula One race car, Paolo is able to get the most from his wheels. Gratefully, Ame is able to give me a heads up before the next hairpin turn that Paolo peeled around 15 seconds earlier. One thing Jill isn’t good at is riding in the back seat. Either she is genetically predisposed to car sickness or having Daniela (12 years ago) has changed the center of her equilibrium. I am sensitive to this whenever we set out on a car ride in Italy. As much as we like having Ame and Rosy aboard, it’s a recipe for disaster if our itinerary includes backroads of which most of Italy grew from. Like Paolo, I try to use all of my lane and two thirds of the oncoming lane to lessen the effects of tight turns and lots of manual shifting. Jill’s physical wellbeing stays in the front of my mind while I do my best keep pace with the middle age newsman. Ame isn’t necessarily fond of high speed driving but he’s concerned about parking situation at our destination so he’s giving me the “let’s pick it up” look. Meanwhile, I’m eager to get to Jill there while she’s still hungry. Putting the windows down for fresh air isn’t an option at the moment because the outside mercury is north of 90F. “You good Jill’? She always says yes and then adds, “I’ll be better when we get there”.
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Parking in a uniform manner isn’t a strong desire for festival goers, this one included. Leaving my passengers at the top of the hill, I back under a tree in parched grass field. Reconvening near the soccer field, I was relieved to see Jill’s complexion was its proper tone. Ame had told us this would be an event heavy on local meat including wild boar, a half dozen varieties of pork, and maybe a rustic version of deer. He did not disappoint at first glance of the paper menu. This being a rural area, there was also a rustic soup and chicken liver paste on unsalted bread. Although Jill and Daniela’s palate doesn’t stretch as far as mine, they gladly ordered the familiar pasta, meat, fries and a fruit option. I couldn’t help myself and with Ame’s nod, my desire for meat and liver was met. $3.00 bottles of red wine and gassata completed our tableside delivery. These community gatherings are all volunteer run. With a team cooks in the kitchen, the youth serve, and another group handles the money. It’s evident that pride runs deep. On more than one occasion, we’ve seen family members serving side by side. Sitting at 10 foot communal tables running six deep, this Sagre was serving dinner to 500 at the same time. Paolo’s wife Katia is our go to for information on the best festivals in the area. During our three week stay, she directed us to several gatherings including one that benefitted a cancer treatment program and recovery charity. With plates clean and bellies full, we wandered and tried our luck the Italian farmer’s version of country roulette. 100 numbers are quickly sold 1, 5, or 10 at a time. A large wood wheel, used 150 years ago to cart everything from grain to olives has 100 spikes that makes a loud clicking noise as it spins. With five numbers in my hand and the same for Daniela, we had great anticipation that one of us could win. The first and second spin earned the winner a good sized artisan salami. The big prize was the third and final spin. What I would give to win a Prosciutto. I imagined myself bringing an entire aged and cured pork hip to Sunday dinner. Although my dream fell short, the host was greatly intrigued that an American family had made it to their village festival. Based on his comments, this was a first.

After a gelato and some wonderful dance music by a six piece orchestra, it was time to gather my oddly parked car and get on the road. I asked Ame if there was a more direct way home, hoping for a road with fewer elements of a race track like the one we arrived on. Pushing Jill’s limits after a good sized meal was not my objective. He affirmed that he knew a route that would get us to the main road faster. Five minutes into our trip, and several 90 degree turns later, I realized what I asked Ame wasn’t what I needed. “Sempre Dritto” he kept saying. Just keep going straight towards the main road. Now pitch black, I wasn’t able to anticipate the next turn sharp turn without lots of braking and copious gear work. Turning around wasn’t an option so I tried to carefully move through each corner with grace even though the cars behind me left just two feet between us. I was so happy to see the intersection that took us back to the highway that intersects Umbria and Tuscany. Fortunately, Jill was still alive when I opening the rear passenger door in Montanare.

Daniela was intrigued by an onion yesterday. We had all the ingredients to make a favorite salad mix, a recipe gifted to us by our very special British friends Bill and Tina more than a decade ago. Although they have simplified their lives by letting someone else care for Villa Donata in Ossaia (five miles from Montanare), what they left behind for us is a beautiful set of memories. Many of them include hours around a table together talking about family, the human condition, soccer, life in our respective countries, their beautiful garden, and food. Going out to eat with them was never our first option. With a bounty of fresh vegetables, salumi, aged cheese in many forms, chickens aplenty, oil made from the tree I’m sitting under right now, and no limit of excellent wine, why would anyone need to go out to eat? The challenge of course, is we’ve discovered a few fantastic dining spots, all run by people we admire as much as our family in Montanare.  One of those dining options is LaTufa, a lovely third generation pizzeria in the tiny borgo of Ossaia. Bill and Tina shared a table with us there on countless occasions. They even helped diversify my pizza palette. LaTufa doesn’t stop at pizza. They also offer tasty pasta and every kind of meat, including steaks and outstanding pork chops.  Even though Bill and Tina have returned to their homeland, Jill, Daniela, and I still make it a point to have at least one meal at this local favorite during our stay in Montanare. It’s incredible to us that Roberto, who has been a waiter at LaTufa for 25 years, still knows our order by heart. Pizza Margherita, half arugula, large carbonara with less peperincino, half liter of house red, and a liter of water with gas. Sometimes, we have profiterole (a pull pastry filled with crème, covered in chocolate gelato) as dessert. He knows I like my doppio espresso al lungo. I believe we visit LaTufa for both the food, memorable view of Cortona, but also to revisit our unique and very grateful friendship with Bill and Tina Bain.

The other eating option vying for space in our stomach outside are Sagre. These community-run fundraising events (to benefit the local soccer club) call the area residents to long communal tables to enjoy pizza cooked in a wood fired oven, gigantic steaks grilled over charcoal, and once again, unlimited, local wine at $3 a bottle. Even though we’ve slept in Montanare for more than a dozen summers, we’ve never attended the Sagre in Montanare. That was until last night when Ame shared the idea by phone. Si, Certo! Buon Idee! I immediately responded. Being a consummate planner, Jill always asked this question: How many others are coming in our party? A normal sized dinner al fresco at Ca D’ Maestro is no less than 15. Piero taught me an important Italian event planners phrase three years back when I sheepishly asked him if another family could join our evening dinner. I held up the international sign for eight additional people thinking he would have a negative reaction. His hands in an open posture raising to the sky: “Piu gente, Piu grande la Festa”. Awesome I thought, I now know how to say: “The more, the merrier!” On that particular night, what started as 18 hungry mouths (not including children) quickly grew to more than two dozen. Jill often expresses her concern that we’ll be short of food, especially when the plan was already set. Like her, I’m often surprised when another melon, 20 slices of prosciutto, loaf of bread, and pan of pasta appear out of thin air. We are never short, in fact the follow day, much of what was left is recreated in another fashion. For example, 35 of us enjoyed Amedeo’s Penne al Fumo on Saturday night. Studying the lasagna being passed around the table on Sunday afternoon, I realized this was a re-creation of the remaining first course from the night before. Very little food is waisted, even though there is plenty more where that came from. Jill and I found that out the first time Luisa put Panzanella in front of us. Fresh bread is delivered to Montanare three mornings a week in the back of a small white van by Giovanni. Because it lacks any preservatives, the loaf is rock hard if not consumed in 48 hours. Small remnants, ends are collected in a cloth bag. Mid day on Sunday Luisa fills a ten gallon pale with water and soaks the bread for five minutes. Ringing it out, she tears it into random sizes mixed with cucumbers, onions, basil, peppers, celery, salt, pepper, and red wine vinegar. The most important ingredient is time. It’s meant to consume immediately. It’s almost impossible for us to recreate Panzanella at home because our bread contains preservatives and it will never get hard enough. The movement of the season also dictates what lands on the dinner table in Montanare. Being late July, nearly everything in Piero’s garden is ready to eat, including eggplant and five different kind of tomatoes. The garlic and onions hang from the ceiling in the aged metal cabana, a spot the tractor and all it’s implements call home. Daniela found it amazing that I could walk down the stairs, across the yard, and pluck an onion to complete our tuna and bean salad. She’s starting to see how living off the land might have some “immediate gratification” qualities. Her love of Piero’s endless fresh cucumbers and dolce pomodorini will keep her well fed in the vegetable category. Next time she wants a salad, Daniela knows the store is closer than she thinks.  

 
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Under the giant olive tree, tonight ended in a roundtable of misty eyes, mine included. Although we bring a green version of the native tongue to Montanare each time, Larriano gets the job done. Sometimes, like tonight, our pigeon brand of Dante’s words come through crystal clear. Amedeo, Rosy, Luisa, Piero, Laura (all locals) and myself share similar passions. Many of mine began in this country: Formula One, industrial and interior design, many genres of music, food (especially aged cheese), red wine, 500 year old buildings, catholic tradition, and negotiable speed limits. All are subject matter we can talk about for hours, even in my stripped down version of their local words. Somehow, our conversation came around to a specific song that includes two opposites that happen to make a perfect pair. In 1999, while studying fashion photography in Florence, I noticed a publicity poster on a corner near to my student apartment. It was promoting an upcoming concert hosted by none other than, Luciano Pavarotti.  This benefit concert in Modena (his hometown) happens to be the city made famous (and very rich) by the global production of Balsamico Aceto di Modena. Studying a paper map at the train station, I could see Modena was under two hours from Florence. Although I had absolutely no idea how to buy tickets, I was able to reach a women I’d met weeks earlier who was from that area. She was happy to hear from me and agreed to buy tickets and attend the show with me and a school mate. It was beyond a magical night of stars singing with Pavarotti including: Gloria Estefan, Lionel Richie, Ricky Martin, Joe Coker, BB King, and six Italian super stars. Although my knowledge of Luciano’s charity (War Child) was limited, I learned that evening that Lady Diana, Elton John, and Luciano founded this meaningful and productive non profit to care for the most vulnerable victims of war. From that night forward, my love for everything Pavarotti became nearly an obsession.

Amedeo’s young daughter Laura was siting directly across the round table from me tonight. I’m in awe of her love for the music she adores. Much of it was the soundtrack of my youth from the 1970’s. Two nights ago, she joined 80K other fans of Pink Floyd to see Roger Waters in Rome’s Circus Maximus. She too, has let the lyrics of others tell the stories of her thoughts. Laura’s knowledge/passion of music (Italian, American, International) is inspiring. We agreed tonight that songwriters help us understand ourselves and others. Her father Amedeo and I have been using music to bridge our language deficit for more than a decade. His handset is often busy searching another YouTube video that brings his message home. Tonight, under the olive tree, a spot much discussion has exchanged about music and world concerns, Luciano’s name came up while I was recounting my memories of being a curious student in Florence twenty years ago. Amedeo pointed his phone at me and played this most emotional song about the Balkan war that devastated eastern Europe including Sarajevo, host city of the 1984 Winter Olympics. During that war, many atrocities occurred including the death of countless children. Luciano dedicated the funds from the 1999 War Child concert to causes that benefited children traumatized by this horrible tragedy.

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The Christmas season in Tuscany has little resemblance to our U.S. commercial run up to the celebration of baby Jesus. A dozen years ago, Jill and I had the good fortune to feel the divine spirit of Natale in it’s pure form. In nearly every Italian village the presepio (nativity) evangelizes inhabitants and visitors. The passing faithful pause to acknowledge the reason for the season.

In our only winter in the old country, we felt compelled to visit as many religious manger scenes as possible. One particular stop was to Le Celle, the hermitage where San Francesco (Saint Francis) took up residence before his trek to Assisi. Set back in the picturesque Tuscan hills near Cortona, the 800-year-old holy site once housed 300 Monks. Today, just four Fratelli occupy this important pilgrimage site. During our evening visit, each of the sixty windows glowed with a candle. At the peak of the hill rested a softly lit presepio. Emotion, gratitude, and an elevated spiritual connection made this one of my most important Christmas memories.

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Another noticeable reminder that an important holiday is coming includes the seasonal greeting “Auguri”.  In nearly every storefront and even streetscapes (as in the photo above) this special salutation greets all passing through. As with almost every fond memory we carried back stateside, the time spent at the dining room tables of our closest friends will always be in the front of my heart, mind, and stomach. Tortellini, the official pasta of Christmas opens every meal with four courses and plenty of vino follow.

Merry Christmas and Auguri to all of you!