Under the Tuscan Sun

Frances Mayes

What a perfect book to have along in Tuscany. On the cover a tiny excerpt of the McPaper review say "...it's so delicious..." and that is exactly what I felt as I read the book.

This was another house restoration project like the Mayle books set in Provence, but that is far less the focus here than the best descriptive writing I've ever seen about food. The sense of enjoyment expressed in the herbs and simple preparations using only what is fresh today was damn near, if not beyond, sensuous. The book, by the way, includes about 30 pages of recipes.

What follows are a couple examples of what I mean about these evocative descriptions:

"In the quiet twilight, we sit on the stone wall of the terrace and toast each other and the house with tumblers of the spicy prosecco, which seems like a liquid form of the air. We toast the cypress trees along the road and the white horse in the neighbor's field, the villa in the distance that was built for the visit of a pope. The olive pits we toss over the wall, hoping they will spring from the ground next year. Dinner is delicious. As the darkness comes, a barn owl flies over so close that we hear the whir of wings and, when it settles in the black locust, a strange cry that we take for a greeting. The Big Dipper hangs over the house, about to pour on the roof. The constellations pop out, clear as a star chart. When it finally is dark, we see that the Milky Way sweeps right over the house. I forget the stars, living in the ambient light of a city. Here they are, all along, spangling and dense, falling and pulsating. We stare up until our necks ache."

Later:

"On my way out, I see a man in a sweater despite the heat. The trunk of his minuscule Fiat is piled with black grapes that have warmed all morning in the sun. I'm stopped by the winy, musty, violet scents. He offers me one. I have never tasted anything so essential in my life as this grape on this morning. They even smell purple. The flavor, older than the Etruscans and deeply fresh and pleasing, just leaves me stunned. Such richness, the big globes, the heap of dusty grapes cascading our of two baskets. I ask for un grappolo, a bunch, wanting the taste to stay with me all morning."

And the last selection (since I'm tired of typing):

"Soon we arrive in Montalcino, a town built for broad views along a bony ridge of hills. The eye seems to stop before the waving green landscape does. Small wine shops line the street. A table with white cloth and a few wineglasses waits right inside each door, as though inviting you in for an intimate drink with the proprietor and a toast to the great vintages. The hotel in town is modest, indeed, I'm alarmed that the electrical switches for the bathroom are located in the shower. I aim the showerhead as far into the opposite as possible and splash as little as possible. I do not want to fry before tasting the local wines! Compensation is our panorama of the tile rooftops and into the countryside. The belle époque café in the center of town doesn't appear to ahve changed an iota since 1870 -- marble tables, red velvet banquettes, gold mirrors. The waitress polishing the bar had cupid-bow lips and a starchy white blouse with ribbons on the sleeves. What could be more sensuous than a lunch of prosciutto and truffles on schiacciata, a flat bread like focaccia, with salt [Jim's note: Tuscan breads do not have salt in them] and olive oil, along with a glass of Brunello? The utter simplicity and dignity of Tuscan food! After siesta, we walk to the fourteenth-century fortezza, now a fantastic enoteca. In the old lower part, which used to store crossbows and arrows, cannons and gunpowder, all the wines of the area are available for tasting. It's brilliantly sunny outside. In the fortezza, the light is dim, the stone walls musky and cool. Vivaldi is playing while we try a couple of good whites from Banfi and Castelgiocondo vineyards. Appropriately, the music changes to Brahms as we taste the dark Brunellos from several vineyards: Il Poggiolo, Case Basse, and the granddaddy of all Brunello, Biondi. Brilliant, totally evolved wines that make me want to rush to a kitchen and prepare the kind of hearty food they deserve. I can't wait to cook for these wines -- rabbit roasted with balsamic vinegar and rosemary, chicken with forty cloves of garlic, pears simmered in wine and served with mascarpone. The man serving us insists that we try some dessert wines. We fall for one simply called "B" and another Moscadello from Tenuta Il Poggione. The enologist must have been a former perfume maker. No dessert would be needed with these, except perhaps a white peach, just ripe. On second thought, a lemon soufflé might be just the touch of heaven. Or my old Southern favorite, crème brûlée. We buy a few bottles of the luxurious Brunellos. Just the memory of the price at home makes us indulgent..."

I'd rate this one 8 of 10. And just made myself hungry.