Jenny Will Eat Anything

I have eaten Turkish grub and tasted at least seven types of honey; sampled musky and aromatic balsamic vinegars aged for half my lifetime in cherrywood casks; noshed on a simple but satisfying salami sandwich, the meat spackled with clots of white fat and peppercorns and flecks of fennel seed. I sipped wine while devouring a creamy risotto served from a hollowed-out wheel of Parmigiano-Reggiano. I watched two Senegalese ladies, a bit bashful of the hovering photographers, prepare a traditional meal of baked chicken and fonio grains...and then I ate it. Cheeses and olive oils, cured meats and creamy chocolates, I am eating my way through the Salone del Gusto.

This, my friends, is entirely worth the plane ticket. Who knew there were so many different kinds of Sardinian goats, with fluted, spiraling horns and devilish eyes, worth milking? How is one to compare, say, the salty flavor of fresh ricotta paired with acacia honey verses lime honey unless one tries them both? With every bite I smack my lips and think of you all, munching your quick take-out lunches while you read this. I send you gustatory good wishes and not a little cheekiness.

marshmellows are difficult to find in Italy

I've seen little of Torino so far, as I've shuttled back and forth between the Salone and my hotel room. There is too much to do here at the event! It's a big change from Ca' del Buco, which I left last week. That was a sad day. I will miss Paola and Roberto terribly. I accomplished so much during my last week, between Florence and departing for Torino. I burned the rest of the big brush pile, helped clean mummified cow dung from between the pavers in the old barn stalls, sanded rust off metal doors, threw straw down from the hay loft (and dropped onto the huge pile afterwards), and graveled the rest of the driveway. It made the week go so quickly.

As did Fred, Emilia, and Martha, three other WWOOFers who joined me at the farm. Though I had more than 10 years on them, we got along famously. Fred especially reminded me of my little bro, and there was much goofy humor shared while toiling on various projects...including the observation that, if you realize that animals can smell your fear, that just makes you smell like fear more.

There was drumming and dancing in the kitchen one night while Paula made a dinner of little biscuits that reminded me of English muffins. We all clapped hard when they came to the table nestled in baskets and wrapped in towels to keep them warm. We spread a meat pesto on the halves and loaded them with prosciutto and other cured meats. We finished with vin brule—basically mulled wine, pleasant and warming to the core.

Which was needed, since we woke several mornings to an eerie mist that enveloped (as mists are wont to do) the hills, the trees, even the sheds and fields across the yard. The fog ate up figures and coated us with chill air. But a violent wind tore across the landscape one night, wacking shutters against the walls and tearing plastic sheets off the woodpiles. The next morning was brisk and sunny, and we spent it in the chestnut grove. Despite the pricks and pokes and slips and ten-pound boots weighted down with caked mud, I will miss that forest.

As I will miss the rowdy dogs (Milla is pregnant), and the cats (the mamma is pregnant again) and the rabbits (three are due to have babies), and all the rest (not pregnant). My last night, I got to introduce the non-Americans to s'mores. Note: Marshmellows are difficult to find in Italy.

And hotel rooms are difficult to find in Bologna, which is why Fred and I split a room the night before I he headed to Geneva and I left for Torino. A good call, seeing as I had to stay again at the hostel in Bologna last week when I was coming back from Firenze to the farm. You see, there are two busses to catch—one from Bologna to the suburbs, and another from there to the farm. I missed the bus connection (due to traffic), and only just caught the last bus back to Bologna. The suburbs everywhere in the world, I think, are terrifying and lonely places at night.

Luckily my bus driver was a friendly fellow who had toured the States extensively. He invited me out for a beer with his buddies before he met up with his girlfriend later on. All three were great guys, and one was a caribinieri (national police officer), so I felt much better having his phone number when I journeyed back to...the hostel at San Sisto. Sure enough, creepy Massimo was working, and he asked again for a kiss (denied...why do the creepy types find me?).

I had a swell time roaming Bologna with Fred this time around. While we loafed in a piazza, I fended off some dude looking for handouts by saying I didn't speak Italian. "Angleesh?" he asked. "No, Bradislava," I replied with a straight face, trying to look as Slavic as possible. This is hard to do.

"Dove?" he replied. Fred cut his eyes at me and squinted.

"Brrrrad-ees-lah-vah," I said, pouring the word out in my best Russian accent. The man walked away.

Later that night, after an unsuccessful attempt to go to the pirate bar (closed), we sat by the fountain and observed people for a while. We met up with Elena, the newly relocated teacher, for a drink, and watched the traditional dancing going on in the Piazza Maggiore. Bands and musicians were set up on every street, it seemed; the wheezing of accordians blended with electric guitars playing Guns 'N Roses covers and string basses plucking out jazzy rhythms. People swarmed everywhere.

And tonight, as I write at nearly 10 pm from the Salone press room, people are still swarming down on the floor of the event. I, however, am hungry (how is this possible?) and a bit tired. So many thoughts to filter: do I farm? in Italy? when? and the writing? the bees? So few days left here. Tomorrow: one more day of Slow Food, then a day of tourism, and then off to my next farm in Umbria, in a small medieval town called Città della Pieve where Elena spent a lot of time when she was a young'un in Italy. Go figure. The world is large, my friends, but smaller and slower than you think, if you just take time to sit down over a nice meal or glass of wine with someone to discover exactly how.