Cin, Cin!

Just a quick city bus ride out of the tall, old, canopy of Florence, our artist professor Matilde leads us to Chianti, a Tuscan region of the famous Chianti wine (the kind you imagine pirates drink, wrapped in bamboo and palms, and of course, Kurt's favorite). Matilde’s friend lives on this farm, and her family makes Chianti wine and olive oil, so delicious that I have begun eating it out of a latle, alone. We hop off the bus and onto the dirt road, mostly inhabited by farmers who still dress in herringbone and fine linen despite almost living outside. The hillsides are covered in olive trees, and that’s when you understand why they mean peace. I think peace happens when the opportunity to feel the sun and move in the wind is had by all, like these trees have. 30 minutes of getting our boots dirty and noses red from the breeze we walked up to a villa as old as Leonardo DaVinci, in fact, he drew this very same one on a map the he drew of the region in the 1400s. Cyprus trees move ever so slowly and regally side to side, and cream colored horses are running everywhere.

Farmers live the best lives, I decided. THEY are the masters of the world.

We gather bread, garlic, tomato, eggs, milk, olive oil, wine and sausage, some oregano here and there, and prepare bruschetta in the open brick oven. Candles light the kitchen and the tiles are so intricate that they look like flowers lost some of their color to the paintbrush that made them. Every piece of machinery in the kitchen is manual, and I am officially the star of the movie Under the Tuscan Sun.

Italian food = Italian style = Italian everything: the essentials. No more, no less. Simplicity done so well for so long, that you forget that the tastes weren’t intricately engineered, but rather just happened. We grate cheese, pour wine and share in a home cooked, home grown meal of bruschetta (toasted break with olive oil, salt, garlic and sausage meat) and spaghetti (tomatos, pasta, oil, oregano and parmesean), finished with more Chianti and tiramisu that we prepared from the eggs found in the chicken coop earlier that morning. The owner’s son even brought his puppy to the table, who was passed around to enjoy like some kind of delicious gravy would be.

And the moment I fall in love with Italy happens: Matilde proposes a toast, (“cin cin” in Italiano), telling us “ze molto importante ting to know en Italia eeeees...” to look each person in the eye as your glasses clink, or else you will have fortuna terribile in your sex life for a whole year.

if i remember nothing else, i will remember this very important fact.