Another day of roasting temperatures - 86ºF/32ºC - here in California. Ever since we've been back from Italy we have had day after day of record breaking heat. This never happens on the coast. Usually after two or three hot days you can guarantee the fog will roll in. We wilt in the daytime, lifeless, lethargic, and stupefied by it all.
And on the topic of mystifying phenomena, would you believe I lost weight in Italy? I'm serious. Daryl is equally astonished at his lack of weight gain, considering how we totally pigged out for the 17 days we were there. We had been so disciplined about healthy eating and exercise over the last months and consciously decided to indulge while in Italy. In Tuscany we sampled different types of homemade pasta. Pici - a thick macaroni type pasta - was the a regional specialty which we had frequently with either fresh funghi porcini or truffles or pesto sauce. I especially enjoyed the ravioli - loaded with veggies - and you could taste the freshness. We had gelato practically everyday. We had rich desserts - panna cotta, zuccoto, tarts, etc. We had lots of lekker cheeses, especially fresh mozzarella made with buffalo milk. Hmm, soft, creamy, yummy mozzarella. Almost a reason unto itself to go to Italy! And of course, we couldn't help but chug down gallons of wine. We were, after all, in a wine producing region. We sampled Chianti Classicos, Montepulciano Nobiles, and Brunellos. We ate pretty darn well the entire time. Then when it was all over and we were driving home from LAX Daryl said something about going on a crash diet. I was all for the idea. "Oh yes. Fruit for breakfast, a green salad for lunch, and something light for dinner." We felt a bit depressed about the prospect of certain weight gain from our sinful indulgence. So imagine my utter bewilderment when I stood on the bathroom scale back home! It showed a pound less than the last time I had stood on that scale. Daryl got on the scale. He couldn't believe it. No change from three weeks ago. Is it the air in Italy?
Hey, do you know what I found out about olive oil in Italy? What does extra virgin olive oil mean to you? I always assumed it meant the first cold pressing of the olives. Well, guess what, the term has nothing at all to do with which pressing the oil came from. It has to do with acidity level. So regardless of the process of extracting oil from the olives, if the oil has less than 1% acidity it can be labelled "extra virgin"! I also learned that California has stricter standards so the local olive oil is of far superior quality to the Italian and Greek oils at Trader Joe's. In Italy, the folks who take their olive oil seriously buy directly from farmers who use the cold pressing methods. Depressing, hey!
In case you are wondering, our time in Tuscany was delightful. The weather was a tad cool and it rained a fair amount (most unusual for the time of year), but that didn't matter much. Daryl and I met up with my sister-in-law, Julia, and her son, Fabian (my nephew) and a friend Katie, and her two year old son, Tom. So, we filled up the old stone house that we rented. We were out in the countryside near Siena in the area called the Crete. The name has to do with the special clay soil of the region. We spent our days visiting Tuscan hill towns like Pienza, Cortona, Montelcino, and Montepulciano. We did allow a day each for Florence and Siena. In the evenings at our agriturismo, we prepared great meals which we had out in the garden from where we had gorgeous views of the Tuscan countryside. The two two year olds kept us busy. For Fabian, an inner city Sydneysider, running around in the countryside where there weren't cars and buildings, but lots of fresh air and trees, was a new experience. He loved it. He worked up quite an appetite, opening his tiny mouth for pasta with pesto with gusto. Julia thinks that there must be some Italian in his genes. In Sydney meal times are a challenge, but in Italy, he couldn't get enough.
We spent the last day in Pisa from where we were all flying back to our homes. When Fabian saw the Leaning Tower, he looked up and then pulled me to the entrance. "Up, up," he demanded, trying to get past the ticket ladies. He loves climbing, but I didn't think I could get him to go all the way up. So I tried to explain that we'd do it when he was older. Then I distracted him with a gelato. It worked.
So, back in Santa Barbara, where everyone's plum trees are laden with ripe plums. Everyone's plums in the whole entire city are ready this minute. You can't walk two meters without encountering a conversation about plums. We filled two huge bowls from our tree. Daryl has plans to make jam. For my part, I made a sorbet, and also ate as many as I could.
I think I'll head now to the kitchen and gobble a few more!
Happy summer! Or winter! Oops, that doesn't work. I'll just stick with "Happy summer".
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