I spent most of today in Venice, wandering around the city (more on that later – this is a food post).  After a full day of strolling, showering and napping, I decided to splurge on a big Thanksgiving dinner.  I leafed through the couple of guidebooks I have with me and settled on one:  Ristoteca Oniga.

I was hoping to find a pumpkin ravioli on the menu (especially since they are known for their homemade ravioli, and it’s the season for zucca).  What’s more, this place is right next to a gellateria owned by the same people.  I’d missed my gelato today, so this was going to be a great way to make up for it.

The evening was a series of triumphs for me.  I was able to find the restaurant on the first try (sounds easier than it is), ask, in Italian, if it was possible for me to eat, get a seat, and order three courses.  The menu, which was all in Italian, offered a set vegetarian option, along with the other meaty options, which gave me hope that I would find a nice meal. Rather than go for the set menu, I pawed through the pages to see what I could find.  I settled on a lasagna with ricotta and zucca (pumpkin) for my primi, and a plate of cheeses, fruit and honey for my secondi.

Usually I just order a pasta and maybe dessert, but tonight being Thanksgiving I thought it only fitting to eat myself into a stupor.  I wasn’t disappointed.

First came a basket of bread and crunchy snacky bread-like things which I munched conservatively with my very own bottle of acqua naturale.

I think I got the last table in the house.  Already at 8:00 the place was packed.  Maybe it was because of the rain that folks had come out early to eat, or maybe it was that a lot of Americans were in town.   As I waited for my food, just about every staff member walked by my table to smile at me.  I got smiles from many women making their way to the restroom in the back of the restaurant.  It’s common to see solo travelers grabbing a slice of pizza or a pannini in a bar, but I haven’t seen a ton of singles eating at sit down places.  Everyone tonight seemed eager to send me a little love, and it was appreciated.  I haven’t missed too many Thanksgiving dinners with my family.  This afternoon I was able to Skype with them a bit and see most everyone:  my mom and dad, grandparents, aunt, sister and my soon-to-be-born niece or nephew.  It’s strange to be away from home today, but I’m in Venice, so it pretty much makes up for it.

So I waited, and people smiled.  And then came the lasagna.

It was unlike any lasagna I’ve ever had, and it was good.  I’m talkin’ real good, people.  The noodles were green, so I’m guessing they were spinach.  They were tender and lovely.  Between the five pasta layers, was pumpkin puree, standing in for the usual tomato sauce.  And ricotta.  Great lumps of ricotta stood on top, slightly crusty from the oven.  The flavors were simple and delicate and the dish went down easy.  Which was good, because there was so much more to come.

When the cheese plate arrived, I giggled out loud.  The plate was an absolute delight to look at.

It was happy and abundant – and interesting!  I was able to identify the very mild and very fresh pecorino, the excellent parmigano regiano, and the gorgonzola, but there was a cheese with blue spots, black splotches, and veins of mold.  That one was interesting.

Along with the cheese was a honey that had hints of mint, and an assortment of fruit and fruit salsas.  There were strawberries and pear slices, persimmon puree and something that seemed like a spiced applesauce.  And cranberries!  I jumped when I put them in my mouth.  Cranberries!  On Thanksgiving!  In Venice!  I wanted to find all the other Americans in the place and tell them that there were cranberries.  But I held back, content to mix and match the combinations of fruit and cheese and honey, noting the best pairings and devouring every morsel.

I had planned to stop in for gelato before meandering back to my hotel.  But, when I heard the English-speaking table next to me ordering dessert, all thoughts of gelato went out of the door.  There was chestnut cream with persimmon puree and there was a pumpkin cake, recommended by the grinning waitress.

So I ordered a caffe and pumpkin cake and I waited.  Cake isn’t really the word to describe the beautiful dolce that appeared before me.

This was more of the wonderful pumpkin puree, seasoned, sweetened, mixed with pine nuts and currants, sandwiched between thin, flaky pastry, dusted with powdered sugar and drizzled with honey.  I was sad to miss out on my mom’s pumpkin pie, but I supposed I could make do with this – just for tonight.

Overfull, I polished off the bottle of water, tried not to lick my plate and headed out into the night for the second half of the day’s wanderings.  I left dinner proud of myself for venturing out, and immensely thankful for everything that has brought me to this point.  And thankful for the friendly faces that greeted this pilgrim in a foreign land.

Yesterday I struck out on a great adventure – finding the forest path from Barga to Fornaci.  Armed with vague directions and an enthusiasm to find my way, I muddled along the wrong road, down the wrong path, and past the wrong goats – all the way to the wrong end of Fornaci.  It wasn’t until I got back and triumphantly posted about the excellent time I’d had that I learned I had been in the wrong place, traipsing through someone else’s woods.  To me it was a great adventure.

So, today, armed with the knowledge that I went the wrong way, and a few corrective instructions (“take the left fork” “it’s just past the big, beautiful villa”), I tried again.

The walk to the fork seemed quicker.  I recognized houses and crossed the road at the right points to avoid the whizzing cars.

Fortunately, there was only one fork before I reached the path.

There were, however several villas along the way.

I’m guessing the one I was looking for stood at the end of a long driveway, behind huge gates.

When I reached the end of the road this time, there was no mistake.  This was the path I was supposed to be on yesterday.  This was a legitimate PATH, complete with handrail and ropes to help me down the insanely steep slope.

And there were dogs, cheering me along.

The path itself was nice.  After the initial steep, leaf-covered stretch, houses started to appear again, and the path became more of a road, eventually  turning into pavement.  It ran the entire length of a mountain ridge, only 10 yards wide in places, giving way to steep drops and dramatic, wooded views on either side.

Past grapevines and olive orchards it wound, eventually dropping off of the ridge right into Fornaci – 5 minutes from the house.  It was a great path.  I will take it again for sure, and probably make the reverse trek up the hill.  But, still, I really enjoyed the other walk.  Yes, the road took twice as long.  No, it wasn’t the way others would have gone.  But I had a blast, wonderfully unaware that my path was the “wrong” one.

When I got back today I thought about the second chances in my life.  The opportunities to evaluate, apply lessons-learned, and start again.  There are times I’ve had to pry second chances out of the world, but more often they’ve been given gently by others, or tentatively handed over by me, to myself.

Some people see second chances as a way to erase the past, happy to forget the first chance, the one that went the “wrong” way.  From now on, I will try to see them as a way to appreciate the beauty of the first chance, even if it’s a path I wouldn’t really want to walk again.

“Have you ever walked down to Fornaci from Barga?”  My request for a new adventure would be answered by the unexpected question from Ryo.  “It’s an ancient path just past the hospital.”

Ryo told me that he had tried to bike the path once, but found a large tree blocking the entrance, and had turned back.

I’ve been struggling a little in the last few days, my poor language skills leaving me with a deep feeling of inadequacy.  A walk in the woods was exactly what I needed.  Growing up, I had taken many hikes in the mountains with my family and with my good friend (and chemistry teacher) Mrs. Healy.  Being able to find paths and make my way through the hills always made me feel confident.  There’s nothing like seeing a distant ridge and knowing that you’ve just made your way from there to here with nothing but your legs and eyes.

And so I started the 90 minute trek from the top of the hill.  “Ryo, where’s the hospital?  And the path?”

“Oh just go out and up and then there’s a sign for the Ospedale.  Then you go on the road, and it forks.  Then, I think you bear right.  I think.  And you wind through some houses.”  He was making swervy motions with his hands, like a fish swimming upriver.  He looked up at me and chuckled.  “And then the road ends and you start going down.”  Deb looked uncertain that I would ever find my way down the hill, and I wasn’t feeling super-confident.  But really, if I went the wrong way, I’d just climb back up and find the studio.  Right?

“I’m off.  If I can’t find it, I’ll be back for a ride.”  “Okay, don’t get lost!”  An unsure smile, and I was off.

Finding the hospital was easy, if a bit unsafe.  The narrow, winding roads that define many of the hill towns present a challenge to those walking on them.  Walking on the right is not, generally, a safe thing to do, as the cars can’t see you well.  However, the many blind corners and fast drivers meant that I was crossing the road frequently to put myself on the outside of the curve, or in the cutout formed by a garden gate.

Once past the hospital, the countryside opened up, giving excellent views and picturesque farmhouses.

When I finally hit a fork in the road, I had been walking for about 30 minutes.  I was really wondering if I was on the right path.  But, I had the mountains to guide me, and I could see the great butte that shades Fornaci, standing sentinel on the other side of the valley.

As I walked I saw very few cars, and heard them in enough time to get out of the way.  There were more animals than people along the way.  Dogs barked from distant houses and cats darted across the ever-narrowing road.

After another 15 minutes of walking in silence, I was seriously wondering if the road would ever end, and where it would dump me out if it didn’t.  I was considering loading google earth on the laptop in my bag, and seeing where exactly I was, when the road came to an end.

To the left was a partially-paved lane marked with several signs.  One announced that it was a private drive.  To the right was an unpaved lane that seemed to lead through a gate and into someone’s yard.  The middle path was overgrown.  Leaves and chestnut pods covered it.  And it seemed to wind around the cluster of houses at the end of the private drive.  But it led down – down the valley wall that I had now reached.  And so I looked around, thought about all the friendly people that lived in the houses, and started down.

The ground was positively littered with chestnuts.  Their leaves made the path slippery, but the hairy pods provided a little traction.  The nuts themselves were everywhere, shiny, growing, friendly.

The path led down and the chestnut trees gave way to elm.  I spent most of the time watching my footing, making sure I didn’t slide down to Fornaci.  Every so often, however, something would catch my eye, bringing my focus to the here and now.  It was like little friends waving as I made my way past.

And, after many twists and turns, the path turned uphill, and suddenly I was out of the woods, walking through someone’s yard.  The light was beautiful, filtering dramatically through the clouds.  Everything was beautiful.  Doors, walls, trees.  Everything.

I still wondered if I was on the right path – whether I would emerge in Fornaci, and whether I could find the house, even if I did.  But I wasn’t worried.  There were friends all along the way.  Goats smiled, and gnomes began to appear, pointing the way.

When I emerged from the country lane, I wasn’t sure where I was, precisely, but I knew I was close.  The mountains were in the right place, and the power lines that I use to guide myself to the house were overhead.  I was in Fornaci.  As I entered the main street, I looked back to see where I had come out, thinking that maybe sometime I might try the reverse trek up the hill.  When I snapped a picture to make sure I could find the place, I laughed.

It reminded me of a poem I’d memorized in 6^th grade.  It was the Shel Silverstein poem, “Where the Sidewalk Ends.”  I haven’t thought of it in ages, but it seemed appropriate running through my head as I stepped off of the “ancient path” and onto the streets of an Italian town.  Grateful for my adventure I looked around, all feelings of inadequacy gone.  I remembered that I could speak the language of the mountains and the trees.  And there was beauty everywhere.

Okay all you foodies. This one’s for you.

Yesterday, after accusing Italians of being descendants of Hobbits,I found myself proved temporarily wrong by my friends who decided to skip lunch. I’m pretty sure Hobbits don’t skip lunch. While I headed down the hill to make myself a couple of fantastic little grilled cheese sandwiches, they stayed to work. I told them to call if they wanted me to put the pasta pot on. I’m really glad they didn’t.

When they returned late in the afternoon, I’d had a little lunch and started afternoon tea. The ladies ran in, grabbed a couple of handfuls of bread and two bananas, and we were off to Lucca. We were going for business, but Lucca is home to some friends, so we got to have a bit of fun, too.

Lucca is a beautiful city at night. The shops sparkle as people pass by on bikes and on foot. We found our friends and started our trek through the city. The ladies were pretty hungry, and had missed afternoon tea, so caffeine was high on the list. We popped into a beautiful shop that had chocolate everywhere. Chocolate in the case, chocolate on the walls, and a vat of ciocolata calda stirring itself behind the counter. I noticed this beautiful liquid loveliness as I sipped my macchiato, and thought that I would need to sample some soon.

After trips to a couple of businesses, we made our way to another shop with chocolate lining the walls. A simple sign “chocolat” adorned the front. The little storefront was jammed with people after one thing – ciocolata calda. “Kristin! Con o senza pepperoncini?” With or without spicy pepper. Yummy. Our lovely friend Manuella handed me a plastic cup and spoon of super-dark liquid chocolate sprinkled with flakes of red pepper.

We all stirred our scalding cups, sending great columns of steam up, along with an amazing scent.  We spent the next five minutes standing in the street spooning mouthfuls of chocolate and scraping the bottoms of the little cups.

We crisscrossed the streets of Lucca for a couple of hours, everyone growing increasingly hungry and tired. We had plans to attend a friend’s art exhibition in Bagni di Lucca, but the thought of finding some food and heading home was growing increasingly appealing.

In the end, we made the turn to Bagni di Lucca, hoping that we could eat at the restaurant where the exhibition was happening. The wine and focaccia we were greeted with, and the long table set for dinner, were good signs.

After mixing, mingling and checking out the art, we seated ourselves at the table. There was a fascinating mix of people from Italy, Germany, Monaco, Greece and the US. This made dinner conversation excellent. While my language skills were probably the poorest of anyone at the table, they were all very good sports, and more than willing to let me muddle through in broken Italian while we consulted my little dictionary for vocab lessons. Of course, it helped that my family is from Greece, Germany and Chicago, where a couple of the Italian guys had spent time, and that I shared a special kind of kinship with two of the others. For the first time in this kind of setting, I felt able to be more myself. The barrier of not speaking the language really puts me in a place where I’m the observer, listening attentively, trying to work out the words, missing half of what’s said. Last night, I found myself able to understand quite a lot, and even allowed myself to speak a few butchered sentences, which were lovingly understood and corrected by those around me. It was lovely.

By the end of the night I had a handful of new vocabulary words, an invite to hold Thanksgiving dinner at a home in Barga, an invite to attend a book club, an invite to another dinner, and an invite to stay in the north of Italy. I need to try to speak Italian more often.

While we talked, food began to appear. The owner announced that, per Luccia’s request (she’s the artist and is a fervent vegetarian), the entire meal would be vegetarian. Wow. Deb and Sandra looked at me with wide eyes. How fantastic! I’d be able to eat everything without asking if it had meat. Amazing.

First was a lovely, delicate pastry filled with zucchini, and drizzled with a saffron sauce.

When the owner came by with a dish to see who wanted more, I was very happy to oblige. It should have registered with me that Deb refused, saying she was full. Here’s a tip for non-Italians eating in Italy: If you are out with a group of people, and food that you have not ordered starts arriving, it’s very possible that you have begun what will be a 2 hour foodapalooza. Unless you are a champion food-eater, or are planning to head to a deserted island for the next month, do not accept second helpings from anyone. There will be plenty more. Have no fear.

After the zucchini pastry came polenta balls in some kind of a creamy cheese sauce, topped with black truffle shavings.

There were so many plates of these that I ended up eating 3, and almost had 4 before the plate (which had migrated, with others, to me) was taken away. Thank heavens it was taken away.

Next to arrive were long plates of pear and cheese salad. The slices of pear and pecorino were dressed simply with olive oil and black pepper. I had at least two helpings of this.

I believe I had a piece of bread at this point – or focaccia. Big mistake. While the brown focaccia you can find here is absolutely amazing – salty, nutty, yummy – it seems to be placed strategically to root out the non-locals. There were few of us who actually touched the bread. Fools, all of us.

As the first plate of pasta came out, I started to wonder if I’d make it through all the courses. The pasta, however, was so incredible, that I stopped thinking and started eating in earnest. Fortunately, I accepted only a few of the beautiful ravioli, which were filled with pureed squash (pumpkin, I think) and maybe caramelized onions, and covered in lovely butter, cloves and walnuts.

I was just thinking how I’d like a couple more when Deb turned to me. “Hey, you want mine?” She didn’t like hers. Joy! I shoveled her portion – which was about twice what I’d just eaten – onto my plate. Here’s a tip for Italian folks who are eating at a dinner like this with non-Italians (specifically Americans): We don’t know that there’s more food coming. Please don’t give us more food. It would even be kind to hide the food from us when we’re not looking. Really.

I’d just polished off Deb’s ravioli when the second THE SECOND plate of pasta arrived.

More squash, more butter, more clove. Ancora, ancora, ancora.

At this point, my head was swimming a little. I had consumed roughly 10 times the amount of food that is supposed to fit in my stomach, and I could feel it expanding as I sat at the table, wondering what amazing plate would be set before me next.

Instead of meat, the owner had prepared fennel baked in a béchamel sauce and covered in cheese (people, we don’t use fennel enough in the US. Its’ seriously good), a roasted tomato, braised radicchio, and baked tomino (cheese) with shaved white truffle and a mushroom that reminded me of a morel. All of it was excellent. I turned down seconds.
Then we sat. And we talked about how much we’d eaten. And how much we’d had to drink. And how much we needed a cappuccino. And then dessert arrived.

The cheesecake itself was almost savory. Very little sugar and lots of ricotta. The blueberries on the top gave it its sweetness. Any other night, I would have had three pieces. But, it was the dessert that sent me over the edge. While I was slightly uncomfortable before, I began to wonder if I’d be able to stand up straight when it was time to go.

When we got home, we didn’t have evening tea. It was a short trip to bed, where my distended stomach was comforted by the excellent dinner conversation and the excellent camaraderie of the day.

After a trip to Italy, one of my friends remarked that “all young Italian people are beautiful. But, something happens as they age, and they become trolls.” I have to say, I don’t think this is true. I think that Italians are just descendants of Hobbits. Or maybe just I am. It’s hard to say.

For real.

This is how my average day goes: Get up around 9. Have breakfast. Go to Barga. Have second breakfast, which might be before or after Elevenses with Deb’s mom (depending on the day). Work for a couple of hours. Go back to Fornaci. Have lunch. Maybe nap. Have afternoon tea. Work for a while more. Go home to start dinner. Have evening tea. Sleep. Repeat.

Now, this schedule suits me just fine. Except for eating dinner super late, I’ve adjusted to this without any problem. I like sleeping in.  Even when i get up an hour earlier than the ladies, it’s still hours later than I’m used to.  It seems that Deb and Sandra work more than most. It eems like it, but I’m not totally sure, because the work day is late (compared to the US), due to the extended lunch that closes down shops everywhere. It’s this late lunch that sends dinner late into the night, and allows for the multiple morning meals. (Okay, I’m also not sure that everyone takes both a second breakfast and elevenses. However, I’m here to experience the culture and the people, and what better way than to do it over a nice patry?)

This week was a week of good food. It started with Albertina, Sandra’s mom , and her niece and nephew showing up with a giant bowl of dough and two waffle-type irons. The next two hours were spent with the 7 of us crowded around the table building amazing sandwiches with the wafers that Albertina handed us, fresh from the irons.

They had the feel and taste of a cake cone, but were thicker and a little chewier when hot. And they were HOT. We’d each take our turns accepting one from Berti and then spend several minutes burning ourselves while trying to cut them in half, or open them like pitas. The others filled them with meaty meats, thinly sliced from the deli. I filled them with slices of lovely cheeses and roasted peppers Sandra had prepared. Three or four of these I had. And then we started filling them with nutella. I stopped myself just before I exploded (yay me). And declared that I might never eat again.

And then we went to Deb’s family’s place for dinner.

The week was filled with lovely breakfasts: bits of toast and jam and tea or croissants and cappuccini; lovely coffees with Barbara, Andre and Deb – and sometimes Alfredo (a funny man who always plays with Andre.  Pictured here with Andre’s dog).

Second breakfasts that included a lovely ricotta pastry.

It was so good I didn’t even mind that there were raisins hiding in there.

Deb is usually the mistress of lunch, preparing amazing and simple pasta dishes for us. This week we were treated to tortellini with butter and sage. She threw a hunk of butter into the pan and went to the garden to pick the sage leaves.

This week’s afternoon teas included a nice poundcake made by Sandra’s mom. It was hugely long and wonderful and had a crust of chocolate chips. It put me in mind of breads my mom and nana make. I also stopped by a favorite coffee place for an afternoon cappu and biscotto. I don’t know what it was, exactly, but it was good for dipping and perfectly sweet.

We hit the same place twice this week for dinner Il Baretto in Gallicano– a great place that serves pizza, primi, secondi and everything else. When I walked in, I felt like I was in another of Deb and Sandra’s galleries. The walls were adorned with one of Sandra’s murals, and a series of pictures detailing the art of pizza making. Beautiful.

The first night there we all had pizza. Amazing, wonderful pizza. We watched it being cooked and then scarfed it down.

The second night Sandra opted for a meaty dish and fried artichokes and Deb and I opted for calzone.

This calzone was one of the best things I’ve eaten since I’ve been here. It was a huge, 4 cheese creation with a reservoir of sauce on the top. The best part was the gorgonzola that was lurking inside, just around the edges where the crust was doubled up and folded over. I reached it last, after attacking the mozzarella in the middle, drawing out great strings of it. When I found it, the lovely liquid gorgonzola oozed out to mingle with the tomato sauce. I mopped it up with chunks of the crunchy crust. It was absolutely divine.

The dinner was almost exclusively in Italian. I sat quietly observing, Sandra and Deb checking in on me periodically. As the dishes were cleared, Sandra told me to say something in Italian. I chose “penso che vorrei qualcosa ciocolata, e caffe, forse.” I’d been thinking about dessert since about half way through the calzone.

So Paula, our fourth, and I ordered something chocolate. Profiterole with chocolate sauce.

Sandra offered me bread to clean up the sauce. I seriously considered it.