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cicadas yammer in the trees, that deeply heart-of-summer sound.

The tomatoes are so intense we go silent as we taste them. Ed opens a celebratory bottle of prosecco and we settle down to recap the saga of buying and restoring the house. Oddly, we now omit the complications and panic; we’ve begun the selection process, the same one that insures the continuance of the human race: forgetting the labor. Ed starts drawing up plans for a bread oven.

We dream on about other projects. The sun through the flowering trees bathes us in gold sifted light. ‘‘This isn’t real; we’ve wandered into a Fellini film,’’ I say.

Ed shakes his head. ‘‘Fellini is a documentary filmmaker—I’ve lost my belief in his genius. There are Fellini scenes everywhere.

Remember the brilliant motorcycle that comes around and around in Amarcord? It happens all the time. You’re nowhere in a remote village, no one in sight, and suddenly a huge Moto Guzzi streaks by.’’ He peels a peach in one long spiral and just because this was all too pleasant we open a second bottle of prosecco and wile away another hour before we drift in to rest and revive our energy for a walk into town to case out the restaurants, stroll along the parterre overlooking the valley, and, hard to contemplate, begin the next meal.

w e h a v e c a l l e d t h e s h y a n d s i l e n t c a r p e n t e r s , m a r c o and Rudolfo. They seem amused no matter what work they do here. The idea of a painted table seating ten seems to stun them.

They’re used to chestnut stain. Are we certain? I see them swap a glance with each other. But it will have to be repainted in two years. Too impractical. We’ve sketched what we want and have the paint sample, too—primary yellow.

They return four days later with the table, sealed and painted—

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as they are. They laugh and say the table will glow in the dark. It does pulsate with color. They haul it to the spot with the broadest view into the valley. In the deep shade, the yellow shines, luring us to come forth from the house with jugs and steaming bowls, baskets of fruit and fresh cheeses wrapped in grape leaves.

d i n n e r t o n i g h t i s f o r a n i t a l i a n c o u p l e , t h e i r b a b y , a n d our compatriot writers. This Italian baby girl, at seven months, chews on piquant olives and looks longingly at the food. Our friends have been amused by our adventures in restoration, safely amused since their houses were restored before workmen disappeared and before the dollar dove. Each knows an astonishing amount about wells, septic systems, gutters, pruning—minute technical knowledge acquired by years under the roofs of quirky old farmhouses. We’re awed by their fluency with Italian, their endless knowledge of the intricacies of telephone bills. Though I imagine conversations about the currents in Italian literature, opera, and controversial restorations, we seem to discuss most passionately olive pruning, grease traps, well testing, and shutter repair.

The menu: with drinks, bruschette with chopped tomatoes and basil, crostini with a red pepper confit. The first course, gnocchi, not the usual potato but light semolina gnocchi (small servings—it’s rich), followed by veal roasted with garlic and potatoes, then garnished with fried sage. The little green beans, still crisp, warm, with fennel and olives. Just before they arrive, I pick a huge basket of lettuces. At the start of summer, I scattered two envelopes of mixed lettuces as an edging along a flower bed. They were up in a week and in three, bolted the border. Now they’re everywhere; it feels odd to be weeding the flower bed and accumulating dinner at the same time. Some look unfamiliar; I hope we’re not eating 124

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just-sprouting calendula or hollyhocks. The cherries, simmered and cooled, have attracted bees to them all afternoon. One of the tiny hummingbirds made a quick foray into the kitchen, drawn possibly by the scent of the deep red wine syrup.

When they arrive it will be the soft, slow Tuscan twilight, fading after drinks from transparent to golden to evening blue, then, by the end of the first course, into night. Night happens quickly, as though the sun were pulled in one motion under the hill. We light candles in hurricane shades all along the stone wall and on the table. For background music, a hilarious chorus of frogs tunes up. Molti anni fa, many years ago, our friends begin.

Their stories weave an Italy around us that we know only through books and films. In the sixties . . . In the seventies . . . A true paradise. That’s why they came—and stayed. They love it but it’s downhill now in comparison to the four armoires from that nutty contessa. How alive the streets of Rome were with people, and remember the theater with the roof that rolled back, how sometimes it would rain?

Then the talk shifts to politics. They know everyone. We’re all horrified at the car bombing in Sicily. Is there a Mafia here? Our questions are naive. The fascist leaning in recent elections disturbs everyone. Could Italy go back? I tell them about the antique dealer in Monte San Savino. I saw a photo of Mussolini over his shop door and he saw me looking at it. With a big smile he asks if I know who that is. Not knowing if the photo is a campy object or one of veneration, I give him the fascist salute. He goes crazy, thinking I approve. He’s all over me, talking about what a bold and bravo man Il Duce was. I want to get out with my strange purchases—a big gilt cross and the door to a reliquary—but now the prices come down. He invites me back, wants me to meet his family. Everyone advises me to take full advantage.

I feel immersed here; my ‘‘real life’’ seems remote. Odd that we’re all here. We were given one country and we’ve set ourselves up in another—they much more radically than we; they defined their lives and work by this place, not that. We feel so much at A L O N G T A B L E U N D E R

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home, pale and American as we are. We could just stay here, go native. Let my hair grow long, tutor local kids in English, ride a Vespa into town for bread. I imagine Ed on one of those tiny tractors made for terraced land. Imagine him starting a little vineyard. Or we could make tisanes of lemon balm. I look at him but he is pouring wine. I almost feel our strange voices—English, French, Italian—spreading out around the house, over the valley.

Sound carries on the hills. (Stranieri, foreigners, we’re called, but it sounds more dire, more like strangers, an oddly chilling word.) Often we hear parties of invisible neighbors above us. We’ve shifted an ancient order of things on this hillside, where the tax collector, the police captain, and the newsstand owner (our nearest neighbors although we can’t see any of them) heard only Italian until we encamped here.

The Big Dipper, clear as a dot-to-dot drawing, seems about to pour something right on top of the house, and the Milky Way, so pretty in Latin as the via lactia, sweeps its bridal train of scattered stars over our heads. The frogs go silent all at once, as if someone shushed them. Ed brings out the vin santo and a plate of biscotti he made this morning. Now the night is big and quiet. No moon.

We talk, talk, talk. Nothing to interrupt us except the shooting stars.

Summer Kitchen

Notes

o n e s p r i n g w h e n i s t u d i e d c o o k i n g with Simone Beck at her house in Provence,

she said some things I never forgot. Another

student, a caterer and cooking teacher, kept

asking Simca for the technique for every-

thing. She had a notebook and furiously

wrote down every word Simca said. The

other four of us were mainly interested in eating what we’d prepared. When she asked

one time too many, Simca said crisply,

‘‘There is no technique, there is just the way to do it. Now, are we going to measure or

are we going to cook?’’

I’ve learned here that simplicity is liberat-

ing. Simca’s philosophy applies totally to

this kitchen, where we no longer measure,

but just cook. As all cooks know, ingredients of the moment are the best guides.

Much of what we do is too simple to be

called a recipe—it’s just the way to do it. I

vary the ubiquitous prosciutto e melone with S U M M E R

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halved figs. The cold tomato soup I make is simply chopped herbs—mainly basil—and ripe tomatoes stirred into clear chicken stock and popped in the freezer until chilled. I roast whole heads of garlic in a terra-cotta dish with a little olive oil—great to squeeze the cloves onto bread. One of the best pastas is spaghetti tossed with chopped arugula, cream, and minced pancetta, then sprinkled with parmigiano. Green beans served with black olives, sliced raw fennel, spring onions, and a light vinaigrette or lemon juice must be one of the nicest things ever to happen to a bean.

Ed’s invention couldn’t be easier: He splits figs, pours on a little honey, runs them under the broiler, then drizzles them with cream. Sliced peaches with sweetened mascarpone and a crumbling of amaretti cookies have become a standby. Some favorites are a bit more involved, though nothing to make me wonder what madness led me to get involved.

Growing such a plethora of herbs induces me to squander them. All platters are garnished with what’s left in the basket: a bunch of flowering thyme scattered over vegetables, the roast presented on a bed of sage, sprigs of oregano around the pasta.

Lavender, grape and fig leaves, and airy fennel greens are fun to use as garnishes, too. With a few wildflowers, cut herbs in a terra-cotta pot look right at home on the table.

Here are a few quick, personal recipes that guests have raved over or that have sent us secretly to the fridge the next morning to taste the leftovers. Italians wouldn’t consider risotto or pasta a main course, but for us, often it is. The oil of choice is, of course, olive oil, unless otherwise specified. All herbs in these recipes are fresh.

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Red Peppers (or Onions) Melted with Balsamic Vinegar The immense, convoluted, lustrous peppers in primary red, green, and yellow are my favorite vegetable of summer because they wake up so many dishes. A quick sauté of a mixture of the three adds zip to any plate. And there’s red pepper soup, mousse of yellow peppers, old-fashioned stuffed green ones . . .

C Seed and slice 4 peppers thinly and cook slowly in a little olive oil and 1/4 cup of balsamic vinegar until very soft, about an hour. Stir occasionally; peppers should almost ‘‘melt.’’ Season with salt and pepper.

Add oil and balsamic vinegar once or twice if they look dry. Run under the broiler (or grill) about 25 rounds of bread sprinkled with olive oil. Rub a cut clove of garlic over each piece. Spoon peppers onto bread and serve warm. Try the same method with thinly sliced onions, adding a teaspoon of brown sugar to the balsamic and letting the onions slowly carmelize.

Both versions of this are rich accompaniments for roast chicken. Leftovers are good on pasta or polenta. With cheese and/or grilled eggplant, very savory sandwiches can be made quickly.

Pea and Shallot Bruschetta

New peas pop right out of the crisp pods. I thought shelling them was a meditative act until I saw a woman in town sitting outside her doorway with her cat sleeping at her ankles. She was shelling an immense pile of peas and already had filled a large dishpan. She looked up and said something rapidly in Italian and I smiled, only to realize as I walked on that she’d said, ‘‘It shouldn’t happen to a dog.’’

C Mince 4 shallots. Shell enough peas to fill 1 cup. Mix and sauté in butter until the peas are done and the shallots are wilted. Add a little chopped mint, salt, and pepper. Chop coarsely in a food processor or by hand and spoon onto 25 rounds of bread as prepared in the recipe above.

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Basil and Mint Sorbet

I tasted this unlikely but tantalizing sorbet at the ancient fattoria-turned-restaurant Locanda dell’Amorosa in nearby Sinalunga.

The next day I tried to duplicate it at home. At the restaurant, it was served after the pasta and fish courses and before the main course. More informally, it starts out a dinner on a warm summer night.

C Make a sugar syrup by boiling together 1 cup of water and 1 cup of sugar, then simmering it for about 5 minutes, stirring constantly. Cool in the fridge. Purée 1/2 cup of mint leaves and 1/2 cup of basil leaves in 1

cup of water. Add another cup of water, 1 tablespoon of lemon juice, and chill. Mix the sugar syrup and the herbal water well and process in an ice cream maker according to manufacturer’s instructions. Scoop into martini glasses or any clear glass dishes and garnish with mint leaves. Serves 8.

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Cold Garlic Soup

As in chicken with 40 cloves of garlic, the amount of garlic in this recipe is no cause for alarm. The cooking process attenuates the strength but leaves the flavor.

C Peel 2 whole heads of garlic. Chop 1 small onion and peel and dice 2 medium potatoes. Sauté the onion in 1 tablespoon of olive oil and, when it begins to turn translucent, add the garlic. The garlic should soften but not brown; cook gently. Steam the diced potatoes and add to the onion and garlic, along with 1 cup of chicken stock. Bring just to a boil, then quickly lower heat and simmer for 20 minutes. Purée in a food processor, then pour back into the pot and add 4 more cups of stock and 1 tablespoon of chopped thyme. (If you don’t have a food processor, mince the garlic and onion before you cook them; after steaming, put the potatoes through a ricer.) Whisk in 1/2 cup of heavy cream. Season with salt and pepper, then chill. Stir before serving with chopped thyme or chives on top. Serves 6.

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Fennel Soup

C Thinly slice 2 fennel bulbs and 2 bunches of spring onions. Sauté briefly in a little olive oil. Add 2 cups of chicken stock to the pan and simmer until the fennel is cooked. Stir frequently. Purée until smooth.

Whisk in 2-1/2 more cups of stock. Season with salt and pepper and cover.

Bring to a boiling point, then lower the heat and simmer for 10 minutes.

Whisk in 1/2 cup of mascarpone or heavy cream. Remove from heat immediately. Serve cold or warm, garnished with toasted fennel seeds.

Serves 6.

Pizza with Onion Confit and Sausage

Pizza is endless in variety. Ed’s favorite is Napoli: capers, ancho-vies, mozzarella. I like fontina, olives, and prosciutto. Another favorite is arugula and curls of parmigiano. We’re also enamored of potato pizza, as well as all the standard ones. When we cook outside, we always grill lots of extra vegetables and sausages for salads and pizza the next day. A great vegetarian combination is grilled eggplant with sundried tomatoes, olives, oregano, basil, and mozzarella.

C Thinly slice 3 onions and ‘‘melt’’ in a frying pan on low heat, using a small amount of olive oil and 3 tablespoons of balsamic vinegar.

Onions should be caramel colored and limp. Season with marjoram, salt and pepper. Grill or sauté 2 large sausages. Here we use the local pork sausage seasoned with fennel seeds. Slice. Grate 1 cup of mozzarella or parmigiano.

Dough: Dissolve 1 package of yeast in 1/4 cup of warm water for 10

minutes. Mix the following: 1/2 teaspoon of salt, 1 teaspoon of sugar, 3

tablespoons of olive oil, 1 cup of cool water, and pour into a mound of 3-1/4

cups of flour. Knead on a flat surface until elastic and smooth. If you’re using a food processor, pulse until the dough forms a ball, then remove and knead by hand. Place dough in a buttered and floured bowl and let rest for 30 minutes. Roll into 1 large or 2 smaller circles and brush with oil.

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Scatter cheese, onions, and sausage over the surface and bake at 400˚ for 15 minutes. Cut into 8 pieces.

Semolina Gnocchi

Gnocchi’s usual knuckle shape changes in this grand and rich dish.

Unlike the potato gnocchi or the light spinach and ricotta gnocchi, the gnocchi made with semolina are biscuit-sized. I used to buy these from a woman down in the valley until I found out how easy they are to make.

C Bring 6 cups of milk almost to a boil in a large saucepan. Pour in 3 cups of semolina in a steady stream, stirring constantly. Cook on low, as you would cook polenta, continuing to stir for 15 minutes. Remove from heat, beat in 3 egg yolks, 3 tablespoons of butter and 1/2 cup of grated parmigiano. Season with salt, pepper, and a little nutmeg. Beat briefly, lifting the mixture to incorporate air. Spread mixture in a circle 1 inch thick on the lightly floured counter or cutting board and let it cool. Cut into biscuit-sized circles with the rim of a glass or a cookie cutter. Place in a well-buttered baking dish. Pour 3 tablespoons of melted butter over the top, then sprinkle with 1/4 cup of parmigiano. Bake, uncovered, at 400˚

for 15 minutes. Serves 6.

Everything Pasta Salad with Baked Tomatoes

When making soups, ratatouille, or this salad, I steam everything separately. This keeps the flavors distinct and allows me to cook each vegetable to its first point of doneness. I’ve never seen pasta salad on an Italian menu, but it’s a marvelous American import.

This goes easily to a picnic in a big plastic container.

C Prepare vinaigrette: 3/4 cup of olive oil, red wine vinegar to taste (about 3 tablespoons), 3 cloves of crushed garlic, 1 tablespoon of chopped thyme, salt, and pepper. Shake in a jar.

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peppers, 2 hot peppers, about one-half pound of green beans, and one bunch of spring onions. Cut in small pieces, except for hot peppers—

mince these. Steam one by one until just done. Cool.

Chicken: Rub 2 whole breasts with olive oil and place in an oiled pan.

Season with thyme, salt, and pepper. Roast at 350˚ for about 30 minutes.

Cool and slice into julienne strips.

Pasta: Fusilli, the short, spiraled pasta, is best for salad. Cook two 1-pound packages and drain; immediately toss with 2 tablespoons of olive oil. Season and cool.

Mix everything well in a large container, such as a turkey roasting pan, and chill until an hour before serving. Toss again and divide between two large bowls.

For the tomatoes: Select one for each person (plus a few more for leftovers). Cut a cone-shaped hollow from the stem end and spoon out seeds. Trim off the bottom. Sprinkle with salt and pepper, then stuff tomato with a mixture of bread crumbs, chopped basil, and toasted pine nuts. Drizzle with olive oil. Bake at 350˚ for about 15 minutes.

To serve, place tomato in the center of the plate, surround with pasta salad, garnish with black olives and thyme sprigs and/or basil leaves.

Makes 16–20 very pretty servings.

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Risotto with Red Chard

Risotto has become soul food to me. Like pasta, pizza, and polenta, it’s another dish of infinite variety. In spring, barely cooked asparagus, tiny carrots, and a little lemon make a light risotto. I especially like it with fava beans that have been sautéed with minced shallots in a covered pan, then stirred into the risotto. Other good choices: chopped fennel, barely cooked, with rock shrimp; sautéed fresh mushrooms or dried porcini soaked in tepid water until plumped; grilled radicchio and pancetta. In It-S U M M E R

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aly, you can buy funghi porcini bouillon cubes in grocery stores.

They’re excellent for risotto when no stock is at hand. Many recipes call for too much butter; if you have a good stock, butter is unnecessary and only a little olive oil is needed to start things off.

If any risotto is left the next day, heat a tablespoon of olive oil in a nonstick pan, spread and pat down the risotto, and cook over a medium flame until crisp on the bottom. Flip over with a large spatula and crisp the other side. A fine lunch.

C Chop, then sauté, 1 medium onion in 1 tablespoon of oil for about 2 minutes. Add 2 cups of Arborio rice and cook for a couple of minutes. Meanwhile, in another pot, heat 5-1/2 cups of seasoned stock (chicken, veal, or vegetable) and 1/2 cup of white wine to a boil and reduce heat to a simmer. Ladle the stock and wine gradually into the rice, stirring each ladle into the rice until it is absorbed before adding more. Keep both the stock mixture and the rice at a simmer. Stir and stir until rice is done.

It should be al dente and rather soupy. Add 1/2 cup of grated parmigiano. Thoroughly wash a bunch of chard, preferably red. Chop in shreds and quickly sauté in a little olive oil and minced garlic. Stir into risotto.

Serve and pass a bowl of grated parmigiano. Serves 6.

Rich Polenta Parmigiana

This is more of a California polenta than a traditional Italian one.

So much butter and cheese! Classic polenta is cooked by the same method—don’t stop stirring—with two or even three more cups of water. You then pour the polenta out on a cutting board and let it rest until firm. Often it’s served with a rag ù or with funghi porcini. I’ve served this version to Italians and they’ve loved it.

Leftover polenta, either plain or this richer one, is sublime when sautéed until crisp.

C Soak 2 cups of polenta in 3 cups of cold water for 10 minutes. In a stock pot, bring 3 cups of water to a boil and stir in the polenta. Let it come to a boil again, then turn down the heat immediately and stir for 15

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minutes on a gentle flame that is strong enough to keep slow, big bubbles rising. Add salt and pepper, 8 tablespoons of butter, and 1 cup of grated parmigiano. Add more water if the polenta is too thick. Stir well and pour into a large buttered baking dish. Run in the oven at 300˚ for about 15 minutes. Serves 6.

A Sauce of Porcini

When available, fresh porcini are a treat. They’re at their finest simply brushed with olive oil and grilled, a dish that is as substantial as steak, which they’re often paired with on the grill. Out of season, the dried ones have many talents. Though they seem expensive, a little bit adds a lot of flavor. Spoon this sauce over polenta or serve as a risotto or pasta sauce.

C Soften about 2 ounces of dried porcini in 1-1/2 cups of warm water. This takes about one half hour. Peel and dice five cloves of garlic and gently sauté in 2 tablespoons of olive oil. Add 1 tablespoon each finely chopped thyme and rosemary, 1 cup of tomato sauce, and salt and pepper.

Strain the mushroom water through cheesecloth and add it to the tomato mixture. Chop and add the mushrooms and simmer the sauce until thick and savory, about 20 minutes. 6 servings for polenta, 4 for pasta.

Chicken with Chickpeas, Garlic, Tomatoes, and Thyme One of those recipes that can expand to accommodate any number.C Simmer 2 cups of dried chickpeas in water with 2 cloves of garlic, salt, and pepper until tender but with plenty of bite, about 2 hours. In hot olive oil, quickly brown 6 breasts that have been shaken in a bag of flour.

Arrange pieces in a baking dish. Drain chickpeas and scatter over chicken.

Add a little olive oil to the same pan and sauté 1 coarsely chopped onion and 3 cloves of minced garlic; add 4 ripe tomatoes, also chopped coarsely, 1

teaspoon of cinnamon, and 2 tablespoons of thyme. Simmer 10 minutes.

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and 1/2 cup of black olives. Bake, uncovered, at 350˚ for about 30 minutes, depending on the size of the chicken breasts. This is attractive in a terra-cotta dish. Serves 6.

Basil and Lemon Chicken

A last-minute favorite, this chicken, served with a platter of summer squash and sliced tomatoes, tempers the hottest July night.

C In a large bowl, mix 1/2 cup each of chopped spring onions and basil leaves. Add the juice of 1 lemon, salt and pepper. Mix and rub onto 6 chicken pieces and place in a well-oiled baking pan. Dribble with a little olive oil. Roast, uncovered, at 350˚ for about 30 minutes, depending on the size of the chicken. Garnish with more basil leaves and lemon slices.

Serves 6.

Turkey Breast with Green and Black Olives

Turkey is popular here, though the whole bird is rare except at Christmas. In this recipe, the breast is sliced into cutlets, like scaloppine. You can use flattened chicken breasts instead of turkey.

If you don’t pit the olives, warn your guests. I use the rest of the breast for distinctly un-Tuscan stir-fry with peppers.

C In a large pan, sauté 6 turkey cutlets in olive oil until almost done and remove to a platter. Add a little more oil to the pan and sauté 1

finely chopped onion and 2 cloves of crushed garlic. Add 1 cup of vermouth and bring to a boil, then quickly reduce heat to a simmer. Cover for 2 or 3

minutes, then add the turkey again, as well as the juice of 1 lemon and 1

cup of mixed green and black olives. Cook for 5 minutes or until the turkey is done. Season with salt and pepper and stir in a handful of chopped parsley. Serves 6.

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Fried Zucchini Flowers

When this is good it’s very, very good and when it’s limp it’s a disaster. I’ve made it both ways. The mistake was in the oil, which must be hot. Peanut or sunflower are the best oils for these delicate summer flowers.

C Choose a fresh bunch of flowers, about a dozen. If they’re slightly droopy, don’t bother. Don’t wash the blossoms; if moist, pat dry.

Place a thin strip of mozzarella inside each one, dip in batter. To prepare the batter, beat 2 eggs with 1/4 teaspoon of salt and pour in 1 cup of water and 1-1/4 cups of flour. Mix well, breaking any lumps with a fork. Make sure the oil is hot (350˚) but not smoking. Fry until golden and crispy.

Drain quickly on paper towels and serve immediately.

Baked Peppers with Ricotta and Basil

Stuffed peppers were my favorite dorm food in college. This ricotta filling is the polar opposite of the ‘‘mystery meat’’ we faced at Randolph-Macon. Fresh ricotta, made from ewe’s milk, is a treat. The special baskets for making it imprint the sides of the cheese with a woven pattern. We often buy it at farms around Pienza, which is sheep country and also the source of pecorino.

C Singe 3 large yellow peppers quickly over a gas flame or a grill.

The peppers should char all over, but don’t cook them so long that they turn limp. Cool in a plastic bag, then slide off the burned skin. Cut in half and clean out ribs and seeds. Drizzle with olive oil. In a bowl, mix 2

cups of ricotta, 1/2 cup of chopped basil, 1/2 cup of finely sliced green onions, 1/2 cup minced Italian parsley, salt and pepper. Beat in 2 eggs.

Fill peppers and bake at 350˚ for 30 minutes. Garnish with basil leaves.

Serves 6.

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Fried Sage

Too often sage is associated with that green dust that comes in little jars and makes you sneeze. Fresh sage has an assertive punch that complements meat.

C Wash 20 or 30 sprigs of sage, pat with paper towels, and allow to dry completely. Heat 2 inches of sunflower or peanut oil until it is very hot but not smoking. Dip sprigs in batter (see recipe for Fried Zucchini Flowers, on page 136) and drop them in hot oil (350˚) for about 2 minutes or until the leaves are crisp. Drain on paper towels. A splendid garnish for lamb, pork, or any meat.

Sage Pesto

I found a pestle of olive wood at the monthly antique market in Arezzo and put it to use with an old stone mortar rescued from a friend who used it as a copious ashtray. These big mortars, she explained, originally were used for grinding coarse salt. Until recently, salt, a heavily taxed and government-controlled monop-oly, was sold only in tobacco shops. The cheaper coarse salt was widely used. The large old mortars are handy for pesto; the pestle and rough stone release oils from the herbs and bind the essences of all the ingredients. Extrapolating on the basic basil pesto, I’ve made a lemon-parsley pesto for fish, an arugula pesto for pasta and crostini, and a mint pesto for shrimp. I’ve come to prefer the texture of these pestos to the smoother ones I’m used to. Traditional Tuscan white beans with sage and olive oil taste even better with a daub of this sage pesto. I like it on bruschetta. Passed separately in a bowl, it’s a good accompaniment for grilled sausages.

C Chop a big bunch of sage leaves, 2 cloves of garlic, and 4

tablespoons of pine nuts. Grind together in the mortar (or food processor), slowly adding olive oil to form a thick paste. Transfer to a bowl, mix again, add salt and pepper and a handful of grated parmigiano. Makes about 1-1/2 cups.

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Hazelnut Gelato

Super rich, this gelato makes me want to give up my citizenship and decamp permanently. Even people who claim not to like ice cream slip into a swoon over this one.

C Toast 1-1/2 cups of hazelnuts in a moderate oven for five minutes. Watch the nuts carefully; they burn easily. Remove, wrap in a dish towel, and rub off the fine brown skin. Chop coarsely. Beat 6 egg yolks and gradually stir in 1-1/2 cups of sugar, beating until nicely incorporated.

Heat 1 quart of half-and-half until almost boiling, then remove from the heat and quickly whisk in the egg and sugar mixture. In a double boiler, cook the mixture gently until it thickens and coats a wooden spoon. Cool in the fridge. Whisk in 2 tablespoons Fra Angelico (hazelnut liqueur) or vanilla, and 2 cups of heavy cream. Add hazelnuts and the juice and zest of one lemon. Pour the mixture into an ice cream maker and process according to manufacturer’s instructions. Makes about 2 quarts.

Cherries Steeped in Red Wine

All through June we buy cherries by the kilo and start eating them in the car on the way home. Almost nothing you can invent improves the taste of the plain cherry. We’ve planted three cherry trees and have uncovered three more from the ivy and brambles.

Two neighboring trees are necessary for fruit production.

C Stem and pit 1 pound of cherries. Pour 1 cup of red wine and the zest of a lemon over them and simmer for 15 minutes, stirring occasionally. Cover and let stand for 2 or 3 hours. Serve in bowls with plenty of juice and a big dollop of sweetened whipped cream or mascarpone. Little slices of hazelnut pound cake or cookies also might be served. You can use plums or pears instead of cherries. Serves 4.

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Folded Peach Tart with Mascarpone

I first learned to make folded pie crusts from a Paula Wolfert cookbook. On a cookie sheet, you spread the crust, pile the filling in the middle, then loosely fold the edges toward the center, forming a rustic tart with a spontaneous look. The peaches here—both the yellow and the white varieties—are so luscious that eating one should be a private act.

C Roll out your favorite crust a little larger than you normally do for a pie pan. Slide to a nonstick cookie sheet or baking dish. Slice 4 or 5

peaches. Mix 1 cup of mascarpone, 1/4 cup of sugar, and 1/4 cup of toasted almond slices. Combine this gently with peaches. Spoon into the center of the crust, and flop the pastry edges over, pressing them down a bit into the fruit mixture. Don’t seal over the top—leave a four- or five-inch hole.

Bake at 375˚ for about 20 minutes. Serves 6.

Pears in Mascarpone Custard

This is an Italian version of the fruit cobblers I must have first tasted at the age of six months in the South, where they almost always were made of peaches or blackberries.

C Peel and slice 6 medium pears (or peaches or apples) and arrange in a buttered baking dish. Sprinkle with 1 teaspoon of sugar. Cream 4

tablespoons of butter and 1/2 cup of sugar until light. Beat in 1 egg, then 2/3 cup of mascarpone. Stir in 2 tablespoons of flour last and mix well.

Spoon over the fruit. Bake at 350˚ until just set, about 20 minutes. Serves 6 generously.

Cortona,

Noble City