Day at the Farm

Do you smell that? That’s the smell of the countryside…the sunshiny smell of hay, the friendly smell of cows, the heady smell of fermenting grapes, the maternal smell of plowed earth, still damp from yesterday’s rain.

Do you see that? The translucent golden glow of grapes in the sun, the dusty jars of tomatoes, the pleading brown eyes of the hunting dogs? Do you see the curves of the hills cupping you in their protective palm?

Do you taste the bite of homemade cheese, the hearty taste of chestnuts? The taste of the sweet Tuscan bread and the salt of the prosciutto?

Do you feel the clinging clay of the fields? Do you feel the fur and claws of the rambunctious black kitten? The liquid, warm weight of a fresh egg, the firm skin of late tomatoes, the tickle of straw in your hair?

Do you hear the cackling of the chickens, the lowing of the milk cows? The splash of new wine and the creak of the press? The gruff yet kindly voices offering abundant hospitality?

Oh, I am such a country girl, and the city life I currently lead is beginning to wear on me. I haven’t been going on morning walks lately, partly because I’m busy and partly because it’s cold and dark in the mornings before class or early piano lessons. But a brief afternoon at the farm of a friend-of-a-friend was enough to inspire such a poetic flight of fancy. Bear with me and my rapturous praise of the idyllic. I’ve mucked enough stalls, pulled enough weeds, and picked enough laundry baskets full of green beans to have earned the privilege of nostalgia for farm life.
The farm was startlingly similar to every other one that I’ve been to, in the US or in Italia. Living close to the land tends to draw out the things that we share in common, in spite of differences in landscape, technique, and crops. A rock is a rock is a rock, whether it’s an Italian rock or an American rock, and not much grows well in rocky soil. And there are only so many different ways of separating rocks and dirt.

And the food! Something about the simplicity of farm fare makes it more sumptuous than any gourmet dish. Dr. Swab and I have decided to become Salami Snobs. I never liked the super-processed fatty stuff at home, but here, it’s completely different. It tastes like a cross between country ham and beef jerky, with a delicate flavor far better than either. On top of the traditional saltless Tuscan bread, it’s delightful. Eaten alongside homemade cheese and biscotti dipped in honey-sweet vino santo, it’s heavenly.
The farmer, his wife, her mother, and few of his brothers were all there to welcome us. Their hospitality was boundless: they told us all about how to make wine, showed us all around the farm, gave us tomatoes and eggs, fed us the most marvelous dinner, and shared stories. My favorite was one that the Nonna told about her memories of World War II. She was living farther north at the time, and she remembers when the Germans came through and plundered her family’s farm. She said that the only thing they did not take was a particularly protective rooster and his hen; apparently a few sharp pecks were too much for the soldier to handle. A few weeks later, the last remaining hen produced a flock of seventeen little chicks. The wise old cock was still keeping a careful eye on his young family, however. When the children playing in the barnyard said a few words of German, the rooster hustled his biddy and her brood into hiding. He was a heck of a lot smarter than most of the chickens I know…really, multi-lingual poultry? Perhaps American chickens aren’t as well educated.