"I can't be too bothered with mushy-apple berries." Famous last words.

Jonathan "Maybe We Should Pick More Olives Just In Case" Poritz had the idea of making jam out of the corbezzoli berries. So we picked about two kilos of them, added some sugar and the juice and zest from a couple of lemons and boiled it down for a bit.

Turned out to be delicious and -- according to our friend The Internet -- alarmingly healthy, with a high content of antioxidants and anti-inflammatories and uses in therapy for hypertension and diabetes. Heavens.

Plus, they are another piece of data confirming one of my pet theories: "Add sugar and lemon and it will be fine" (second only in my Pet Theory Hierarchy to "Dredge it in salt and fry it in butter.") 

We are now making delightful treats by filling vol au vent pastry shells with half chestnut butter (rum and vanilla flavor) and half corbezzoli jam. How this is supposed to help with our high blood pressure is something of a mystery, but if the internet says it, it must be true.

Yesterday we went to the State Police Headquarters Immigration Department in Forte dei Marmi and finalized my paperwork for my Permesso di Soggiorno per Stranieri. Jonathan's brilliant idea to hire an attorney to shepherd us through this process was, well, brilliant. Our attorney knew everyone in the Immigration Office and we all had a lovely time together, catching up with family news, drinking coffee, chatting about movies, fingerprinting me (some slight difficulty with that owing to the delicacy of my finger grooves, proving once again that I missed out on my true calling: burglary), discussing kids and work and life in general, and finally making plans to get together soon for lunch (not sure if Jonathan and I are included in that last bit, though.) It was all very convivial and I understood about 20 percent of what was being said (a big improvement!), but smiled and laughed in (mostly) all the correct places. 

Jonathan and I had already gotten our 16 Euro stamp at the Tabacchi, but were at one point sent around the corner to get an 80 Euro stamp of a different kind at the Post Office. While we were waiting in line, another customer told us that we couldn't get a Soggiorno stamp at that Post Office, but would have to go to another Post Office. This seemed quite believable to us, but seeing as how our new best friend in the Immigration Office had told us to go to this exact Post Office (helpfully coming all the way out of the Police Station into the road to point it out to us), we ignored the very authoritatively certain-sounding stranger in line and everything turned out fine.

I do not have my official card yet, mind you. I will have to call them in two months or so to see if it is in, naturally. (Spoiler alert: it won't be.) But I have a temporary piece of paper with my picture on it, two signatures, and three stamps that everyone says will do fine in the meantime. I can't wait to see how many signatures and stamps the official version has. The mind boggles.

Then we came home and went down to the pub for lunch where you can get a first course, a second course, a glass of wine, dessert and coffee for 15 Euros. The old men were all eating at one uproarious table and the other tables all had workers from the new house being built down the road and maybe the road workers who have been painting very helpful white stripes along the edges of the death trap that is the only way up to here. It was all quite jolly and Jonathan and I drank prosecco to celebrate our bureaucratic morning. Then everyone went home for, presumably, a nap. I certainly hope the construction guys slept off their lunches well before hitting the power tools.

It is very autumnal here lately in lovely Capriglia-by-the-Sea. The chestnut leaves around the house have all turned yellow and orange so that it feels like we are living in the middle of a shimmering golden cloud. I have eaten 44 persimmons and have 37 still to go.