Jonathan and I looked at the menu, which seemed unorthodox -- five different appetizers to choose from, but only two first courses, one second course and one dessert. This is not usual. But we are used to being confused as to how things are supposed to work -- it is our comfort zone now. So we were looking at the menu, trying to decode it and decide on appetizers when the realization dawned: this is not the menu from which we would choose -- this is the list of the things that we will be served.
All of it. All eleven courses. As we say in Italy: "Madonna!"
It was delicious. Every mouthful of every course. I think my favorite was the sformato of pureed veggies in a passato of squid ink. I never in a million years would have ordered this. When it was put in front of me, I had great trepidation. But I am, apparently, a woman of reckless daring and courage. And, let's face it, I have put worse things in my mouth than squid ink. Hell, I was practically raised on gas station burritos. So I gave it a whirl. And I'm glad that I did. Daniele may have his faults for all I know, but he shakes a mean squid around the kitchen.
We ate until almost midnight and then strolled home content under the stars. Outside our gate, though, we were disturbed to see a huge amount of fur. Tufts of it all over the grass and stones of our drive, in profusion, brownish gray and thick. We have no idea how it got there, but tufts of fur in great profusion are never a good sign. Something untoward has clearly gone down at the very gates of our home.
We don't know what animal lost these tufts or in what manner this happened. I said to Jonathan that if I had to guess, I would have said that it looked like wolf fur to me, which would explain all the howling that we've heard echoing around the forested canyon walls behind the house for the last couple of days. But, of course, there are no wolves left in Italy, I said.
Au contraire! We looked on our friend the internet and discovered that there are wolves in Italy -- specifically in Tuscany, specifically in the Apuan Alps, which are the hills behind our house.
It turns out that we are smack in the big bad wolf hot spot of Europe. This makes our quiet nighttime stroll down to leave our garbage outside the gate every evening more daring than we had thought it was. Not to mention our midnight wanderings home from the pub, stuffed with eleven courses of seafood and smelling (no doubt) succulent. (And the aroma of squid ink is a penetrating one.) In my wildest imagination of the challenges we might face in moving to Italy, I must admit that being besieged by marauding wolves had never even crossed my mind.
