There was a Panettone Fair in the Piazza del Duomo in Pietrasanta yesterday. Jonathan and I went to it thinking that there would be some people selling panettone and also people with other delightful and scrumptious seasonal treats. I was especially hoping that the lovely people from the Festa di San Martino mercato a couple of weeks ago who make salted caramel rum would be there again and I could correct my extremely grievous error of only having bought one bottle of that wondrous elixir. So on the way down to town, we had many pleasant food and drink speculations. I mean, how much panettone do you really need?

A lot. It turns out that you need a lot. The fair was two dozen or so booths of people selling exclusively panettone -- big panettone, little panettone, plain panettone, chocolate panettone. One booth did shake it up a little by also selling pan d'oro. But other than that, it was pure panettone all the way. Who could ever eat so much panettone?

Us. We bought four.

I love Italy.

Last night, we got five and a half inches of rain between 10 p.m. and 7 a.m. There was much lightning and thunder to rattle the windows, even some tiny hail. I have been outside to our garden, where things seem very damp, but otherwise undamaged, but not down to town or even into the village of Capriglia itself because Jonathan threw out his back last night making risotto and so couldn't even go to school today and is here now with a hot water bottle, drugged to the gills.

On the one hand, being taken down by merely stirring risotto is an unmistakable sign of our aging decrepitude. On the other hand, it was an excellent risotto.

Every day now, more of the chestnut leaves turn fluttering gold and then brown and then fall, leaving us with an ever more clear view of the sea. This is our secret. In the summertime, we are hidden away in our shady glen, invisible to all the world around us. 

But in winter, our view opens up and we sit exposed here on our promontory where we can see everything from Livorno down south to the headlands past La Spezia and even further to the north. It's like we are on the prow of an ancient sailing ship, far out at sea.

And now the finished product. 

I was a little shy about traipsing through the Piazza del Duomo dressed as a giant armadillo, but no one paid much attention to me and the two workmen carrying lumber up the side street who chatted with me seemed to find the whole thing rather charming. 

I was glad we finished filming before the big group of German tourists showed up, though. One does not want to be so colorful as to show up on strangers' vacation reels.

The third draft of my memoir is sitting quietly marinating for a while so that I can come back to it with some "objective distance." Fat chance.

But, in any case, I am using my free time since I am not working on it (and since the chestnut butter days are now behind us) to work on some promos for Armadillo Massacre Number Three. Last night, we shot some footage in the pub. Did I ever imagine my life would end up this way? Um, no.

 

Some updates:

Wildlife: The wild boar in our woods has been going, well, wild. Last night. for the first time, we heard him rustling around out in the garden up close to the house and this morning there were new trenches uprooted all in between the grape vines. We have not, thank god, had any face-to-face interaction with him.* But we were visited by the biggest grasshopper that I have ever seen in my life. I realize, of course, that this is not the same.

* (Jonathan says he is disappointed by this, but I didn't notice him rushing down into the dark and noisy woods last night.) 

Festive Season: This weekend is the Festa di San Martino. Jonathan and I went into town this morning to the special holiday mercato and celebrated by buying sweet baked goods and killer booze. I am on a diet (to try to make up for my rather debauched summer) where I am trying not to eat any sugar or to drink any alcohol at home. So that's going well.

Yesterday, we inaugurated the official winter season with a big Bollito at the pub. Daniele made a gorgeous tortellini al brodo and we all ate and ate and drank much wine and then finished off with Punch Livornese, which is hot rum with espresso floating on top of it. This is for when you want to feel absolutely shitfaced and simultaneously totally wired. Festive season, indeed.

Italian Language: Now that AI runs our lives -- whether we want it or not -- whenever my Italian teacher sends me homework to do between my lessons, Gmail offers to translate it for me. Very considerate, but not likely to improve my language skills.

Persimmons: Mimmo has figured out how to get the persimmons down from the tree out back and, knowing that I love them, has very sweetly made a project of getting as many as he can for me. On Thursday, he got 21. I have them all sitting around in the kitchen getting ripe, which they will do either one-by-one (best case scenario) or all at once (most likely scenario).

Law School: Jonathan has become the sweet grandpa of his year in law school. The other students, who are mostly younger than our youngest child, all use the informal pronouns with him and treat him with great affection. He is on the group chat with them, where they mostly seem to discuss the parties that they have every weekend night and not a small number of other nights as well. I think we should start going to the parties, showing up with a bit platter of deviled eggs and suggesting we all play charades.

 

It has been raining lately and up here on our mountainside sometimes we are inside the clouds and sometimes we are above them. 

The wild boar have found their way into our garden again and left long trails off dug-up trenches in between the grape vines and all across the olive terraces. Mimmo says they aren't really hurting the plants, so we just quietly co-exist with them here in the rain.

In the pub, everyone has moved inside now to sit around one table near the wood-stove. They have put up a sign on the door that says if someone neglects to close the door after themselves when they come in, the next round of drinks is on them.

We sit so close together that our knees are touching. There is the smell of wood smoke. Two different people brought bottles of wine with them Friday night and Daniele railed against them -- but gently -- from where he was playing scopa in the corner with Almo and Alvaro and Luca. Our national tennis hope, Jannik Sinner, won in two sets -- 6-4, 6-3 -- on the television over the door to the kitchen. 

Nonno bought us all punch al mardarino and we drank them as if it was deepest winter although it was only a cloudy evening after a long day of rain and the dark of true winter is still three months away. We ate spicy salami from Napoli and then gorgonzola bruschette and then octopus bruschette and there were, at the height of the evening, twelve people squeezed in around a table for six and when the actual diners started showing up at 8:30, we wandered away and Jonathan and I walked home the long way, holding hands in the wet streets with the moon coming in and out of the clouds and an owl, sounding lost, calling again and again in the woods.

Luciana sent a picture that she took from her bedroom window of our drive and our red maple tree. She can't see our actual house from hers -- no one can see our house because it is hidden away of the back side of a little hill. Jonathan didn't recognize the view and thought she was sending a photo from some fabulous vacation spot. "Wow! Where are you?" he texted back.

She is here, looking at our house.