HOW DO YOU SAY

Wake up in the middle of the night to a loud wailing, think it must be wind but notice the shutters aren't banging.  Fall asleep, wake early, before everyone else, and drink yesterday's cold espresso before lacing up your running shoes and running all the way up the biggest hill, the one you never made it up all those other times, because this is your first and last chance.  Reach the top, feel your fists clenching.  Take your second to last shower and wonder when's the next time you'll count things like showers.  Visit the city and notice the visitor in you is gone.  Notice how the sun feels in your hair, your spine.  Buy stockings because the old one's holes have stretched too far.  Come home and hear someone mention the earthquake last night and inwardly say "oh."  Say "oh" about a lot of things.  About how mental landscapes change.  About how every place you've ever been has been breathtaking, when you think about it.  About how...

Was flipping through a cookbook and came across a photo of what I thought was a scrumptious-looking chocolate tart; scanned over to the recipe, found that the first ingredient is pig blood.  So I'm translating the recipe for y'all and the first person to make me a pig blood chocolate tart wins.  The three black circles next to "difficolta" indicate that this will be no easy feat, but then probably 2.5 of those circles represent the task of procuring pig blood.  Or maybe I'm a total ignoramus and pig blood is really out there, outside of pigs, in abundance?  Like, maybe at Whole Foods, next to the molasses?  Anyway, here you go.  Get on it.  You might have to go make friends with a butcher. Migliaccio alla romagnola   (a traditional dessert made for Carnival, according to the internet; migliaccio actually means pudding) Time: 3 hours Oven temperature: 180 C Ingredients: 300 gr pig blood - 200 gr honey - 100 gr almonds - 100 gr chocolate - 10...

So I found myself at the top of the world yesterday, lost in fields of yellow.  Nearly fell down the hill when I realized there were figs on the trees; nearly fell again, in a more tragic manner, when I realized they weren't ripe (tasted to make sure, flung the unripe fig carcass with appropriate drama).  Also to my dismay, I was writing feverishly in my head as it all whirled around me, the wind and the empty meadow and the blossoms, so I told myself to shut up and forgot all the pretty words that were bludgeoning me and just looked, breathed.  Blew the last of my camera battery on photos of yellow fields and my stupid face before I got to the fig orchard and the dark green slant of San Luca's hill and the dusty sunlight over it all.  Thus camera-less and thoughtless, was overcome with joy, sweat, clear air, and sunburn, and felt a smug pleasure that I didn't have to worry about documenting it anymore. I almost didn't even write this post.  Because it was min...