CHAPTER 1

The Gorgeous Things They're CookingAre Zucchini Blossoms

The scent of them is enough to send up a short, sharpthrill in a hungry person. Seething hot beauties, theyrepose in a great unruly pile on the white linen. Theyellow of the naked blossoms shows through the gilt sheaths of theircrackling skin. Skin thin as Venetian glass, I think. But I'm far awayfrom Venice. We live in Tuscany, now. As of this morning, we live inTuscany. I say it breezily to myself as though it was all in a day's work.Yesterday, Venice. Today, San Casciano dei Bagni. And six hours afterarrival, here I am already in a kitchen: in the small, steamy kitchen ofthe local bar, watching two white-hatted, blue-smocked cooks preparingantipasti for what seems to have become a village festival.

The gorgeous things they're cooking are zucchini blossoms, fatand velvety, almost as wide and long as lilies. And the frying danceis precise: drag a blossom quickly through the nearly liquid batter,let the excess drain back into the bowl, lay the blossom gently in thewide, low-hipped pot of hot, very hot shimmering oil. Another blossomand another. Twelve at a time in each of four pots. The blossomsare so light that, as a crust forms on one side, they bob about in theoil and turn themselves over and over until a skimmer is slid in torescue them, to lay them for a moment on thick brown paper. Thepaper is then used as a sling to transport the blossoms to a linen-linedtray. One of the cooks fills a red glass bottle with warm sea-saltedwater. She fits a metal sprayer onto the bottle and, holding it at arm'slength, spritzes the gold blossoms with the salty water. The hot skinshiss and the perfume of them is whipped up and out into the moistJune breeze.

Pan-to-hand-to-mouth food, these are sustenance for the twelve-minuteinterval before supper, and so when the first hundred areready, the cook, the one called Bice, hands me the tray and says, "Vai,go," without looking up. A kitchen directive from one colleague toanother, from one chef to another, she says it with familiarity, asthough we've worked together for years. But tonight I'm not thechef. I think I'm a guest—or am I the hostess? I'm not at all surehow this festival got started, but I'm happy it did.

Happy and still unwashed from the morning's journey, from theafternoon's work, I'm salty as the blossoms I offer to people, whotake them without ceremony. The same familiarity is at work here aseach one smiles or pats me on the shoulder, says, "Grazie, bella, thankyou, beauty," as if I'd been passing them hot, crisp flowers all my life.I like this. For one moment it occurs that I might run with the basketto some dim corner of the piazza to devour the remaining blossomsmyself, eyes half closed in a lusty swoon among the shadows.But I don't. Some can't wait until I reach them but come to me, takea flower while sipping wine or talking over their shoulders. Peopleare collecting about me now, rooks swooping in for the things untilnothing is left save errant crumbles, crunchy and still warm, whichI press onto my finger and suck.

I move toward the edge of a small group that is complimentingthe farmer from whose patch the lovelies were harvested this morning.He's saying he'll have more tomorrow, that he'll drop a bushelfuloff at Sergio's by seven if anyone desires a few. Here ensue threeseparate and simultaneous discourses on the best way to cook squashblossoms. To stuff or not to stuff them? To stuff them with mozzarellaand a salt anchovy, to stuff them with a tiny slice of ricottasalata, to stuff them with fresh ricotta and a few leaves of basil, toblend the batter with beer or white wine, to add olive oil to the batter,to leave the oil out? And the biggest question of all—to fry theblossoms in peanut oil or extra virgin? Distracted by these contentions,I don't hear my name called out from across the short expanseof the piazza.

"Chou-Chou," says Bice, stamping her left foot exasperatedly inthe doorway of the bar, her arms stretched out with another tray.

This time, careening through the crowd more nimbly, I dispatchthe scorching flowers in record time. Though I've neither actuallymet nor been introduced to most of these people, all of them seemto know that Fernando and I have just moved into the Lucci placedown the hill. This intelligence is but a first whiff of the mastery ofthe intravillage broadcasting system, activated, no doubt, by thesmall battalion of San Cascianesi who gathered in our driveway towelcome us earlier in the day. And one thing led to another, but still,how did a thank-you aperitivo turn into a supper party, and why amI holding so tightly to this empty tray?

We had left Venice behind in the pale purply hour of firstlight and followed four Albanians, variously piled into and pilotingthe big blue Gonrand truck that ported our every material asset.We're moving to Tuscany. Eleven kilometers from our destination,a team of spiffy, high-booted, automatic weapon–toting carabinieriinvited our meager convoy to halt on the cusp of Route 321. Wewere detained and interrogated and searched for nearly two hours.Two of the four Albanians were arrested, aliens without papers. Wetold the military police that we were intending to move into one ofthe Luccis' farmhouses and that we needed all of the collected muscleand manpower to do so. They settled themselves in their van andtalked on their radio. They stayed a very long time. They got out ofthe van and parleyed again, roadside.

Some say the carabinieri are selected for their physical beauty,that they represent the glory of the Italian state. Surely these do ithonor, their dark brows and pale eyes an aesthetic diversion duringthe wait. At last one of the booted gentlemen said, "Fine, butit's our duty to accompany you." A much grander colonnade now,we inspired intrigue in the trickle of farm traffic we passed alongthe way until the big blue truck and the police van came to rest behindour old BMW in the back garden of the house. Let's get towork.

There had been a well-defined agreement with Signora Lucci thatthe house would be clean and that it would be empty. Neither is thecase. As the clandestine Albanians begin to carry in our goods, I requisitionthe carabinieri to help me carry out the signora's tokens ofwelcome, all in the form of irrefutable junk. There are armoireswith crushed-in doors and tables and chairs that, in order to stay upright,are cunningly leaned up against each other. There are six setsof bunk beds. We heave it all into the barn. In our bedroom, I'mdusting a handsome print of a cypress-lined lane framed in hammeredcopper. It swings on its wire hanger and behind it I find a wallsafe. This house, this barely restored stable of a house, which has nocentral heating and no telephone and electrical wiring sufficient fora blind hermit, has a safe. Not the little hotel-room sort of safe, thisis a grand, official-looking thing with two levels of knobs and a clock,and I call Fernando to come look at it.

"It's obviously new, something the Luccis installed during the renovation.I don't think it's meant for our use," says Fernando.

"But why would they need a safe here? Wouldn't one in their villasuffice? I think it must be for tenant use. Let's see if we can open it."

We fiddle with it, twirl and push at the knobs, until Fernandosays, "It's locked, and without the combination, we'd never gain access.If we want to use it,...