Busting out the major gratitude for Italy. Where is the ugly in this place? I am thinking it doesn’t exist–here it seems the garbage is attractive. The renovated farmhouse we’re staying is situated inside of a postcard. I actually think I might still be asleep and dreaming when I wake up and step outside. But then I feel the dew on my feet and I find I’m really awake. As I write, a conference of exuberantly chatty birds are in the distance and the sheep are waking up and ready to be herded into the valley. It feels like they come out just for me–to give me a show.
We learned to make pasta last night. Simona showed us how to roll out our dough Twiggy-thin, which looked effortless in her hands and gave me an intense upper arm workout–Pasta Padasana–a new yoga pose. Simona then, like magic, turned her dough into bowties and linguine and a cornucopia of delectable shapes.
When our pasta was served (and fortunately nobody could tell which were my mishappen noodles), I became a human Electrolux. Not even kidding in the least (I have witnesses). I simply could not get my fill of the homemade pasta. I had six servings, almost half a platter by myself, and still, I could have eaten more. I had to force myself to leave the table (mostly so I wouldn’t eat it).
While the unspeakable is happening in the U.S., I am trying to ignore it until I arrive back to the shit show in 48 hours and just nourish myself with the dolce vita of this place, these people and did I mention, the pasta. Gratitudine.