È pronto. A tavola!
Up a long gravel road, tucked in the hills of a small italian village sits a house full of life in the summer. The windows rest open. Roosters crow operating as my alarm. The boys voices echoing softly in the fields. Swimsuits and dressing hang on the line outside. The day has just begun.
The house, built of timeworn stone, stands sturdy beneath the watchful shade of the mountains, keeping our rooms cool without the need for air conditioning. Out front, a shimmering pool 4 meters deep. A guesthouse belongs to a kindhearted couple—the husband, a quiet guardian of the land. He tends to the garden, the chickens, and the donkeys. Each morning, he arrives with fresh eggs, his hands weathered, leaving the table abundant with the colors of the season. When I set off on my morning walks, I catch glimpses of his wife through the mesh of the window screens, the sounds of her working in the kitchen. "Buongiorno!" I call. “Kate, vieni qui!" she calls back, waving me inside. I never leave without tasting something.
Pane e Olio, è contento.
At the house, each meal is set with delicate, mismatched plates and painted ceramic pitchers. Breakfast is at the kitchen table, where crayons and paper keep the boys entertained. Lunch is served in the cool corner dining room, as soft light flickers against the walls, shielding us from the midday heat. Dinner is a grand affair, set beneath the open sky. Conversations stretch into the night, punctuated by the clink of glasses and bursts of laughter. The youngest boy curls up in my lap as dessert is served: blueberries, strawberries, melon—or, if we are lucky, pistacchio gelato. Every meal a small celebration.
As the evening settles, the mountains cast long shadows over the valley, and the air cools, carrying the scent of earth and warm stone. The boys are tucked into bed, drifting to sleep with the gentle hum of the countryside and the distant barking of dogs.
I sit outside in my chair, pen and journal in hand, and write about the magic of this long day— nothing extraordinary happened, yet everything did.
“That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet.”
What makes a child gentle? To hold no possessiveness over objects?
The youngest child had a special bond with the cat, feeding him and watching with quiet fascination, careful not to startle him. In the afternoons, he and I biked together to a horseback riding lessons, the wind rushing past us, his excitement evident with each turn of the pedals.