Linda Oatman High rolls dough in the Tuscan cooking class.

Toscana Americana: It’s All Good
Under The Tuscan Sun

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By Linda Oatman High

Wednesday, 11 a.m., in a triangle-shaped park

I'm writing this as my students write on separate benches. The three of us make the shape of a triangle. Suzanne is clicking pictures: photographs of the cats and the flowers and the laundry draped from villa windows. Birds chirp, and there are workers nearby, installing something electrical. Pigeons strut and flap. (Holly calls them "party pigeons.") The strains of organ music float on the breeze, and a bell chimes. On Italian television this morning, I watched MTV. There were the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Shakira, dubbed in Italian. There was an American western, dubbed in Italian.

There was an infomercial for a weight loss product, dubbed in Italian. There was CNN, with bad news spoken in English. I turned it off.

We were taxied to the very top of Cortona this morning. Up there, at the summit, is a stone fortress with an Italian flag flapping from the tower. There are two huge stones, inscribed in Etruscan. The carved letters are mysterious, and we couldn't tell if they welcome or warn. Perched on the ground beside the stones were two empty bottles of beer.

Here, too, is the church: The Basilica of Santa Margherita. I like Saint Margherita, Cortona's patron saint. She's got a dog, and it's with her on statues and in paintings. We don't know the story of the little dog, but we'd all like to know. We'd like to know a lot in this place, and I keep longing for walls to talk. I'd just love to push a button in any given place, and hear the tales of what went on. I've also been wishing for a time machine, so that we could travel back to mingle with the Etruscans. I have some questions for them.

Holly and I got ready to enter the church. This means that Holly opened her collapsible travel bag and pulled out a compactly folded skirt. She wriggled it over her hips, over her shorts, and TA-DA! Holly was ready. We tiptoed inside, hushed and reverent, and there laid Saint Margherita, up front, in a glass case. Her body, preserved, is tiny. She's resting in peace, very darkened by time, dressed in white. This body is over a thousand years old. Candles flicker, and even a whisper would be too loud.

An elderly couple viewed the body. Holly and I were next. The man excitedly told us a story in Italian, gesturing to the Jesus statue. The story involved a bambino and a rising and a lot of stuff we didn't understand. Holly and I smiled and nodded politely, not having the heart to tell him that we didn't speak his language. We decided later that the man thought we understood, but that his wife had known we were faking. Women always know.

Wednesday, noon, as a cat sleeps in the sunshine.

My students wrote pieces so gorgeous that there were tears. This is good. I'm proud. Holly has a wonderful piece about her late father-in-law, and John has a heartfelt writing about a dead friend. Holly has a story about a turtle and the power of a woman. John has the beginnings of a young adult novel, about the power of a woman.

This is serendipity.

We stopped in another church, and I lit a candle. I'm not Catholic, but I'm having some epiphanies and spiritual stirrings in this place. I'm beginning to get it. Maybe. I wonder how long this candle will burn.

Wednesday, 5 p.m., in the hour after the afternoon nap and before dinnertime.

After another lunch, another luscious lovely lunch, we visited Francesco Campononi's shop. Francesco's prints look like they came straight from the pages of The New Yorker magazine. I suggested to Francesco that he look up the website, and submit some cartoons. He nodded, and said, "Perhaps I will do so." These are intelligent and witty, quirky and thought-provoking, finely-drawn cartoons, and one could spend hours browsing his little shop of wonders. Jennifer Warnes was playing on a mix CD, and the ambiance in the room was very cool, much like the unshaved and artsy looking Francesco.

It was soon time to return to the hotel to wash up for dinner. Tonight is our Tuscan cooking class at Fontelunga. I can't even cook right in America; how will I manage here, in this place that is The Epitome of Food?

Wednesday, midnight-thirty, after the Tuscan cooking class

The teachers were Donatello and Lucia. Donatello wore a towering white chef's hat, and we all donned aprons. The classroom was an enormous kitchen with the biggest pan and rolling pin I've ever seen. We learned about cooking rabbit and adding garlic and pouring in the white wine and lining the edges of the pan with olive oil. We learned about rolling snakes of spaghetti pasta between our palms, and about how to punch and knead the dough. We learned how to make Pasta vedova al sugo finto: Widow Pasta With Fake Ragu. Lucia's boyfriend polished his motorcycle (another Harley) in the drive outside, as we Americans learned Italian cooking in the kitchen.

Joined by a family from Manhattan , we sat down to dine on the fruits (or pastas) of our labors. A discussion of the U.S. president ensued, and due to differing points of view, one of us managed to change the subject back to the non-conflictive topics of this countryside: things like villas and rabbits ("It's baby's first meat," said Donatello) and wine and the correct pronunciation of bruschetta. (It's a hard "C," not a "SH" sound.)

The rabbit was melt-in-your-mouth tender and savory, even to this quasi-vegetarian, and the biscotti was magnificent. One of the Manhattan family's girls was allergic to almonds, and so Donatello cheerfully whipped up another dessert ("You want I should make you a cake? You own special cake?") as Lucia sped away with her boyfriend.
We all claimed allergies when the dessert was produced, and shared slices of the savory blueberry creation. It was splendid. The stars glimmered, and a cool wind blew through the outdoors dining room.