ew York City, 9 p.m. Friends are laughing in the next room squeezed around the dinner table, as I try to whip something up. I put the water to boil, adding salt. As I wait, the steam begins to twist, to twirl, filling up the kitchen. I pause to wipe the sweat from my brow.

At eight o’clock in the morning my shirt is already moist. Sweat rolls down my face, every inch of my body. A typical morning in Perugia.

Sauté the garlic in olive oil on medium heat.

The gravel in the driveway crunches and crackles, “E’ arrivato zio Mario!”

I run barefoot, almost tripping down the stairs, all the way to his car, arms outstretched. His hair, grayer this year, falls over his tanned face. His hands rest on his belt, one finger cut off above the joint. I pull on my boots and he climbs onto the tractor. He hauls me onto his lap holding me tightly. …show more content…
At the back of the field, Mario climbs up a ladder and starts trimming the tips of the branches, the polloni. I take them and pile them in heaps. The trees are brimming with olives this year.

Chop the tomatoes, put them to simmer with the garlic, add salt and pepper.

At noon, I walk back towards the house to find my Nonna in the garden, wearing a flowered apron.

She tells me puoi portarmi il cestino un po’ più vicino? “bring that bucket a little closer, would you?”

She fills it up with plump, juicy, purplish-red tomatoes, a meal in themselves.

Pour in the linguini, stir fresh basil into the tomatoes.

We break off stems of basil. Nonna says, vedi si devono prendere quelli pieni di fiori, così la pianta può crescere. “See we have to take the ones with the most flowers on them, so the plant grows.” We climb the small hill with a full bucket of pomodori. It’s