Holding a bucket of concrete-putty substance in one hand and a bucket of patching tools in the other, my host darts up the path to their “restaurant”; he plans to repair holes in the old farm walls before the arrival of the Easter guests that will be dining there next month. I’m thinking it’s a never ending job and am rather embarrassed by my bedroom thoughts upon arrival. (I wonder if he read my mind.)
Trotting on the path behind his owner is one of Ca’Mazzetto’s four dogs. And limping behind the collie am I, unable to take my eyes of Pasquale’s left pant leg that is tucked inside his striped sock; it’s adorable.
But even before the sock, Pasquale endeared himself to me last night when we were introduced; he asked if I was a vegetarian. (I wonder if he read my mind.) The girls were at dance class and he was making dinner for the teenage boys; they wanted sausages.
On my personal menu, dinner was an assortment of vegetables and salads, various breads, seasoned spelt with carrots, and the crowning glory: farm made pecorino cheese, farm made fresh ricotta, and farm made olive oil.
Clearly I’ve come to the right place.
(And you don't need to be a mind reader to figure that out.)
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