older than wine and a cloud like a tablecloth
spread for lunch under the leaves.
I have come this late
to Italy, but better now, perhaps, than in youth
That is never satisfied, whose joys are treacherous,
While my hair rhymes with those far crests, and the bells
Of the hilltop towers number my errors,
Because we are never where we are, but somewhere else,
Even in Italy…”
Reading this incredible poem immediately brought me back to Italy and to my undeniable love of that place. In just a few words, Derek Walcott rekindled my love of all things Italian–the ancient light. The hills. The small stores filled with fresh ingredients and grey haired ladies with rounded bellies. The skyline of green trees, blue sky and sparkling waters. The food, and the love of food of all of its inhabitants. The smell of baking bread, of chestnuts, of wine aging in casks, of olives hanging from the trees just days from picking. The amazing culinary characters we met during our October honeymoon.
Dear reader, though this may not be my traditional post, please consider this a recipe for nostalgia.