I’ve watched enough movies and read enough books to have fallen in love with the Italian alfresco dining tradition. Those long long tables set up amongst cypress trees where family and friends can come and dine into the wee hours of the morning under a blanket of stars. Or spend the afternoon laughing and chatting at the table. Tables laden with wine and bowls of grapes and lemons. Homemade bread. Olives and cheeses. Homemade pasta and fresh tomato sauce. Roasted veggies and enormous salads. Food eaten and appreciated farm style. Pass the bowl please.
Women in crisp white off the shoulder sundresses and men with their shirt sleeves rolled up. Checkered linens and wicker baskets. Antipasto appetizers and cannoli desserts.
The older women teaching the younger women the traditional ways to make pasta. A heap of flour on a wooden table with a well full of fresh farm eggs in the middle. The kneeling and rolling and shaping and drying of the delectable carb. The slicing and dicing of oodles of Roma tomatoes to create the sauce. The smell of fresh basil. I’m not much of a wine person but when in Tuscany…. Or pretending to be, I partake.
Many hours spent preparing the food and many unrushed hours eating it. Music in the background. The wind rustling the cypress leaves. Sunflowers as far as the eye can see. Wax dripping off the slender candles adorning the tables. Crumpled napkins and limoncello palate cleansers. Course after course of slowly enjoyed delicious food shared and consumed with abandon. Do not attend if you’re on a diet
At least I think this is way it is or dream it is or hope it is, since I’ve never actually been.
The Red Plaid Apron 