“The pitcher cries for water to carry and a person for work that is real.” — Marge Piercy

In between courses, we traveled with our wine back into the kitchen.  We were drinking something white from Orvieto, a hilltop city in Umbria where all three of us have been at some point in time.  The wine, simple yet somehow ambrosial, reminded me of my morning walk in the woods, where even the shade seemed to smell cleanly of moss.

I chatted with Bobby and Andrea while making the carbonara.  We discussed the finer points of the dish in detail because they like to make it at home, too.  And Bobby kindly finished grating the pecorino for me after I managed to grate my knuckle and ran for a band-aid.

Though we’ll be knee-deep in artists by the middle of the month, I’m savoring the fat of this particular kind of interaction.  I didn’t feel like I was “feeding” myself and the two other artists in residence —  we were in conversation about food, creativity, music and distant lands as we migrated from room to room.  There just happened to be some delicious pasta.

8 February 2012

a chicken liver toast with fried rosemary and capers, roasted cauliflower with lemon and hot pepper, radishes and celery root with meyer lemon

spaghetti alla carbonara

kamut spaghetti with pancetta, egg, pecorino and black pepper

sorbet of persimmons from Montalvo’s Italianate Garden

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