How I Became a Foodie.
Her kitchen outside of Perugia was old, old, old. But not her. She still danced through her hillside groves and vineyards and to distant deserts leaving traces of her wild rich life in the rental apartment we repeatedly visited.
On our last weekend in Italy the land lady invited us to help rake olives from the trees on the steep hillside beneath her villa. Afterwards she served us breakfast of fried fresh eggs from her hens and thin slices of delicious ham. Toasted thick crusted bread was rubbed with garlic and drenched in olive oil - her olive oil. We sat in the sun drinking wine until it was time to go. Then we trundled back to town and up the many steep steps carrying 10 liters of that oil between us.
I've only recently finished the last of it. No other olive oil measures up and I long to go back for more.
(While packing I found the camera disk with my Italy photos that I thought I'd completely lost in the great MacCrash of 09.)