Olives, Pasta and Poetry

"I believe that no place could be found where life passes, in its essences, more delightfully than here."

Nathaniel Hawthorne

Just outside the walls of the crumbling Campello sul Clitunno (across the valley from Spoleto), we found several people harvesting their olives. As you can see the morning was sunny, (the temperature warm for November) and the mood relaxed. Jim and I are shamefully envious of anyone owning their own olive trees, or for that matter, their own vineyard. Well, at least I have my own pasta maker...back in West Palm.

We won't starve for the lack of it - as you can see, the local grocery store has one full aisle of pasta to choose from. And that's not counting the fresh pasta section.

...and now for some of my lame poetry.

I HAVE PLANS FOR YOU

There's nothing to be said.

This chicken is quite dead.

No escaping to her coop;

she's going in my soup,

without her feet and head.

Just some food for thought,
Susan