Since we arrived in Tuscany, it’s rained almost every day. From what I hear, it’s been an unusually cold and rainy spring. And that’s saying something, because Tuscany is actually not the reliably sunny place we’ve been led to believe. Tuscans themselves don’t brag about savoring life under their sun; they know better.
Comparing May precipitation stats with Seattle, I see that Florence averages three inches compared to two for a city famous for overcast skies. The maddening thing is how changeable the weather is. The sun peeks out, like a temptress, and then 15 minutes later the skies open again.
I’m not complaining–well, maybe a little–but mostly just going with the flow (sorry, hard to avoid water imagery). Even under damp conditions, Tuscany is one of the best places on earth. So I add layers of clothing until the chill can’t get through, finishing if need be with the bubblegum-pink shell I had brought, optimistically, for bicycling. Not ready for that quite yet.
vitalba
Compared to a visit a few years ago at the same time, seasonal vegetables lag far behind. Tender young artichokes, zucchini and greens are showing up in markets, but the seedlings have just been planted in the garden of the farmhouse where we’re staying. We’re months away from local tomatoes, but enjoying the juicy ones from Sicily.
After running a hand over a plush rosemary bush, I sniffed and wondered why the familiar aroma burst went missing. Our friend Allen, a gardening expert and food historian, explained that the rain has diluted those aromatic oils. The best he could suggest was to pluck the older, slightly more fragrant sprigs for cooking.
Allen also pointed out vitalba, a weed that according to Italian sources is poised between poisonous and medicinal. To make it edible, boil to deactivate the enzymes and then cook a second time. Often it’s 
battered and fried, probably to divert attention from the bitter taste.
The white acacia flowers now in bloom belong to the same category of “emergency foods,” one step down from cucina povera because they don’t necessarily taste that good. I bought honey made from bees fed on acacia flowers, but apparently you can also fry them or toss in salads. We can drive to the supermercato even in the rain, so I doubt we’ll get hungry enough to go acacia hunting in the woods.
I’ve started fantasizing about a visit to a terme, one of the thermal springs that dot Tuscany, and this raw weather is also extending the season for hearty, rib-sticking foods. The quality of beans is amazing here. At the weekly street market, we bought a big, sturdy variety of ceci (chickpeas) to make minestrone; the vendor said the smaller chickpeas from the Maremma (on the right) are best cooked alone and drizzled with oil to accompany roasted meat or poultry (the third variety in the photo are borlotti, cranberry beans).
Italian law forbids central heating after April 15 and, although we energy-guzzling Americans should take a lesson from their example, I hadn’t felt warmed clear through until two nights ago, when we built 
a fire in the wood-burning stove. The stovetop radiated so much heat that the meat sugo I set on top was soon bubbling. I mixed it with pici, the thick round noodles typical of Tuscany.
This part of Tuscany, in the Arno Valley, is known for the quality of its chickens.I’ve already made aquacotta, a vegetable and bread soup topped with poached eggs, and tonight my husband made one of his fabulous frittatas, mixing the orange-yolked eggs with sauteed onions and potatoes, pancetta and lots of parsley.
I’d give you his recipe, but honestly, I wasn’t watching. Instead I was listening to Corelli, sipping wine and watching the sunset. The weather had cleared. In the late evening light, the flowering plants were brilliant in their hues of yellow, fuchsia, purple. After all, it’s springtime in Tuscany.
Travel to the extreme northwest corner of Italy and you’ll be in Valle d’Aosta, a semi- autonomous alpine region with a fierce sense of its unique identity. It’s also known as Val d’Aosta and therein lies a clue to a place where French and Italian are the official languages–and whose cuisine combines the best of both countries.
Salads can be substantial, too, bringing together some of the region’s best ingredients. One of my favorites is an insalatona (entree-sized salad) strewn with chunks of luscious Fontina, big croutons fashioned from whole-grain bread and thick pieces of crisp bacon. There’s one more delightful touch: caramelized cipolline onions with a sweet-sour flavor.
Forget those short-lived diet and exercise resolutions. I’d rather dream up aspirations for 2013 with a connection to Italy–a new dish, wine or restaurant to try, a region to visit (or revisit), a skill to perfect, an experience to seek out. I was curious what others who know and love Italy had to say, so I asked–and think you will be as fascinated as I am by what they have in mind.
Everybody grabs recipes off the Internet (me included) but let’s agree that, when gift giving time comes around, most of us would rather receive a cookbook than a pile of printouts.
Don’t forget, Christopher Columbus was Italian. Although his voyages were sponsored by the Spanish, some of the expenses were underwritten by investors from his hometown, Genoa, one of Italy’s great maritime republics at the time.
I don’t win any points for eating local by flying across the country with chiles and other goodies from 
it will be a beautiful indigo color,” the vendor assured me.
Chiles are the big deal–and the real deal–in New Mexico. We were lucky to visit at green-chile roasting time, with aromas wafting through the air at the farmer’s market and vendors offering tastings. You get to know some of the names, whether you’re touring or eating out.
It’s harder than ever, visiting Italy, to get that delicious jolt of something foreign to American habits and tastes. Partly because we’ve gotten to know them and vice versa (I once ran into a busload of Italian tourists in a remote New Mexico town). And also because we’ve appropriated so many aspects of Italian food, fashion and culture into American life (I met those Italians in an espresso bar).
Street watching as a major life activity. Italian men (usually but not always oldish) typically do this in groups, sitting on benches or chairs outside a store front–or maybe playing scopa at a club with one side open to the street. They chat or doze for hours, content to be part of the changing street scene.
busy–this is going to take a lot of time,” she complained irritably.
I recently visited Paris for the first time in 10 years and concluded that it’s not a slamdunk to find French food here. Or at least that it’s as easy to graze from the global smorgasbord as to dine à la français.
You can find a croque madame or salad niçoise in any brasserie, cafe au lait and a croissant in any bar. But I can eat those in New York, too, with probably equal chances of a standout experience. Our meal at Fish La Boissonerie could have happened in New York as well. The owners are Australian, the chef Japanese and the dish I’ll remember fondly was a quinoa, fennel and carrot salad garnished with tender raw okra. The French touch was a Languedoc wine with an American name: Jazz.
butter treatment, apricots from Tunisia, hothouse tomatoes from Brittany. One falafel place after another lined the rue Rossetti in the Jewish quarter, the air filled with spicy aromas. On our way to a fly fishing shop (a novelty of a different order), we marveled at a shop window filled with oatmeal cartons, M&Ms and Campbell soup cans, all seemingly intended for homesick Americans.
A brasserie starter I enjoyed was a French take on prosciutto and melon: a fragrant, juicy Cavaillon melon, its top carved zigzag fashion, with slices of Bayonne ham nestled in the hollow. White asparagus were in season and I ordered them more than once, simmered soft and served with mignonette sauce.
stomach. Macarons are so trendy you can buy them in Dallas or Miami, but the French ones taste better. Not to mention their tarts, eclairs, napoleons…