Rita was coming this morning to clean the house, and we knew from long experience that the best way to help her was to get out of her way. So, we jumped in the car and headed to Bevagna, which is a little over a half-hour away. Friends who’d been staying with us went to Bevagna for the first time last week and flipped over it, which inspired us to go back for another hit. Thank you, friends; thank you, Rita... READ MORE on Substack . Don't forget to subscribe!

I’m coming to the end of my second week in Umbria, and my diet plan is not working. The concept was simple: just refrain from eating pasta twice a day. Or occasionally, three times a day. This kind of self-imposed “regimen” is counter-intuitive to me, but let’s face it, folks -- if I eat pasta twice a day, every day, eventually I’m going to have to buy new pants, and that’s a Rubicon I’m unwilling to cross. So, my plan was to base my meals around meat -- pure protein, like th

“Honey!”  Jill was calling down from our bedroom, where she was in the middle of her morning routine.  I was having a coffee with my friend, Francesco. “Bianca just called,” says Jill.  “The firemen are on their way.”  Let me explain: there’s an oak tree that stands just a few feet away from the pergola under which Francesco and I were having coffee, and in that oak tree is a hornet’s nest.  And the hornets seem to think it’s their pergola.   And they’re pissed about it.  And

We like to take road trips. For us, it’s way preferable to flying – unless, you know, we’re going to New Zealand. The thing about road trips is that they’re not just about getting you to where you think you have to go. More often, they’re about the things that happen to you along the way.  And those things can happen good or they can happen bad -- that’s part of the deal. That’s what makes road trips the whimsical little suckers they are -- because you travel without a plan,

Jill picking olives (press play for video). Hi, as you can see the above, we're in Umbria picking our olives.  It's our favorite time of the year.  But this is work, folks.  Hard work.  And, as you can see, it's not easy to find good help.  Here's a poem I wrote about our trees: THE FECUND TREE O! fecund olive tree of yore With branches hanging low Today I shall unburden you Then to the mill we’ll go!   I cannot reach the highest branch; My arm’s not long enough. If I don’t s