Lemons. Their scent. Their thorns. The scratches left on my arms. The Sicilian sun burns, strong even as the air is cool. Fresh ricotta, a wood fired oven, the smell of smoke still deeply imbedded in my clothes. Pepe and his family, the sicilian dialect, seemingly impenterable until it suprisingly is intelligible.
Bth farms here in Italy have left their marks on me. The work is straightforward, the rewards are generous and abundant, the weather a friend and foe. Magna Greca, the Jewel of the Ionian and Mediterrean soon will be a glorious memory of flavors, frangrances, and sights. And then we'll walk.
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