The International Kitchen

And now for something completely different. I’d heard about cooking vacations from a B&B host in Stratford a number of years before and the thought had been kicking around my subconscious since. She cooked beautifully. The breakfasts were a sight to behold. And, as I was the primary cook in the family, I wished my meals to look and taste as good. How to do that? Cooking classes. And since there were vacations that catered to such tastes, I thought I might like to dip my ladle in.

There were a number of companies who offered cooking vacations, with names like Epitourian Vacations and The International Kitchen and such. I chose The International Kitchen. They offered an Italian (obviously) cooking course in Tuscany that caught my eye. It wasn’t just cooking classes. There are some like that, but this vacation offered classes in the morning and tours of the surrounding countryside in the afternoon. That pairing appealed to me. It also offered a number of lengths, as well: two days, four days, seven days. I decided that four days sounded just right, because I wanted to spend some time in Rome, as well.

We booked the dates. We packed and boarded the plane. Timmins to Toronto to Frankfurt to Florence. I did not sleep as well as I hoped. My feet swelled, my legs prickled. There were a couple infants in our section that defeated my use of ear plugs. I did sleep a little, but it was a long, and thankfully short, night. We had five hours to kill in Frankfurt, so we strolled, we browsed the duty-free shops, we had breakfast and I had a bit of a snooze under Bev’s watchful eye. I had a beer with my croissant for breakfast. It seemed the thing to do, my having seen more than a few people having the same. When in Rome, or, when in Frankfurt, and all that. The beer helped me sleep. There’s that to recommend it.
Disaster! I left my book and prescription eyeglasses on the plane in Florence. Sadly, it had left by the time I noticed, and it hadn’t really been that long between disembarking and the discovery, but planes are not idle, are they? That pissed me off. I was becoming addled, my memory a fleeting thing, of late. I blame stress. Either way, a reader losing his glasses is a big thing. What to do when you can’t see the written word? Fret. Worry. That’s what’s to do.

Figline Valdarno

We were shuttled from Firenze (Florence) to Hotel Casagrande in Figline Valdarno after said disaster, with me fretting about my foggy vision, barely taking note of the Cyprus trees and vineyards that rushed past us on either side of the highway. I’d asked the airline to attempt to retrieve them, but I knew it was a lost cause. They didn’t sound hopeful. In truth, I doubt that they even made inquiries. They’d likely made it into a bin by then. I thought I might buy some cheaters from a drug store.

Hotel Casagrande

We checked in, my mind still set on finding some eyeglasses. The hotel radiated ambiance. It sprawled. Narrow halls. A cobbled and treed courtyard. High walls. It was once the Lord’s manor, converted to its then fate years before. Rooms were small, but they were Renaissance cool, both in decor and temperature. Stone and tile and all that.

We took in the town upon arrival. The piazza was barely thirty seconds’ walk from the back gate, almost in our backyard. I fell in love with it on first sight. Terracotta and red tiled, the shuttered 2^nd and 3^rd floor rose up over the arched pillars of the ground floor. Frescos divided rows of windows. A church sat at the head of its length, its stained-glass rosette an eye that looked upon the faithful. Embossed wooden doors were scattered about, as were balconies and planters and a tower of two.

We were pleased to find that there were Renaissance games taking place in the piazza. Contestants were dressed in house faction frocks, competing for the honour of their “families.” Voluminous white shirts, brightly coloured pantaloons. There was jousting, archery, feats of strength and artistry. Barrel hopping, foot races and the like. The officials looked like they’d be at home officiating for the Borgias. It all looked to be great fun for the gathered spectators, who took it all in from the perimeter ropes and the cafes, over wine and antipasto. Children raced about, as children will, thrilled by the proceedings but aloof to them, all the same.

How the competitors were able keep to their feet is a mystery. The piazza was cobbled and paved, and slippery. It wasn’t level, either. It dipped ever so slightly to the centre. It was scattered with stalks of grass. There might have been a few patties here and there, too. Horses. You get it.

Unfortunately, the farmacia was closed. It was Sunday. Everything was closed, everything except the cafes, that is.

We were picked up at 7 pm for the welcome dinner at Chef Claudio’s. The meal was a marathon, three and a half hours long, spanning eight courses, each one as wonderful as the last. Add wine to the mix and the excitement of meeting new friends, and I had little resistance. By meal’s end, I was bloated. I could not eat another morsel. But I did have a little shot of grappa to clear the palette. It was bright. It was airy. And for a moment it seemed to alleviate my gastral discomfort. But by the time I took to my bed, I was treated to the discomfort of my excess, once again. There was nothing to be done but sleep on my side. No other position was possible. I vowed to not do that again. I broke that promise, but only daily.

I was up bright and early the next morning, waiting for the farmacia to open, with little time before we were to be picked up for our first day of lessons. I can’t say I was pleased with my purchase. The cheaters were a bright orange. Not particularly comfortable. But better than the other options that seemed to cater to women more so than men.

But at least I could see.

I’m a reader, after all.

To not be able to read was a torment.