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I Hope That's Not What I Think It Is
With the shutters closed, the room was a virtual blackout. I didn't stir until 6 am and only then because Francesco's heavy boots hit the deck and their reverberations woke me. In complete blackness he clumped across the tile floor on his way to milking and morning chores. Watch that chair! Sharon and I lounged until 7 am - light had by then begun to seep around the shutters. I arose and quickly discovered what Francesco had meant when he said that staying at the farmhouse was like camping for him. There wasn't any toilet. I beat a hasty trip to the farmyard's far corner. When I returned, I was in time to see Francesco roar up on his Vespa, balancing yet another container of sheep's milk on the scooter's floorboard. I followed him inside as he lugged the silver can into the kitchen and twisted the stopper off. Steam wafted from the still-warm milk. Francesco flipped a cast iron pot off an overhead hook, set it on the floor with a sieve across it, then tipped the milk can and strained a generous amount of pale yellow liquid into the waiting pot. Francesco lit the stove's propane burner, and set the pot on it to heat the rich broth. I was about to stir the milk with a wooden spoon, but Francesco yelped, and handed me a metal spoon instead. "Bacteria will grow on the wood," he explained. He was right; it was unpasteurized sheep's milk, after all. I was taken aback slightly by Francesco though; I had no idea he was so hygienically minded. The milk came to a near boil. I poured it into our waiting mugs of Nestle chocolate, and sat down at the kitchen table. Sunlight filtered in through a streaked pane and created an angel-like halo effect around Francesco as he stood over us awaiting our pronouncements. "It's the first time I've ever drunk sheep's milk," I said to Francesco, hoisting my mug and taking a sip. "It's good," I announced. Francesco looked pleased. "It's delicious!" Sharon proclaimed. Francesco positively beamed. Sharon was right: our sweet drinks were sinfully decadent. We slurped our hot chocolates, savouring its thickness. As we did, we watched sheep and baby lambs (some only a day old), swagger past the kitchen window; their coats so spectacularly white they glowed like heavenly images. "Can I photograph you with a lamb?" I asked Francesco. I thought his rough features and the lamb's soft cuddliness would make a terrific addition to my portfolio to show the folks back home. My plan was to get a picture, then we would be on our way. We knew Francesco had a lot of work to do, and we didn't want to keep him from his duties. Before he could answer, the blessed sheep made a break for an open gate. Francesco bolted out, hot on their little tails. "I guess now is not a good time," Sharon quipped. Francesco managed to contain the runaway sheep, then loaded the milk can onto his utility vehicle and drove off. Apparently, my photo would have to wait. While waiting for Francesco to return, I enjoyed a second cup of marvellous creamy, hot chocolate. "You shouldn't be drinking all the profits," Sharon chided. "Too late," I answered. "I'm already finished. What's worse," I added, "I've been irreparably spoiled. How am I ever going to go back to using plain old water?" "I was wondering the same thing myself," Sharon answered. "Any of that milk left?" Before we had drunk Francesco out of house and home, we heard his three-wheel truck putt-putt into the yard. In a jolly fashion, he entered the kitchen bearing a suckling pig carcass. I thought it rather extravagant for someone who had said he rarely ate meat. He wordlessly set it on the kitchen's metal countertop. With one mighty blow from a giant cleaver, he hacked it cleanly in two. Smiling self-satisfactorily at his handiwork, he arranged both halves onto a tray and slid it into the oven. Our slow-down-and-live philosophy was about to be enforced. "You have time to visit Santa Cristina before the midday meal is ready," he advised. Apparently, we had just been invited for lunch. And who were we to argue with the chef and his massive meat cleaver? Leaving our bikes propped against Francesco's enormous woodpile, we struck out on foot for the well in the still cool morning air. Strangely enough, in daylight, our previous night's gruesome hill didn't seem nearly as formidable. Arriving back at the bar, I entered and, recalling my previous unsuccessful foray, expeditiously purchased tickets to view Santa Cristina's sacred well before anyone could buy me a beer. At the well we overheard a young English-speaking couple. Delighted to hear our language, we introduced ourselves and asked their names. The lad, Neil, was a fair-haired Englishman, while Rosie, born on Sardinia, had contrasting raven-hair and dark-complexion. They were married, and, as they put it, were "currently living in a small French Pyrenees town, close to Andorra." They had recently opened their own sport's equipment store and were trying to introduce telemark skiing to the area. "We hope to become the Mountain Equipment Co-op of Europe!" Neil boasted, mocking Canadian's favourite outdoor shop. We got to talking about travelling. Neil and Rosie said they had backpacked for eighteen months through "a whole bunch" of Commonwealth countries. "We particularly liked Canada," Rosie said. "We were hosts at the Hilda Creek Hostel in Banff National Park for a whole summer," Neil added, a wide grin on his face as he reminisced. "We would have liked to have stayed in Canada. We're both oil engineers," he explained. "We looked for work, but didn't have any luck." He shuffled his feet in the dust, then what struck me as only half-joking, asked, "Do you want to swap passports?" "I still need it," I answered, laughing. "Maybe some other time," I kidded. It was time to change the subject. On Neil's shirt an embroidered slogan read: Golf Around the World. "What's the par?" I asked, pointing to his pocket and guffawing. "You wouldn't believe how many people ask me if I'm golfing around the world," he answered. "Of course, I play along. 'Yep, I hit the ball, walk to it, and hit it again!'" "Some Japanese guy has already done it," Sharon jested. "Without water," I added dryly. We were having a most enjoyable time talking with a native English speaker again. I hadn't realized how much I had missed the banter. Twenty minutes later, Neil and Rosie went on their way (they had a lunch date at her parents). Sharon and I descended the steps to the well and finally saw the sacred site. It had only taken us twenty-four hours. After a few minutes, we were bored (how long can you look at a well?) and returned to the bar. Francesco was there, seated near the fireplace supping a mandatory beer. We pulled up chairs and sat in front of the fire. "I hope that's not what I think it is," Sharon said, nodding towards the fireplace. Roasting over the coals was a split-in-two sheep's head - complete with ears and eyes. "Ugh," I said, "I hope Francesco hasn't ordered a special treat for us." As if in reply, Francesco took out his pocketknife and expertly flipped the head over. "Oh, oh," Sharon muttered. Her eyebrows rose as she shot me a worried glance. Francesco downed his beer, stood, and motioned for us to follow. "Whew!" Sharon breathed. "That was close!" Lucky for us, someone else had ordered the sheep's head and Francesco was just making sure it didn't burn. Heading out the door, we bumped into a family Francesco knew. They had driven out from town to view the well and had rented a cabin for the day. Ever the gracious hosts, they invited us to join them for wine and olives. (Sharon and I were getting to be quite the experts on homemade wine and olives.) After our snack, we headed back to Francesco's. When we opened the farmhouse door, a white cloud of smoke, like some Hollywood special effect, billowed out. "That suckling pig must almost be ready," I said. Francesco rushed inside like a fireman intent on saving wee babes. By the time we entered the fire zone, Francesco had already opened the windows to clear the haze, donned oven mitts, opened the oven door, and was reaching inside the blast furnace to retrieve the seared porker. He laid the succulent smelling smoldering swine on the countertop, and with his favourite cleaver, hacked it into portions. That accomplished, he heaped the entire piglet onto a gigantic serving platter and plopped it onto the table. As we seated ourselves, Sharon realized how unfounded her previous distrust of Francesco had been. He had done everything in his power to put us at ease - even to the extent of buying a new floral-design tablecloth, which he had spread over the rough wood kitchen table. Francesco didn't usually eat bread, but he had bought a loaf especially for us. So eager to please, he tuned the radio to a station playing songs in English. And when he poured us wine, he no longer insisted we drink it. I wolfed down a mountainous pile of melt-in-your-mouth piggy - with a few olives thrown in for variety. It was either a carnivore's delight, or a vegetarian's nightmare. Partway through my third helping (what a pig!), Francesco went into the back room, and reappeared with a jar of preserved mushrooms. The veggies had arrived! After the mushrooms were gone, Francesco went into the back room and brought out a jar of sliced green peppers "I canned these myself," he said proudly. Sharon and I taste-tested the whole jar and awarded them two thumbs up. I was getting full. The remains on my plate resembled another biology experiment gone awry. "I don't think a more gross-looking plate is possible," I said to Sharon. But, as usual, I was wrong. Francesco noticed we were slowing down and decided it was time to serve the pièce de résistance. "Cervella," he called it. "I hope that's not what I think it is," Sharon said for the second time that day. Since we had met Francesco, our Italian-English dictionary had been our constant companion. I looked up cervella. "What is it?" Sharon asked hesitantly, not fully wanting to know the answer. "Ah. How can I put this delicately?" I said. "Eet eez vat zee leetle peeg tinks weez," I said, in a horrible fake German accent. "Ugh!" Sharon said. "Brains." She was right. It was brains. I mashed the glop the way Francesco illustrated, spread it on bread like pâté, took a chomp, chewed, swallowed. It tasted like - well - brains, I guess. There wasn't much taste to it, but the texture, soft and mushy, made me want to spit it out. I was sure it was all in my head though. Since I had done so well with the cervella, Francesco offered me a trotter. I refused. One had to draw the line somewhere. Besides, I knew where those feet had been. "I'm full," I said, which wasn't a complete lie. "I have to save room for dessert." Dessert was freshly cracked chestnuts from the trees in Francesco's yard. He pointed to a pan with small holes hanging near the fireplace. "Sometimes," he informed us, "I roast them over the fire." I thumbed through our dictionary, and located the word "sweet" to describe the taste of the chestnuts. "Dolce. Caramella," I said reading the words next to "sweet." Francesco jumped up and sprinted into the back mystery room. Sharon and I looked at one another in amusement, wondering what all his stash in there contained. He returned with a bag of caramels. We ate a few chewy bonbons, practiced saying "dolce, caramella," a few more times, when suddenly Francesco exclaimed "Photo!" I guess it was time. I got my camera and Francesco led us outside to help bring in the ewes and lambs for their afternoon Muesli. Our assistance consisted of hiding behind the pasture gate and remaining perfectly still. Francesco didn't want us to spook the sheep as they came through. It was an exceedingly important job, I was assured. As the lambs sauntered through the opening, tails wagging behind them, Francesco's arm suddenly darted out at lightning speed. His ham-sized fist seized the rear leg of a black-spotted ten-day-old youngster. The frisky lamb kicked and kicked, jerking Francesco's heavily muscled arm as if he were Rambo firing a machine gun. The critter wasn't at all cooperative, and constantly cried out, "Baa-stard! Baa-stard!" Francesco bravely held the little hellion until I got a quick snapshot. He released the knee-high pugilist, and instantly nabbed another. But this time, it was a diminutive hours-old baby. What a darling! Its pure white coat sparkled angelically, but my favourite touch was a patch of black that comically encircled one eye. Francesco handed the docile little one to Sharon. She cradled it, stroking its feather-soft wool. As Francesco poured grain for the adults, Sharon's small charge bawled inconsolably. Finally, Sharon couldn't take its heartrending sobs any longer, and set it down gently on its wobbly legs. It stood stalk still, mewling pensively until mama bustled over to claim him. Immediately, he dove for a comforting teat, his wee tail a blur of wagging ecstasy. The hogs were next on the chow list. Francesco drove his three-wheeler right inside the pen, and off-loaded five cans of watered-down milk into a round tractor tire trough. At the sight of the pale-yellow contents they squealed in rapture. And in a game of piggy tenpin, the biggest brutes bowled the smaller ones out of the way, then stood smugly, their feet firmly entrenched in the trough - adding more flavour, no doubt. The smaller pigs ran pell-mell around the outside ring of chubby bodies, oinking non-stop, and tried to push their way into the vaunted echelon. Observing their complete lack of success, I had my doubts about the "meek shall inherit the earth" school of philosophy. One hog was penned separately. When I asked Francesco why, he explained, "She's about to have babies." I smiled. I knew what that meant. More suckling pig! Along with milk, the gargantuan matriarch-to-be received an extra helping of grain. She grunted noisily, approving of Francesco's culinary finesse. As if out of thin air, seven tabbies materialized, ready to lick up any leftover drops of milk. Seven dogs were also part of Francesco's farmyard brood. I noticed that their behaviours encompassed an entire range of personality traits. In fact, I was certain the canine assembly possessed enough disorders to keep any animal psychologist well-heeled for years. A timid white dog that wouldn't hurt a flea - its stubby tail tucked perpetually between its legs - wandered about freely. That morning, I had seen a sheep head-butt it, just to show it, I guess, who wore the woolly pants in the family. Obviously, it was the Rodney Dangerfield of dogs - it didn't get any respect. At the opposite end of the docility spectrum was a motley-coated Charles Manson-type killer. The chained beast commanded respect, snarling constantly like some crazed pit bull when anything went within twenty feet of it. I doubted it would even blink as it ripped my jugular open. I knew if a sheep had tried to head-butt that dog, it would have had its head handed back to it on a platter. Another white dog was tied to a tree. It yelped constantly, deliberately seeking attention, jumping up and down, then turning tight circles chasing its own tail. Clearly, its theatrical performances were a textbook case of histrionics - combined, of course, with an obsessive-compulsive disorder. A third white dog was secured near the hog pen. It was the furtive type, and silently lay beneath a tree monitoring our every move. I called it a stealth dog - or more commonly known as a cyclist's-heart-attack-about-to-happen. We had encountered its type before and knew their behaviour. It would hide along the roadside, like a snake in the grass, waiting until we were within spitting distance. Then, it would bound forth in a ferocious frenzy, barking like some demented army sergeant. The tactic never failed to scare the living daylights out of us. Dogs five and six were two lighthearted puppies. Their legs were so short that their bellies nearly dragged on the ground. What sort of survival feature is that? They tumbled over each other in a playful game of tag, wrestling and rolling beneath the sheep's feet without a care in the world. Yipping, yipping, yipping, we called them stereo pups. The seventh canine - clearly Francesco's favourite - was free-roaming and handsome. It was confident, strongly built, and sociable - the only well-adjusted one of the lot. It was time to milk again. Francesco said we could help him, so we headed off down the road towards another pasture. While Sharon and I walked, Francesco putt-putted ahead on his scooter, his favourite dog ambling alongside. By the time we reached the bar, Francesco had changed his mind about having us accompany him. Maybe we were walking too slowly? Regardless of the reason, Francesco left us at the bar while he buzzed off. Sharon and I poked half-heartedly around the nuraghi village near the sacred well. (The farming area surrounding Santa Cristina has the highest concentration of nuraghi on the island, averaging one per square kilometer.) We soon tired of the rocks, however. When you had seen one nuraghe, you had seen them all. The architecture and floor plans are identical. I was convinced that the Nuraghic culture was the planet's first condo builders. And, of the island's seven thousand nuraghi, it felt as though we had seen 6999. (With nuraghi, it seemed there was always one more.) We abandoned our exploration, and wandered back to the bar to spend some quiet time reading by the fire. But Francesco's friends had other ideas. A neighbour of Francesco's, a lanky shepherd with a gift for gab, didn't waste time before buying us a beer. I couldn't understand a word he was saying, but that didn't stop him from talking my leg off. After half an hour, I was worried. How was I going to cycle with only one leg? He finally clued in that I didn't understand a word of his verbal barrage, and resorted to the next best thing: sign language. Let's see. I'd played this game before. Hmmm. He was asking if I wanted to do something. I paid rapt attention. He put his fingers to his forehead, and mooed. Cows. "Capiche," I said, waving my hand for him to continue. He closed his hands into fists and made pulling motions. Oh. I see. He wanted us to go with him to milk cows. Hmmm. I liked it better when I couldn't understand him. "No, thanks," Sharon replied. "We've seen cows before. Besides," she added, "we're waiting for Francesco to return." "We'll be back before Francesco gets back," he mimed, insistent that we accompany him. "No," we repeated, shaking our heads. Like most shepherds, this one was abundantly over his limit in the alcohol consumption department. There was no way we were going to be talked into going with him. To aid us in our decision, two of his friends stood behind him. Whenever he asked us to go, his two friends would emphatically shake their heads, warning us not to. After fifteen futile minutes, the gangly-limbed shepherd with the size 12 feet stomped out. His friends took the opportunity to enlighten us. Louie, they told us, drove a high-powered dirt bike. "His driving is moto-gross," one said. With Moto-gross Louie not monopolizing our time any longer, an oldster sidled over, and offered to buy Sharon a beer. Moto-gross Louie's friends caught our attention, and again shook their heads no. Sharon politely declined the old feller's offer. He wandered away and our two amigos warned Sharon to keep an eye on the old man's hands: they had been known to roam. Then the two addressed me, and advised: "Watch Louie around your woman." Huh? I was confused. Hadn't Louie already left to milk cows? "Him?" I asked, pointing in the old codger's direction. "Don't point!" one of the pair reproached, and slapped my hand in reprimand. I was stunned. There I was, in Italy, where their hand signals included every imaginable contortion - where I had been afraid to move my hands for fear they'd be misconstrued as some macabre meaning. And I was being disciplined? For pointing? Looking around the bar, I decided I also didn't fathom Italian's near-schizophrenic behaviour. One minute they were passionately waving their arms like some music conductor performing The Flight of the Bumblebee, and shouting at the top of their lungs in someone's contorted face. Surely a fight was imminent, I figured. The next minute, the same pair had their arms draped around each other, hugging as if they were a couple of long lost brothers. I didn't get it. To me, it was conversation at its most bizarre. Within an hour, Francesco returned and ordered several beers. Moto-gross Louie reappeared too, and ordered several beers. I wondered how much of a shepherd's disposable income went to buying beer? After four beers, Francesco's thirst was slaked. Or he may just have tired of listening to Moto-gross Louie's non-stop chatter. Whatever the reason, we left the bar and retired back to the sanctity of the farmhouse. Unfortunately, shortly thereafter, Moto-gross Louie darkened Francesco's farmhouse door. The dude was like a bad penny. He clomped in, leaving a trail of cow dung with each step, and chose a seat next to Sharon to begin his chatter anew. After a few minutes, Francesco informed him that we didn't understand a word he was saying. "Is that true?" Moto-gross Louie asked, looking genuinely surprised. "Si!" Sharon and I enthusiastically confirmed in unison. Unconvinced, Moto-gross Louie drew a deep breath and continued his babbling, waving his arms around like some epileptic buckaroo on a bronco. Occasionally, in a fit of hysteria over his own wit, he exuberantly slapped his leg. I looked over at Sharon. She successfully pulled the most bored looking expression I had ever seen, and then yawned so large I could see her epiglottis. It looked bored too. Francesco, finally tiring of the scene, bellowed at Moto-gross Louie. "Shut up! They don't understand you!" Alcohol-induced dense, Moto-gross again asked if that were true. I began to suspect he had slipped into the shallow end of the gene pool when the lifeguard wasn't watching. "Si!" we lustily chorused again. Moto-gross Louie sat in dazed silence for a full minute. The tragedy of his wonderfully clever epics not being understood slowly sank into his thick skull. After another minute, Moto-gross Louie staggered to his feet and clomped out the door. |
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