Letters from a 300-year-old Italian farmhouse. April 28

The beauty of change.

The first spring I saw the old, dilapidated barn and farmhouse we had bought, is when I learned the Italian word, “tulipano.” One look at that sassy little beauty popping up amongst the grasses and I would remember the word forever. The barn, the house, the yard was in such chaos and so full of rustic, (really, really rustic) charm, that this single, perfectly cultivated flower spoke to me.

“Hi there. I have been groomed and cared for before. And I will be again. Just you wait.”

It gave me hope. And reassurance. We were perhaps not foolish to have bought this rambling, untamed property. Maybe it actually could become our home, spiders, scorpions, bats and badgers notwithstanding. In time.

It was also when I learned the word “forno," looking at the little cottage sitting sweetly in the field behind the tulipano. The forno was the commune’s oven, where families would come on designated days to bake their bread for the week.

They would also leave their meat dishes and casseroles overnight to cook in the warm forno; the original slow cooker. I can imagine this was also where the townsfolk would catch up on the important news of the week, chatting and gossiping, maybe over coffee. It was a place where the residents could share in what the Italians create so beautifully…community.

I have always loved having the forno on our property. We used it to store garden tools and equipment and have throughly enjoyed its old, authentic character. But for the past several years, its function had been diminishing. With every storm, we lost a few more roof tiles. The building had begun listing towards the valley. I would get a shiver walking through the door to get a rake, afraid of what creature I might discover setting up house in there. And one good snowstorm could knock the whole thing to the ground. The time had come to renovate it.

After fits and starts, slow permits, supply chain problems and labor issues, we managed to tackle the project. Zef, our builder and friend who renovated the original barn and home, came back and worked his magic again on the forno.

A small part of me misses the rough beauty of the original little hut. But the rest of me is pleased that we saved the structure from destruction, and brought it a new energy.

I was thinking about this last night during a semi-spontaneous party we had at our home. We do not often socialize with other ex-pats, mostly because there are not many of them, and partly because we like to stretch our comfort zone and speak with locals when we can, practicing and often fracturing the Italian language, making us really feel that we are in Italy. But this time, it felt quite wonderful to be in the company of two different British families who live near us in Roddino, and four other Americans who have a vacation home in Monforte. Everyone brought food and drink to share, and plenty of it. Relaxing in our home amidst the easy chatter in our native tongues, new friends and old, was a nice change after a busy winter of hibernating, and a true pleasure.

It reminded me of what might have been going on in and around the forno a hundred years ago.

A sense of community. The breaking of bread. Laughter. Wine. Friendship. And maybe a little bit of carefully chosen change.

It’s what life in Piemonte is all about.

What do you think? I would love to hear from you!

What are your thoughts? Change can be difficult. Do you embrace it? Or resist it? Tell me what you think. This is your community. Let’s share how we all make sense of things.

Look for my posts each week. I’ll be right here.

This is how I stay close to everyone far away. I will be writing letters once a week, with stories of Piemonte, recipes that I have fallen in love with, tales of people I meet, places I discover and anything else that I think you might find amusing, curious or worthwhile. It’s free. It’s a way to look at the world from a different window, and hopefully let a little Italian sunshine into your day.

A presto!

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