We’ve finally had some rain. Tons of rain. That means the mushrooms have finally poked their little dome-like heads out of the forest duff. My neighbors left this evening with baskets.
Another neighbor has slices of porcini drying in the sun. He puts them on screens, then tilts the screens toward the sun. They are like art, these screens.
Unfortunately it’s hunting season here in northern Tuscany. Shots ring out mornings and evenings. The weapons are sophisticated. Bam-bam-bam-bam-bam they go in quick succession, as if the furtive bunny was a tank to be feared. There must be a lot of lead buried in this soil. Enough to line a bomb shelter at least.
Europeans like Obama 4 to one over McCain.
Will the mushroom hunters encounter the rabbit hunters?
Tomorrow we shall head south to an island which is no longer an island.
When we return, we shall drink the wine.