La Passeggiata   

            Aeneas Piccolomini slips on his blue suit coat and adjusts the perfect knot of his necktie. He wears this suit and only this suit when they go out for the evening.

            The suit is blue, a light blue between a robin’s egg and the brilliance of a Tuscan sky. The tie is the same blue, exactly. His white shirt is starched and meticulously pressed. His dress shoes are mahogany brown, shined to a high gloss, as he treads with care down narrow, carpeted stairs to the foyer where Angela his daughter and Tonio his son-in-law wait, as smartly attired as he.

            He is a small and tidy, elegant man - “un piccolo uomo“- as his name implies. He stands straight as steel. His cheeks are slightly flushed and transparent as pink marble. His thinning hair is white. His nose is “Italianate” (so to speak) and his ears are small. His sightless, unclouded eyes are the blue of his suit.

            Angela says, "I want to hold your hand, Papa. The steps are uneven." She takes a hand, then gently his elbow. Tonio pulls the heavy oaken door closed behind them which latches with a solid snick. The trio descends and walks arm in arm toward the sunlight at the far end of the street.

            At Piazza del Campo, they join the passeggiata, and along with others they stroll in the orange glow and lilac shadows. They move and weave among mingled murmurs of a hundred voices that echo against buildings that line the square. Except for a small boy waving his arms flying his toy wooden airplane, people part as they pass. Many greet them.

            They are as striking as a freshly painted canvas.

            Aeneas cannot see, but he hears conversations in English and German, French and Italian. He knows the sweet aroma of the loaves in the panetteria, the bouquet of the florist, the taste of his friend Rodolfo's prosciutto across his tongue, and the musky scent of his cousin Michaele's wine shop where many tourists have sampled the wares over the course of the day.

            “Miki has done well today.”

            “Yes he has, Papa.”

            “Tonio, the crowds seem large for this time of year."

            “Si, Signor, they are large.”

            Aeneas looks directly ahead. His feet feel the cobbles like hands and he doesn’t stumble. He knows the sounds of each caffetteria they pass along their way. In his head, he also hears the thundering hooves of bareback racehorses of the palio, their frenzied dashing around the plaza.

            We find them on the first evening of the spring equinox, the three of them quietly carrying their thoughts in the waning day.

Easy As Pie

            I can make a pie crust in two minutes flat. That includes taking the Cuisinart out of the cupboard, assembling it, measuring two cups of flour and a dash of salt, cutting butter and shortening into cubes, pulsing a couple times, then letting her rip while dribbling ice water through the feed-tube. Voila! The machine even forms the dough into a ball before my eyes.

            My skill at this particular exercise has become a family legend of sorts, and modesty doesn’t prevent me from enjoying the resulting holiday adulation. The flip side, of course, is that you-know-who gets the call every Thanksgiving and Christmas. But let’s be honest, did Pavarotti decline Yuletide entreaties for “O Holy Night” `round the Steinway?

            Last Christmas saw us over the river and through airport security to grandmother’s house. My mom, my sister, her husband, various progeny and significant others would reunite after too much absence. Chilly walks, nourishing conversations by a comfy fire (burning wood someone else has chopped), Scrabble games, and the tangy aroma of hot cider lay ahead.

            “Sure, Mom, I’ll make the pies,” I said over the phone. How could it be otherwise?

            Reality jabbed its cold finger into my chest moments before we left the house for the airport. Mom doesn’t own a Cuisinart!

            I rifled my cupboards for a bent pastry cutter. I scribbled out the Joy of Cooking recipe for Basic Pie Dough. I told myself that pioneer wives on the Oregon Trail made pies on a wagon plank with month-old flour, rancid lard, and branch water while Pa kept a lookout for grizzlies and unhappy Sioux.

            We arrived at Mom’s amid hugs and smiles and lugging of suitcases -- and how many times did I hear the word “pie”?

            The next morning, we played golf. It’s a tradition. At eighty-three, Mom’s remarkable. Plays twice a week, breaks a hundred as often as not, and has four holes-in-one to her credit. My retired brother-in-law plays golf eight days a week and shoots to a six handicap. I play six times a year.

            The competition on the links wasn’t what ruffled my concentration that morning, however. I walked eighteen gorgeous fairways plotting how to make stealth run to Safeway and somehow decant two pumpkin pies into Mom’s pie plates unnoticed.

            About now you’re thinking “ridiculous.” But childhood family-of-origin issues die hard, don’t they?