Winter Picnic

It seemed a fluke that the sun rose to our occasion. The text message had arrived from Michelle early in the week when leaden clouds hung desperately close to us, blocking out all hope of sudden rays or even warmth enough for brisk giri of the Rocca. She was going to put together one of her picnics for Saturday. Who said picnics could only happen when the fields were bristling wildflowers? Maybe we could drive up to the field at the top of Monteluco and spread out blankets and feast under a winter sky.

Umbrians call the last three days of January i giorni dei merli, Blackbird Days, days legend claims to be so cold that white doves turn black to just to hide from cold. And indeed, the way things have been going for most of us, I have kept in mind that these are traditionally the worst days of the year, the bleakest, the most isolated, the time when dogs like Sosso die, and friendships go crazy, and Seasonal Affective Disorder reaches peak, and vitamin D levels fall to make everyone cranky and miserable and not sure life is really worth living, after all, or if worth living, not the way one is currently living it—where and with whom, doing what seems suddenly not worth doing at all. Think of last January, I tried to reassure Michelle on the phone, all the things that went wrong, the people we were not speaking to. Remember the day just before the 1st of February—yes, one of i giorni dei merli—when I almost gave up on life here and moved back to the States. Yes, I told Michelle, it would be a fine thing to get together and even eat together, but why not at Ferretti by the huge open fireplace with the grill upon which the waiters toss the Umbrian sausages and porkchops and steaks to sizzle and pop right on the flames while they keep refilling our glasses with wine from Montefalco. I had no desire to be out in the cold. “We’ll talk on Saturday,” Michelle dismissed me, as though trusting the power of her intention—and the feast she would prepare—to sway the weather.

Saturday came around and it seemed disorienting: to wake up—late for me—at eight in my dark shuttered room and see just beyond the crack of the door a lemon yellow light that seemed unnatural as though something surreal were going on outside—something unname-able and too close to dreams to make sense, lemon water maybe, lemon jello, the world gone yellow from the birth of a new sun. I tip-toed into the hall, somewhat disbelieving, reticent, but sure enough it was only ordinary sunlight streaming in from an extraordinary sky so blue it did not belong to winter and certainly not to i giorni dei merli, not that Saturday was a bona fide giorno dei merli given it was only the 26th, three days short.

I am told it is a sure sign of insanity to believe one’s wishes can control the weather. That is what madmen do: wave their fists at the sky and demand Spring when it is Winter. Pink sky at night, sailors delight; pink sky at morning, sailor take warning—we must humble ourselves before the elements, beneath the neutral, uncaring sky. But how the day seemed made for us, as we spread out quilts and pillows in the field and began to unpack a feast that would put Babbette to shame: potato/farro soup with chili croutons; wild green salad; baked ricotto with black cabbage on a bed of rucola garnished with cherry tomato halves and pickles wrapped in procuitto. Prosecco fizzed in our fluted glasses, an orange and almond cake twinkled with honey and sugar garnishing…and the steady, caring light made us all feel gifted by a miracle.

Today is a bona fide giorno dei merli, and yet the sunshine and warmth persist like a promise, enough of a promise that Daniela and I did 12 giri della Rocca this morning, tirelessly, commenting over and over how much we needed this time, this clearing of the weather, this light, this joy, this evidence of another time and place and season beyond the winter we will surely endure.