Feb25th-Salt

There is a certain harmonious elegance to country life that beggars it's urban counterpart; after a long, luxurious stroll to Minas Tirith (granted the Italians have renamed it Poggio and dirtied up the breastworks some to avoid attracting the attention of maurauding Orcs, cunningly diguised as begroceried little grannies, obviously) we return, and I prepare a lunch of pasta al funghi con porchetta, using the delectable pork and mushrooms native to this region; the pork grows in the garden right next to the carrots.  I shave in large swaths of pecorino, a cheese that lives somewhere in between the embattled regions of Parmesan and cheddar, though neither are as war torn as Swiss, throw in an egg i gathered this morning from the recalcitrant hens, and dip the bread we made from scratch yesterday into a bowl of balsamic and olive oil, the oil pressed from olives sourced on the premises. The solitary wine christiane bought at the local vinery... Is on the sideboard, because we're saving it for a picnic at Carsulae, but I stare at the bottle and it's label that says Umbria as the Lord Nelson tea splashes frivolously, which by the way, it can only do when drunk outside of its native England.