Italian Lesson

I gazed out the window as our plane began its descent into Florence. Firenze, I said softly, noticing how the Italian word tickled my tongue. Rows of silvery olive trees and gnarled grape vines striped the land below. La bella paese. That’s what Italians called their home—the beautiful country. Our destination was Casa Ombuto, a Villa tucked in the hills of Tuscany, and would be home for a week as we attended Mediterranean cooking school. There were five of us traveling together, all middle-aged women who shared a love of cooking and considered themselves to be more than competent in the kitchen. The first morning I awoke early and made my way to the main building. Breakfast was displayed on

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