where fish wear crowns 251picture, as proof of some universal fact of life: they couldn’t give all theirs
away either. At home we would have considered these “heavers” (that’s
what we do with them, over the back fence into the woods). But these
were carefully stacked against the back wall of the house like a miniature
cord of firewood, presumably as winter fuel for a pig or chickens. The
garden’s secondos would be next year’s prosciutto.
On a rural road near Lake Trasimeno we stopped at a roadside stand
selling produce. We explained that we weren’t real shoppers, just tourists
with a fondness for vegetables. The proprietor, Amadeo, seemed thrilled
to talk with us anyway (slowly, for the sake of our comprehension) about
his life’s work and passion. He was adamantly organic, a proud founding
member of Italy’s society of organic agriculture.
His autumn display was anchored by melons, colorful gourds, and
enough varieties of pumpkin to fill a seed catalog for specialists. I was
particularly enchanted with one he had stacked into pyramids all around
his stand. It was unglamorous by conventional standards: dark blue- green,
smaller than the average jack- o’-lantern, a bit squat, and covered over 100
percent of its body with bluish warts. He identified it as Zucche de Chi-
oggia. We took photos of it, chatted a bit more, and then moved on, ac-
cepting the Italian tourist’s obligation to visit more of the world’s
masterpieces than the warty pumpkin- pyramids of Amadeo.
At day’s end we were headed back, after having taken full advantage of
an olive oil museum, a farmers’ market, two castles, a Museum of Fish-
ing, and a peace demonstration sponsored by the Italian government. We
passed by the same vegetable stand on our return trip and couldn’t resist
stopping back in to say hello. Amadeo recognized us as the tourists with
no vegetable purchasing power, but was as hospitable as ever. He’d had a
fine day, he said, though his pyramids had not exactly been ransacked. I
admired that pumpkin, asking its name again (writing it down this time),
and whether it was edible. Amadeo sighed patiently. Edible, signora? He
gave me to know this wart- covered cucurbit I held in my hand was the
most delicious vegetable known to humankind. If I was any kind of cook,
any kind of gardener, I needed to grow and eat them myself.
I asked if he had any seeds, glancing around for one of those racks. He
leaned toward me indulgently, summoning the disposition that all good