delighted and inspired by his reasoning, “are they not Peccati Mortali?”
“Lust, desire, Mortal Sins?” the Good Padre asked rhetorically. “Well, I guess that all depends on what you desire.”
“Please, Good Padre.” Mari leaned in toward the lattice and brought her voice to a whisper. “Am I not being clear when I say desire?”
“Hmm, let’s see. Do you desire a married man?”
Mari’s eyebrows sprang with shock. “Goodness no!” she blurted. But then, her countenance dropped—mio Dio!—might he be married?
“Well then,” the Good Padre continued, “do you desire a donkey?”
“What?” “A donkey?”
“No,” Mari answered quizzically.
“A goat?” “No.”
“A sheep?” “No.”
“A horse?”
“Good God!” exclaimed Mari. “What are you getting at?”
“Just what then do you desire that is so mortally wrong?”
“A boy!” Mari realized she had just about shouted. “A wonderfully handsome and beautiful boy about my age.”
“Well,” said the Good Padre, “do you think he is a good and honorable young man?”
“Oh, yes, Padre.”
“Is he good to his family and the land?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Is there love in his eyes when he looks at you?”
“Yes … I … I hope so.”
“And when you look at him?”
“Oh, by heaven, yes.” Mari beamed.
“And your heart, Mari, does it tell you that this love is true?”
“Oh, Good Padre, never has it spoken more clearly to me.” “Then what,” said the Good Padre, “could be sinful about that?”
“But … but …” Mari struggled to give words to her thoughts. To confess to the Good Padre that the boy, the wonderful, beautiful, handsome boy who she could not stop thinking about, was—
“Listen, my dear,” the Good Padre mercifully interrupted her stammering, “the evil that you think you’ve come to confess is the true direction of your heart’s compass. There is nothing inherently wrong with lust or desire. They are the natural energies of life, God’s divine fire. Yet in yourself you doubt what in nature you’d rightly trust. For does not the bee desire nectar, or the root for water lust? Without desire how would two sheep combine to make a flock, or eggs and chickens fill the coop without the lusty cock? Do you see, Mari? The energies of the body are replete with God’s grace. Hence, our job as humans is not to judge, but to set them in the right place.”
“Right place?” Mari murmured, overwhelmed.
“Hmm,” the Good Padre continued after a moment’s pause, “let me put it this way: the soil, the earth, in which you set cuttings and the farmer seed, bear the fruit by which man and village feed. In its place, it’s perfect, it’s life-giving earth, but when dragged by foot or hem of skirt, once in the house, we call it dirt. You see, the energy for which we wrongly pitch our mind to hell’s fire is not the problem of the thing, but where we apply the desire. And I am certain, Mari, with your good and noble soul, that desire rightly moves your eyes to where your heart be whole. And, as odd as it may sound, as hard it is to trust, when rightly placed, there’s God in your desire, Holy Spirit in your lust.”
But … Mari heard herself say though her mouth could not bear to actually express the word. It was too delicious, too wonderful a notion to contemplate. To think, even for a second, that her olives and his tomatoes could rightly com-mingle—divined by God, blessed by Holy Spirit.
In which We Learn
Man’s Father’s Technique
for Curing Green olives
When it came to the curing of olives, just about every village in Tuscany claimed it possessed the most flavorful and delicious olives in the land, and that its technique for curing was totally original and superior to all others. But the truth was, virtually all olives were cured using a saltwater brine bath, with the addition of some herbs and spices being the only local variable.
Mari’s father, though, had created a technique for curing green olives that was truly unique to all of Tuscany. Instead of curing the green olives in an open container and changing the brine bath daily for ten days, as was commonly done, he sealed the container and let the olives ferment for ten days in a manner similar to fermenting crushed grapes to make wine. The fermentation process softened the olive’s skin more than the typical brine. It made the flesh juicier and its bite more pungent, even a bit cheese-like, which was both off-putting and enthralling in a way that only cheese can be, and certainly no other olive was.