Tomato Rhapsody: A Fable of Love, Lust and Forbidden Fruit - By Adam Schell Page 0,10

urgent tidings from Holy Rome.” “Rome,” said the Good Padre with a wave of his hand. “For youth, Rome can wait.”

“But Padre, please. This is serious.” “Well,” chuckled the Good Padre, “then ’tis a fine day even better that Vatican courier hath entrusted you with papal letter.”

Bertolli groaned in dismay.

“Oh, Bertolli,” said the Good Padre, his attention suddenly fixated on a bee as it disappeared between the petals of a burgundy rose in full bloom, “nothing is so serious ‘til man think it so.” He bent over and brought his nose dangerously close to the bee’s endeavoring then gently sniffed the air. “Do you see, Bertolli, is it not sublime, this interplay of life? Do not all actions, be they elaborate or random, seem governed by divine accord? For the rose will choke upon its nectar unless extracted by the bee, and the bee that takes the nectar gives honey to man.” The Good Padre turned his head and looked directly into Bertolli’s eyes. “Who could imagine sweetness to arise in such a manner?”

“Bertolli,” said the Good Padre, breaking the extended moment of silence.

“Yes, Padre,” the boy said faintly.

“Speak. Speak.”

“Oh,” said Bertolli, with hardly the fervor of a moment ago. “Gli Ebrei, Gli Ebrei sono liberi.” The Ebrei are to be free.

3 Historical Note: throughout medieval and Renaissance Italy, the word black, nero, was not considered a color, rather the absence of color, and was used only to describe inanimate objects. Vernacular of that day commonly used fruits and vegetables as a means for describing the skin color of an individual or ethnic group. For example, travelers from the British Isles were described as having skin the color of cow’s cream; Ottomans, the sun-bleached hue of dried apricots; and Africans, the profoundly purple sheen of a ripe eggplant.

In Which we Learn of

Truffles & Other Mushrooms

With a knowing snort and a taut yank on the leashes around his wrist, Benito knew his little pigs had caught a whiff. This was the moment of the hunt and Benito shouted through the forest, “Tartufi! Tartufi!” to share his joy with the one he both loved and hated.

It was early Sunday morning and though Benito had already been up for hours, he felt stiff and unprepared to match the morning vigor of his little ladies. He belched as he struggled to keep control over the three knee-high sows leashed to his right wrist, and tasted an acrid teaspoon of last night’s drink as it sloshed back up from his belly. He feared he might vomit. Benito knew why his boss desired to go truffle hunting at such a premature time—Benito wasn’t as stupid as people thought him to be—but he never imagined that his trio of adolescent female pigs would actually catch a scent in late August. Last evening, at the tavern, as he ordered one, two and then three more pints, he did so figuring that today’s endeavor would prove nothing more than a futile walk in the woods with his lazy sows and greedy boss. But Benito’s truffle-hunting sows most certainly had caught scent of something and the familiar feeling of both joy and dread shot through Benito’s ale-bloated body.

Though it might seem more logical for Benito to balance the stress by holding two of his sows’ leashes in his left hand and one in his right, or vice versa, he knew better. He had never forgotten his first truffle hunt, when he mistakenly held two of his sows’ leashes in his left hand and one in his right and was left helpless as the fervent creatures divided around an oak tree, pulled his arms in two directions and ran his splayed-out body directly into the knobby old tree. The impact did poor Benito’s appearance no favor and furthered the expansion of a nose that had already faced numerous hardships.

It was amazing to Benito how creatures with such short legs and small strides could move at a clip so challenging to match. For the most part, sows were lazy animals, but once they caught a truffle’s scent, the little creatures went through an utter transformation: a demeanor marked by reluctance and sloth suddenly became one of vehemence. Thighs and hindquarters that moments ago jiggled like spongy adipose now snapped and shimmered with sinewy muscle. The rapture, though, was not without a certain grace, and no one could attest to that more than Benito.

For those unfamiliar with the near-narcotic flavor of a truffle, it may come as a surprise to learn that the