Tomato Rhapsody: A Fable of Love, Lust and Forbidden Fruit - By Adam Schell Page 0,29

“Here,” he said, catching up to the Good Padre’s slow-moving mule. “Take these pomodori. Eat the first few plain, they’re delicious, maybe with a touch of salt and olive oil.” Davido placed the tomatoes into the priest’s enormous hands. “Then take the others and slice them into bite-sized wedges. Toss with olive oil, a squeeze of lemon, salt, sheep’s cheese and fresh-cut mint. Remember, it’s mint that lends the dish a summer’s hin—”

Davido heard a thud and felt a tremor through the tendons and muscles of his feet and ankles, like that of a small earthquake. A prickle of fear now shot through his body as he scrambled to and knelt over the fallen priest. Thank goodness, thought Davido, that it wasn’t a far fall off his short mule, that the earth was soft, his back quite large and there was no rock to hit his head upon.

After a few seconds of ecstatic darkness—his entire being tossed and glistening with tomato, mint, cheese, olive oil and the entusiasmo and love in the boy’s gesture—the Good Padre opened his eyes and his vision came to focus upon the sweet face of the young Ebreo. “The Pomo di Amore?” he asked dreamily.

“Yes,” answered Davido.

“Are they injured?”

Davido glanced down and saw that the cluster of tomatoes had taken the fall gently, cradled between the priest’s huge hands and belly. “No.”

“Grazie Dio,” said the Good Padre with a deep sigh that deflated his belly and freed the illicit tomato hidden in his cassock. “Thank God.”

How wonderful, thought Davido, as he noticed a lone tomato gently roll from the folds of the Good Padre’s garment. A priest has stolen the forbidden fruit.

7 Grand Seal of the Meducci: a ring and document that verifies the holder has a direct relation to the Meducci and is afforded privileges and protection by the Duke of Tuscany.

In which We Learn

the Origins of

Our Heroine’s Name

Nearly twenty-two years past, a troupe of Neapolitan minstrels, who had been hired to play for the newly ascended Grand Duke of Tuscany, got lost en route somewhere between the undulating hills, mountainous peaks and vineyards of central Tuscany. By early evening, the disoriented and disheartened players headed up a twisty road, rolled by an olive orchard, continued under a medieval archway, trotted past a small stone church with a striking statue of the Virgin and wound up in the middle of our village’s piazza on what happened to be the hamlet’s most raucous and significant feast day.

The minstrels were from Naples and therefore quite familiar with the drunken antics ritually celebrated in the honor of one saint or another; but the troupe found the festive antics of our particular village, which combined drinking and donkey racing, so absurdly captivating, they stayed to observe the outcome. It was a heated competition eventually won by a strapping and inebriated young man. Upon victory, the young man professed his love for his sweetheart and asked for her hand in marriage. When she said yes, the crowd erupted with such intoxicated glee that the minstrels got swept up in the merriment, assumed their instruments and began to play.

Tuscans have historically been gifted builders, artisans and winemakers, but when it came to the making of music, no one in all of Italy could compare with Neapolitans. Accordingly, as the feast neared its end, the villagers begged the players to leave them with one of their glorious songs. It was a simple ballad, one renowned throughout Naples, entitled “Oi Mari.” It told of a lovesick young man as he stood before the window of the woman he loved. It was sunrise and the young man lay in hiding, praying for his love to arise, come to her window and open it to let the sun in so he may gaze upon her splendor.

The day’s champion was so moved by the song that he decided right there, if his first child was a girl, Mari would be her name. Ten months later, he and his wife did have a girl and they named her Mari: the very Mari who is the heroine of this story. However, it didn’t become tradition to serenade Mari with her namesake song until after the untimely death of her father and the laming of her mother, some ten years ago. It began one market day in spring when the Cheese Maker, a plump-bellied and sweet-natured man whose stand occupied the first slot in the market row, took notice of the little girl’s vacant eyes and lost expression