Everyone one of us feels that there’s a special place in the world where they truly belong, a place where ones blood runs through the earth of creation, a memory left behind from heavens’ garden. For me, that place is Tuscany. I’ve always been a fan of Italian culture, music and not to mention cuisine, but from all the places I’ve visited, nowhere have I felt more secure, more at peace or more at home. That’s maybe because I have Italian ancestors, although they’re from Sicily. Maybe is because the voice of David is shinning through the icy marble, sending shockwaves through the grapevine sky. What ever it may be, I find myself in trance. Nothing is impossible under the passionate smile of the Tuscan sun. I suddenly feel the urge to squeeze the quartz hills in a wheatgrass juicer and by drinking the life stream left behind, achieve immortality. Indeed, the imagery of the wheatgrass juicer has haunted me for quite a while. In your hands, lay hidden the powers to deconstruct existence, to reduce everything to a beating, breathing fresh green, to a light flavor of happiness. Once woken from the afternoon dream, awaits the humming of the saltarello, magnetizing your body with the irrational need to dance. No time to rest. Dinner is served early in paradise. Prepare the prosciuto in long thin strips, take the wheatgrass juicer from the pantry in order to make the souse for the pasta. After dinner, take a walk through the garden. Amazed by its enormity, for a second, you fear you are lost. But the blessed prospect that you have passed into a different realm is short lived. Steams of love erupt with an intoxicating fragrance from the scorched earth. Arriving at the end of the maze, you see a fire fly engaged in a serenade dedicated to the moon. You fall asleep on the moss, the flavor of fresh green still vivid in your mind.