The first thing urbanites notice about farm life is the pace. Everything is slower, and urgency becomes a dirty word indeed. You rise and set with the sun, and often spend entire days completing one or two basic manual tasks - and so it is today: we pass most of the morning preparing a local delicacy called fichi maritati, or married figs. To make:
0) Pick figs. 1) Cut figs in half and leave to dry in the sun over several days, covering them overnight. 2) Once figs are mostly dry but still somewhat sticky, pick some finocello (fennel) seeds and almonds. 3) Shell almonds and pan-roast without salt. 4) Take one fig. Place 3-4 finocello seeds and 1 roasted almond in each half. Repeat until you have used half of your figs. 5) Grate some lemon zest and sprinkle over the stuffed figs. 6) With the second half of your figs, cover each stuffed fig with another fig and press the edges together to seal the filling inside. 7) Bake.
A lot of work, to be sure...but the result is deliciously sweet! Perhaps more importantly, fichi maritati can be stored over long periods, and are thus ideal as a snack for the long winter months. (Random fact courtesy of an herbal encyclopedia we discovered on the kitchen shelves: fennel acts as a mild diuretic.)
With those prepared, we switch to almond shelling in the afternoon. The pile of almonds is nearly endless, and we speculate freely as to why exactly our hunter-gatherer ancestors ever considered it worthwhile to eat nuts in the first place...while our pile of husks rapidly grows larger, the line of shelled almonds in the jar inches up near-imperceptibly - and yet it is our task to fill the jar, so we keep at it until we run into a mass of rotten husks near the bottom of the almond pail. Nevertheless, one can never judge an almond by its husk. Husks in seemingly advanced stages of rot can conceal perfectly edible nuts; the only reliable way to judge fitness for eating is to remove the decomposing organic matter slime, shell the damn thing, and check the almond for firmness (as Valkyrie explained before.)
Today also marks the arrival of Jean, a wandering traveller who used to work as a painter in Paris until nearly 7 years ago when, owing to a general shortage of jobs, he decided instead to set out on the road with nothing more than a large-ish pack, some clothes and a sleeping bag...since then, he has hopped from continent to continent, often taking extended stays with WWOOF farms or other work-for-room-and-board establishments. An interesting life, to be sure - and yet he is very quiet and reserved with all the egolessness of seasoned wanderers who, having left everything behind to lose themselves in this great world, have finally lost themselves. For identity is a dangerous thing in that life, where one is dependent upon the charity and hospitality of complete strangers...another reminder that our trip, though comparatively long, is only temporary...
And that is all. The sun is setting, so that we must struggle to see by candlelight - time for bed!