We had a nice, long, hard sleep, in two segments, actually, and woke up rested, in time to have a delicious breakfast.

Thick yogurt with fruit so redolent of the fields it assaulted my tastebuds. Fruit hasn’t passed over them in 8 weeks. A peach tarta so honey-sweet that I shouldn’t have eaten it, but I did. Tomatoes in balsamico that actually tasted like the fruit they are.

And strong coffee with hot milk.

We took the short drive down the hill to town to enjoy the last hour of the local market, where we bought some pungent cheese and what look like delicious pears and plums. Then on to the supermercato, for some salame and prosciutto. I had the salame and some cheese for lunch–delicious. White wine is chilling for later. Mmm. Italy and food go hand in hand.

I’m deep in my memoir writing exercises. The terrace is wonderful inspiration. Speaking of food, here’s one: Write about your favorite dessert.

My favorite dessert growing up was cannoli, and I liked them in the plural, because only one would be cannolo and not sufficient. Cannoli are too good to stop at one. From Savoia bakery on Clifford Avenue in my hometown of Rochester, NY.

The thick, white sweetened ricotta cheese, the chocolate chips on the ends, (never candied fruit, that was too) the counterpoint of the crispy shell against the soft cheese, whose mouth-feel was just the tiniest bit granular . In a fine-ground sugary kind of way. But not too sugary.

Papa would bring them on Sundays in white bakery boxes tied with white string, and into the refrigerator they’d go until it was time for dessert. He’d also bring flower-shaped shortbread cookies with raspberry centers, his trademark. And I liked them.

But my favorite dessert has always been cannoli.

They taste of home, Sunday, my grandfather’s deep, kind voice. The voice of a peacemaker.

Cannoli. They taste of kindness and peace.