A Clean Fantasy In An Otherwise Dirty Mind

It is Monday morning and the house is quiet. Hubby left for work and the wee ones are in school and kindergarden, respectively. We are now in the middle of October and the cold is setting in. I still haven’t been struck by a thunderbolt of enlightenment to tell me how I should proceed with my life after loosing my job now 6 months ago.

It is not that I haven’t thought about it. I have. I am just still really content to do nothing at all. Although it is taking its toll on my energy-levels. I have none what so ever. (Spending energy GIVES you energy. Fuddi-diddling about doesn’t.)

Life coaches always tell you to imagine what you would do if there were no limits. If everything was possible. (It is, you know!)

Well. I would buy a charming old small castle that was miraculously free of maintenance in Tuscany. And there, I would open a heaven. A retreat where people would come and receive healing and love and food. Some of them would be very rich and pay a shitload of money to be in my heeling presence. Then my friends would mooch off on that.

The form of the healing would naturally depend on the wound, but I would generally prescribe exercise, meditation, gardening and lots of love. And food.

The love would be all around. From the big, fluffy towels to the cool Egyptian cotton sheets on the beds, the carefully selected art on the walls and the constantly changing smells coming from the kitchen – freshly baked bread, something cooking for a long time in wine or that fragrant smell of truffles, that would hit your nostrils like a big kiss.

I would arrange trips with a local man and his truffle-pig and we would hunt and gather the black gold-nuggets only to grate it in perverse quantities over freshly cooked Capelli d’angelo pasta with a sprinkle of picobello cheese and a drop of oil and naturally a huge glass of local red wine on the side.

I would be wearing an apron as an integrated part of my outfit and you would never catch me wearing anything tight or with heels. Comfort, health and happiness would ooze from me.

This place would naturally attract a wondrous mix of artists, philosophers and artisans. There would always be a project of pottery and paintings in progress, baskets being weaved, someone working in the darkroom, someone having an impromptu jamsession and constantly, kids would be running around barefoot and with scratched knees and dirty fingernails and a circle of black berry juice around little mouthes.

A local farmer would help out in the garden. An olive orchard just large enough to keep us self-sufficient with golden-green drops of fragrant oil and an old fig tree so huge and heavy with fruits, that it would yield enough to make jams and preserves to be sold on the local market. There would naturally be made small fig-tarts with rosemary and goats’ cheese and salads with figs and greens and hard cheeses drizzled with honey.

And the tomatoes! Yellow, green, orange and redder than red. Small hard ones and huge ones with weird folds and creases. All to be semi-dried with herbs and oils or cut up fresh and enjoyed on bread with salt and my special mayonaise. Big tomato salads with sun-dried olives and greedy handfuls of fresh basil. Or simply finely cut and placed on paper-thin crust and baked in the wood oven with slices of ham, local cheeses and again the omnipresent truffles.

And at night, we would sit in the yard and look at the stars without being cold and we would enjoy a bitter cup of coffee and a small glass of something strong. Soft murmurs of conversation would be heard until someone would yell for giggling kids to get back to bed. The cicada would make their familiar noise and far away a chorus of dogs would sing at the moon.

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Hot shit, that’s the best daydream I’ve ever had that didn’t involve Denzel Washington wearing only baby-oil and a big hard-on!