Tartufo

by Kira Jane Buxton

In a bar nestled on top of a Tuscan hill, friends celebrate the passage of time. They are surrounded by the stone of old walls made rich and rustic over many seasons. By other charming little towns and villages, tucked away like truffles. Beyond the labyrinths of steep, cobbled paths and centuries-old houses, wheat fields rustle with maddening mountain air. Wheat waited upon—fed, fertilized, watered, and weeded—by the doting hands of farmers. Wheat fields give way to groves of olives. Where poor-postured trees are pruned, watered, and worshipped by humans. Neighboring the olive groves are bewildering beautiful vineyards. Vines planted in tiny lines like library books. Each a pulpit for a person to kneel before. Farther out still are the forests. As archetypal and mysterious as an ancestor. Beech. Oak. Fir. Chestnut. Chestnuts are swelling to peak sweetness. Ripening, dropping, humans on their hands and knees to gather these little gemstones of Christmas culture. And everywhere, the shiny skulls of mushrooms erupting from the earth. Each is a masterpiece. Porcinis with their bread bun hats. Frilly yellow petticoats of chanterelles. Tiny trumpets of oyster mushrooms. Slimy little sirens who quicken the hearts of fungiatt—the mushroom hunters.