Eat Your Beans

Tis the season of sagra in Tuscany, and the timing could not be better! Sagre (plural) are festivals held each spring and summer in many little Italian villages, celebrating the bounties of Mama Earth. Certainly a tradition carried for thousands of years! If you can eat or drink it, then there is probably a sagra dedicated to it; sagra di artichoke, sagra di olive, s.d. cheese, s.d. vino, s.d. strawberry, you name it. Our sagra experience started at the tip-top of the dietary pyramid... Sagra di Fagioli! (Beans!)

I was spinning the pedals through a quaint, hillside village called Penna on a beautiful day when the road ahead was suddenly blocked by a gang of old men. They were the locals, and the 20 of them were wearing matching cycling caps to prove it. The color of these caps?? None other than the striking black and gold of the Iowa Hawkeyes! As I weaved the two-wheeler through the group, who were hard at work setting up a grandstand in the street, the Hawk in me blurted inquiry. "Signori! Where can I get one of your hats??" The hustle-bustle of work halted, and the wisemen of Penna stared back...who was this strange dude in spandex asking for hats?

Carlo was a man with twinkling eyes and a stout, full head of white hair, disguising the truth of his 70+ years. He promptly stepped forward as the ringleader, hat in hand, and planted it snugly on my noggin with a grin. "Sei bello adesso!" (Now, you look good) as he noted my matching Hawks cycling uniform. His gift was priceless. The next gift he gave was a personal invite to the Sagra di Fagioli that night, where every local goes to make magical fruit music in harmonious celebration of flatulation... it smelled even better than it sounds.

The four of us piled in the car, and after being lost and found on a dirt road (thanks to direction by an old farmer with a herd of two-dozen cats), we victoriously arrived at the Bean Fest! The community spirit of the sagra had us seated at long tables in a tent, blended seamlessly with the people of Penna. Until word got out... "Americani! Benvenuti!" We made many dinner friends who happily practiced Italian conversation with us. Before we could finish our first bowl of beans and onions, we were being treated as guests of honor.

"Mangiate! Bevete!" (Eat! Drink!) The two bottles of vino we had ordered multiplied to eight in a flash of generosity from neighboring tables. Our once half-eaten plates of pork chop and pasta turned into mounds of fresh fare still steaming from the kitchen. And plates full of the beloved Tuscan treat "cantucci" arrived along with bottles of vin santo in which to dip these delicious almond cookies. We looked at each other wide-eyed... "are we in Heaven?" Giovanni the butcher overheard, "No, you're in Toscana." he said with a smirk...

The dinner crowd slowly dwindled from the tent, until we were left among only the sagra staff workers. Carlo appeared again, full of excitement that we had come, and told us to stay while the staff had their own celebration of a hard weekend's work. The town priest (who naturally stood out, being the only person from the Republic of Congo within 100 miles) stood on a table, glass of wine raised, and proceeded to give a very comical and animated sermon/toast to his flatulent flock. He was applauded with endearing hoots and hollers from the crowd.

After many rounds of toasts among the townspeople, and jubilant chants and songs sung by the ragazzi (the teenage waiters and waitresses), we were whisked out into the church yard in a frenzy. Everyone was gathered at the steps of the little old church, staring up at the bell tower in eager anticipation... were there going to be fireworks?? a laser show?? Jesus?? At this point in the evening, nothing would have surprised us...

Suddenly, the church bells boomed out a melody that could have been a cover of a Michael Jackson hit, judging by the raucous dancing that ensued among the town folk. Every 30 seconds or so, the ding-donging would cease, the crowd would deflate momentarily with a reluctant cheer, and the tune would start all over again in double time! Jive on! This was one cool church... Even the town mayor could be seen swinging the dosey-doe wearing a cowboy hat which he had yanked from the head of one of us unsuspecting Americani.

Visions of the remainder of the night include learning choreographed line dances to karaoke in the park, and spinning the mayor's wife around the dance floor like an Italian Dirty Dancing scene.

The sagra was about beans, the magical fruit, but it was really about so much more... the magic of being alive in the land of Toscana.