Books: Under the Tuscan Sun by Frances Mayes

A lovely book about the challenge of starting over in a new place.

Under the Tuscan Sun is the story of a San Franciso native who finds her bliss in Italy. It is a book that fires me up and makes me want to do things.

In 1990, after years of summering in Cortona, Italy, American author Frances Mayes and her husband make a bold and life-altering decision. They decide to purchase and restore Bramasole, a centuries-old home in Italy's Tuscany region.

I can relate to this: after years of wintering in Pismo Beach, I up and moved here in 1996. I was so happy when I was here, and so sad when I had to leave—it began to make little sense to me not to live here. But I found out, as Mayes did, that pursuing one’s dream isn’t without its challenges.

Mayes buys a big, blue leather-bound book and writes "ITALY" on the first page. In the book, she makes lists and keeps notes about the restoration process. The book is gradually filled with lists of projects and native wildflowers, menus and recipes, Italian words and their definitions, descriptions of rooms and scenery, gardening tips and poetry. Over the course of four years, the book eventually becomes Under the Tuscan Sun, a travelogue that reads more like a beautiful work of literary fiction.

Why am I telling you about this book that takes place in Italy? I’ve been to Tuscany, and it’s the place this Californian would live if she didn’t live in California. Both have Mediterranean climates, both have beautiful scenery, and both have a more laid-back vibe. I think this book captures the spirit of a Californian who’d make such a drastic move, upend her life, and start over in a new place. I’d do it.

Under the Tuscan Sun is as much the story of the author's renewal as it is of Bramasole's. Mayes tells us that the name of the house comes from the archaic Italian words bramare, which means "to yearn for," and sole, which means "something that yearns for the sun." This, the San Francisco native confides early on, describes her state of mind perfectly as she and her husband take ownership of Bramasole.

In Tuscany, a rural region of Italy, Mayes is forced to come to terms with her very American need for schedules and deadlines and formalities in a place where people refuse to jump onto the treadmill alongside more fast-paced societies. Readers whose perfectionism require that every "t" be crossed and every "i" be dotted will cringe right alongside Mayes at the casual and seemingly offhand manner in which real estate transactions are conducted in this relaxed area of the world. Workaholic readers will share Mayes's frustration as she unsuccessfully attempts to keep her laid back and easygoing contractor on schedule ... or to get him to show up at all.

As Mayes settles into a simpler and more relaxed way of living at Bramasole, readers will both envy and applaud her newfound freedom:

After a few days, my life takes on its own rhythm. I wake up and read for an hour at three A.M.; I eat small snacks—a ripe tomato eaten like an apple--at eleven and three rather than lunch at one. At six I'm up, but by siesta time, the heat of the day, I'm ready for two hours in bed. Slumber sounds heavier than sleep, and with the hum of a small fan, it's slumber I fall into. At last, I have time to take a coverlet outside at night and lie on my back with the flashlight and the star chart. With the Big Dipper easily fixed right over the house, I finally locate Pollux in Gemini and Procyon in Canis Minor. I forget the stars and here they are, so alive all along, pulsing and falling.

Food is integral to Mayes's descriptions of her new life in rural Italy. Her descriptions of local foods and seasonal produce, as well as of the experiences that go along with preparing and eating a meal, add sensuality and richness to Under the Tuscan Sun. The book is filled with Mayes's recipes and cooking notes. She grows her own produce and herbs. She learns to cook simply and according to the seasons. In summer, risotto with red chard, porcini sauce over polenta, baked peppers with ricotta and basil, cherries steeped in red wine, and pears in marscarpone custard. In winter, bruschette with pecorino and nuts, wild mushroom lasagna, braised quail with juniper berries and pancetta, winter pears in vino nobile and rustic apple bread pudding. Recalling cooking lessons taken with Simone Beck in Provence, Mayes writes:

I've learned here that simplicity is liberating. [Simone's] philosophy applies totally to this kitchen, where we no longer measure, but just cook. As all cooks know, ingredients of the moment are the best guides. Much of what we do is too simple to be called a recipe—it's just the way to do it.

Going to market for fresh ingredients becomes a daily social outing. Relaxed, late-night dinners with friends, savored over a period of hours, become symbolic of Mayes's gradual embracement of a life that is not only slower-paced, but more gracious, more vibrant and more appreciative. The reader senses Mayes's growing gratitude for the most simple pleasures and moments, as well as her discovery of the comforts of community:

The leisure of a summer place, the ease of prime ingredients, and the perfectly casual way of entertaining convince me that this is the kitchen as it's meant to be. I think of my mother's summer tables often. She launched meals, seemingly with ease. Finally, it dawns on me—maybe I'm not simply inadequate. It was easier then. She had people around her, as we do here. I sat on the ice cream churn while my sister turned the handle. My other sister shelled peas. Willie was totally capable. My mother directed kitchen traffic, arranged the table. I use her recipes often, and have a measure of her ease with guests but, please, no fried chicken. Here, I have that prime ingredient, time. Guests really do want to pit the cherries or run into town for another wedge of parmigiano. Also, cooking seems to take less time because the quality of food is so fine that only the simplest preparations are called for. Zucchini has a real taste. Chard, sauteéd with a little garlic, is amazing. Fruit does not come with stickers; vegetables are not waxed or irradiated, and the taste is truly different.

Mayes's writing transports the reader to Bramasole and gives us a real taste of and feel for day-to-day life in rural Italy. The book is a feast for the senses, a delicious concoction which the reader will want to eat up in gulps, but which is best savored word by delectable word. It is worth reading (and drooling over) for the recipes alone. Most importantly, Under the Tuscan Sun does what all of the very best books do: It makes us long for something better ... and it makes us believe we can achieve it.

About the Author

Frances Mayes is a poet, gourmet cook, and travel writer. She was a Professor of Creative Writing at San Francisco State University. She is married to poet Edward Kleinschmidt. She and her husband now split their time between Hillsborough, North Carolina, and Cortona, Italy. Under the Tuscan Sun reached #1 on the New York Times Bestseller List and was named a New York Times Notable Book for 1997.