Living in a Foreign Language by Michael Tucker Page B

to take a
pisolino
—that’s a little nap—so that she’d be up for going to the
sagra
that night.
    Bruce and JoJo picked us up around seven o’clock and we drove about forty-five minutes to a little town called Canarra, which is in the farm country just south of Assisi. Canarra also happens to be where St. Francis did his famous talk with the birds. Along the way, Bruce filled us in on what we were about to experience.
    â€œThere are
sagras
all over Italy. For most towns, the
sagra
is the sole source of revenue for the entire year. It’ll help to pay for equipping the fire department or erecting a war memorial in the piazza . . . whatever. And the whole town pitches in.”
    â€œThe best is the goose
sagra
in Bettona,” chipped in JoJo. “Goose done every way you can imagine—and some ways you can’t.”
    â€œWhat about the snail
sagra
in the Valnerina?”
    â€œGarden pests. I can’t stomach them. I don’t know what you see in them, to tell you the truth.”
    â€œEven a snail needs love, Joanna.”
    â€œYou don’t love them; you eat them.”
    Bruce smiled his little Cheshire cat grin. He’s been playing straight man to JoJo for years, and they have their act down pat.
    â€œWhat about the one at Lago di Bolsena?” said JoJo. “That’s probably the best, if you had to choose.”
    â€œThey hold it every year on Ash Wednesday. Most
sagras
are in the summer—when the crops are coming in—but Lago Bolsena’s is in the middle of the winter.”
    â€œAsh Wednesday—rain or shine.”
    â€œThey cook everything in these giant cauldrons—fish from the lake—and the cooks wear asbestos suits to avoid getting incinerated.”
    â€œAnd you have to bring your own plate, your own silverware, everything.”
    â€œYeah. All they provide is the fish.”
    â€œIt’s a madhouse. You have to reserve months in advance.”
    We couldn’t get any closer to Cannara than a half-mile away. We parked alongside the road and hiked in with hundreds of other people. Cannara’s is an onion
sagra
. Their onions are famously sweet—much like Mauis or Vidalias—and when the crop comes in, you can find them featured all over Italy.
    The tiny town was packed with people. All the stores were open and set up like booths at a carnival. And in the four main piazzas, giant tents had been constructed to serve as restaurants. There were long lines at every one, but the turnover was pretty fast. The cooks were recruited from the men and women of the town—Cannarians, I suppose—who had been cooking these recipes for generations. Once we got inside, we found seats at one of the long tables—everything was family style—and in no time, a young woman came up to take our order. She was clearly not a professional. She shouted at us over the din to hurry up and order; we shouted back what we wanted. We ordered onion soup—served with onion bread; then pastawith bacon and onions, which was a knockout; then various meat dishes—smothered with onions, of course; then a big plate of fried onions for the middle of the table. There was an onion and fennel salad—to cleanse the palate—and we finished up with onion ice cream, which was as bad as it sounds. We washed all this down with pitchers of young red wine.
    After we paid up—making our contribution to the local economy—we walked through the little streets, burping merrily along with the rest of the crowd. There were stands selling all sorts of products—onion compotes, strings of fresh onions, onion artifacts of all kinds. And there was one piazza set up for dancing, with a live band and colored lights strung from building to building. Everyone danced exactly the same—a kind of fox trot, I think. It was as if they had all studied at the same Arthur Murray’s.
    Caroline bought a chance at a stand called the