We were lucky enough to just stay in a country estate in Italy (actually the word “estate” feels far too formal yet “farm house” not worthy of the property’s whimsical elegance) whose extensive gardens were as uniquely personal and mesmerizing as the decorated rooms within the compound. Normally people reserve the use of boxwood hedges articulate the borders of their property but here within the entry gates their formal yet cheerful rows served both as lawn, maze and usher, as you walked between buildings in a kind of punch-drunk joy. The hedges also contained the outbursts of vegetation that grew with an unbridled boldness and swung and swayed at every level of your body: above the head, clusters of Hollyhocks as tall as basketball players blushing in pale pinks and maroon reds; at waist length, massive bushes of white Clair Martin roses and always tickling your ankles, lavender and rosemary so dense they could defy the sharpest of clippers. And all around, just within reach: slender trunks brimming with plum, fig and apricot trees, bearing perfectly formed fruit not only ripe for the picking but worthy to grace the cover of any magazine-food or fashion. I walked around and around the paths the way I do in rooms that pull my focus and invite me to linger and question its every content. And while it didn’t belong to me in any way, I felt an emotional connection deeper than just admiration for its owner who had created it so artfully and without pretension. I wanted to somehow lie down and allow the garden to grow around and through me- become another hedge and feel the dance of snow fall when it finally came, or the sure push when the thousand of peonies rose out in May in colors impossible to perfectly capture. The night before we left I watched my host prepare a dinner for ten with a calm and intent usually reserved for children who are finger painting. He had over the course of several days, been producing for us already artful loaves of homemade breads, cheese from his cows, tarts and quiches with crusts which resembled more frescoe than dough without end. Yet there was barely a trace of any preparation or clean up commotion whenever we came into his kitchen before or after. We weren’t to help on either end because as he told us, “cooking was deeply personal.” So I stayed outside, wishing I could see how he did it, but knowing even the act of watching him would be like asking a painter how they capture a sunset without it bearing the marks of a Hallmark card. As I walked past to swim, I saw him setting the outdoor table: his four dogs were lazing on the surrounding benches under a thick trellis of grape vines. The tablecloth was faded. If one of my boys dropped a plate, I knew it could be replaced and forgotten. The cushions to the white iron chairs we’d sit at were dark with mildew and looked perfectly at home. (Why was I always so worried when mine did the same?) He stepped out and clipped a violet artichoke flower and some roses that blossomed just within the door frame, put them into a milk pitcher and placed it in the center table. And then he went back inside. This was all that was needed for tonight. And all that ever would be.