In the hour of Noon, the face gets reflected on the solitary mountains, vibrating in heat. In the distance, the sea looks like a thin veil of blue and white. I become “children of the Sun”, and recognize myself again in the possessed goat, the singing bird, the erratic butterfly. A day when our instinctive nature takes the lead (eating, stopping and drinking when we need to, without excess or gluttony, just the right amount, like an animal that hunts without ever stockpiling food) offers the soul marvelous nourishment. Instinctive nature precedes Eros, as a strong root it allows it to blossom. How many times, during the summer, have I observed ‘perfect looking’ couples seated at a fine restaurant yet full of boredom and resentment. They do not speak to one another, nor do they look at one another; the man stares into the distance, or withdraws into his mobile phone. The woman watches him in silence, with reproach and contained rage. How sad it is when ‘everything is there’, except the essential: passion, the fluid flow of a life lived and shared, Eros, which gives joy to the woman and intoxication to man. How can they make Eros blossom?

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I have also observed magnificent couples, often mature, tossing their belongings haphazardly aside, hastily spreading a thin towel on the ground and lying down together, the man half in the sand, carefree, pressed close to one another. They brought with them that breeze from wild places and the loving gestures of lions. Erotic power develops and is nourished through contact with instinctual nature. In the old courtly romances, lovers flee the court to live out their passion in the forest, on the fringes of civilisation. Eros belongs to the wild world. It strips you of all ‘ideas’. The lovers must step out into the sunlight, without fear, to show their face.

It is impossible to fight against the Sun, all will get destroyed. But the one who is inspired to can make love to the Sun, or become the Sun. And that happens, the dry mountains may become the bottom of the Sea where Aphrodite was born.

As the summer is slowly, voluptuously ending, and has already killed everything that needs to be, I dedicate today’s songs to the summer nakedness.

The first is for lovers kissing at sunset and fearing Death.

The second is for Aphrodite’s tears.

The last is a secret of beautification and aliveness.

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Mediterranean wisdom, which has been gifted to me by my French-Italian family since I make these baby sounds, can be discovered in ancient sites, myths, churches, mosques... But, most of all, it lives in the kitchen and at the table where we share the food. If you do not honor food, then Mediterranean genius has not penetrated you yet, and the beauty of Venus or the blood of Christ can only ever be a fantasy of the mind. Cooked food is everything. Through the mouth, we come to know many of the myths and sacred texts. The pleasure food brings is beyond mere hedonism - it is so profound, so ephemeral and reminiscent of Death. La pasta “troppo cotto” (overcooked) is a tragedy. Such waste and failure make you want to cry. Some find it adorable and picturesque when Sophia Lauren says “everything I am I owe to pasta” - but nothing could be more true! Food is Life. We owe everything we are to food and to the Earth, and to our mother, and to the generous givers who feeds us and give us pleasure.

First felt as the primal will to survive, the animal urge to feed and kill if necessary, and in some cases, the darkness of need and fear, appetite also take us into the grace of life, communion, beauty and love through the art of cooking. It is great wisdom to feel our life rise and explode in debilitating joy when food is abundant and shared on a big table. It is great wisdom to look at a tomato and call her “the golden apple”. Food brings utmost pleasure, and it is so fundamental. In the mouth lives the animal and the God.

You cannot approach food “lightly” - it has the divine sensuality of Venus and the gravity of Saturn. I encountered both through my grandmother. The kitchen was her sacred space and the kingdom she reigned upon. No one was allowed to enter without her approval - and, in the appartment, during the long hours of cooking, no television noise was allowed. It was the silence of the sky before Earth was created. She was cooking, and only the sound of chopping, frying, boiling, simmering and breath was heard. When the food was ready, we would all sit silently at the table which must be perfectly set by us, and wait for her to bring The Meal in a slow and ceremonial procession. With care, she would put the beautiful, delicious plates on the table. We would devour it with eyes, while she would take each of our plates and serve with intense and inward focus, as if praying. Once everyone had their food, we would savour The First Bite silently, slowly, voluptuously - rushing and eating like a pig was absolutely forbidden, so forbidden that the thought of such depravity could not even cross your mind, for the food provoked such awe and respect it was already the greatest of blessing to be allowed to eat it.

The First Bite was like the Sun entering the mouth, the food glowing in olive oil, which is liquid Sun, God separating Earth from Sky in beautiful pink shades, the whole world fragrant and amorous, the flesh ecstatic and soft. The first bite was delight as it exists before words - and we would start to make “mmmm” sounds and sighs of contentement. The breath of life that is cooked food was starting to animate us, and the voice started to bloom in the throat, the hole body awakened by the pleasure of mouth and tongue. The sounds and sighs we made would ravish my grandmother’s ears and illuminate her face. And all of us, after the first bite, had to come out of silence and sounds with no form. The first words we voiced were words of elation. “It is so good! Ah! It is so so good! AAAH!” If, for some reason the worship was feeble that day, my grandmother would close her face and start brooding until the next day. But if we had felt “it”, and admired the food enough, my grandmother would end the ritual by saying, as if casually “It is delicious because it is made with Love - Eat now!”. After this formula, the noise would start again, and the laughter, and the conversations... until the next meal!

I have been recalling this ritual as I was helping my aunt to cook for more than ten people every day during the past week. On that occasion she has been teaching me her Toscan “ragù di mama”, tiramisu, red peppers... And one thing I love about italian cuisine is how saturnian and esoteric it is.

The saturnian aspect lies in the simplicity and perfection of ingredients (all local, in season, and few), the patience and timing it takes to make any dish and how harmonious the result is! Except in the quantity to be eaten, there is no excess, no pricy ingredient you cannot find anywhere. Everything must be made from the raw ingredients, and every thing takes time. None of these recipies can be made fast. It is the time it takes to take of the skin and pepper seeds that make the antipasti. The love it takes to pour such time into cooking passes into the food. The formula of my grandmother was exact “It is so delicious because it has been made with love”. It is the love for the ingredient and the people who will eat that turn the time spent marrying the ingredients into art.

The esoteric aspects of italian cuisine (which all cuisines have) lies in the accomplishment of a secret gesture, a secret inversion of steps, or the use of a secret ingredient that everyone in fact has in their kitchen - once added to the recipe the secret does some magic. The mystery is often passed down in the family, sometimes exchanged between lovers and close friends. Without “the secret”, the taste is lost… and it is only the secret which can bring the “mmmm” out. The mouth dances with the secret and recognises it. The mouth knows. The mouth is an instrument played by the invisible hands of the secret.

Wishing you great summer feasts, and many “mmmm”!

Until next time,

Cuaricina 🍇

One the contrary, intimate places, such as the “secret garden” ignite endless pulsing and desire in the Heart. The “secret garden” of the Italian and French Renaissance is hidden and contained by walls. In some pictural representations it appears as a space which cannot be penetrated, like the womb of Virgin Mary, who stands as a fountain at the center of the garden. The garden is holy and pure, like the body of a woman. No matter what may happen in her life, a source endlessly flows secretly in her.

A woman can rejuvenate her body and soul by creating intimate settings and moments, severed from everything that her Hearts rejects. In such places she rejoices and comes back to herself, to her innate purity and creativity. The “garden” can be found in the secret of her body, in her imagination, in prayer and in any places where she feels that blend of retreating from the world, peace and frivolous delight.

This week, Cuaricina takes you to the secret garden where she sings her latest fantasia...

In the enclosed space, severed from vices, the erotic and amorous rites are celebrated. Flowers bloom in a state of original purity. Lovers converse and touch in an adorable manner, laying on the grass, among plants growing abundantly. Musicians play, sing and dance. Remains of a feast lay on a table. Wine flows, just like the splashing waters of the fountain where naked men and woman bath and raise their cups. To enter the secret garden is to be brought back to Life.

Fontaine de jouvence, De Sfera, 1450

A poet has entered the garden with his beloved, named Idleness. Butterflying in the company of friends they spend the afternoon laughing and playing. Dressed in beautiful red and blue silk, he shares a story from his past disguised as a tale for them to enjoy:

“An ascetic monk had been living on a mountain for decades. Not even a female goat was allowed there, his community so convinced that touching a woman was a sin. One day, after a fire in the mountain happened, he went down to the village to flee the flames. There he saw a woman unbutton her blouse to feed her child. The sight of her breast ignited a fire even greater in him, a torture, which came back to him even stronger at Night. He fought against it and the more he was fightning, the more devoured he was by his desire. He was staying for days in a barn, sleeping on the ground alone, without eating, to punish himself.

The woman noticed his dispair and started to bring him food everyday. He refused the food. Each day they talked and each day the monk was consummed in lust and hate towards her. He made vows to fight against his urges and remain pure yet, one night, as she came late to offer him food, he confessed his desire to her, crying like a child. She unbuttoned her blouse and let him touch her. Then they made love. When she left, in the morning, he was feeling light and freed from all misery, and again he cried, for he felt he had never been given such mercy and that she must be God. She had taken him to the secret garden.

Until next time,

Cuaricina

Mysteries of the Sea are tied to the mysteries of the Heart.
The longing grows when I see a ferry far away on the Sea,
The Sea monstress who has hypnotized me.
Where is it, the eternal summer?
I had never felt so strongly how I am at the mercy of the Sea,
As she pours ecstasy and gifts in one wave, and swallows them away in the next.
I had never felt so strongly how I am at the mercy of Love.
On an island, encircled by the water element, the Heart becomes wet and open, Sensitive, fecund and dripping in salt.
The Heart moves its thousand valves like the octopus of shifting and insatiable appetite,
And the awakening of a thousand deadly emotions,
Is also the awakening of life in the chest, creative and pounding!
Through her tears, the godly woman caresses the feet of her lover with her hair,
Pours the perfumed oil after washing them.
I wish I could kneel in front of my man -
But my heart opens to him in one wave, and opposes him with swords in the next!
For I have been hypnotised by the Sea monstress
Through transparent haze and under oily Sun.
The Sea endlessly births great creatures and great dreams,
Great illusions that vanish as I walk on mainland, for they cannot breath outside of water.
My heart remains with memories of Love in the blue depths,
A prisoner, longing, watering my eyes, fighting,
For I have broken the heart of my man in one wave, and mine in the next.
Hypnotised by the Sea monstress,
Who has poured Wine into our cups
For a night and day I believed we were immortal and wide!
But no, we are not,
And I swim in an ocean of salted Blood.

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Under the golden ceiling, we eat and drink, praising everything that we have loved!

In every place of delight, Enthusiasm rises and Muses sing!

May they stay all night with us!