Chickens Eat Pasta: Escape to Umbria
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Chickens Eat Pasta is the tale of how a young Englishwoman starts a new life after watching a video showing a chicken eating spaghetti in a mediaeval hill village in central Italy. Unlike some recent bestsellers, this is not simply an account of a foreigner's move to Italy, but a love story written from the unusual perspective of both within and outside of the story. As events unfold, the strong storyline carries with it a rich portrayal of Italian life from the inside, with a supporting cast of memorable characters. Along the way, the book explores and captures the warmth and colour of Italy, as well as some of the cultural differences - between England and Italy, but also between regional Italian lifestyles and behaviour. It is a story with a happy ending. The author and her husband are still married, with three children, who love the old house on the hill (now much restored) almost as much as she does. Chickens Eat Pasta is Clare's autobiography, and ultimately a love story - with the house itself and with the man that Clare met there and went on to marry. If you yearn for a happy ending, you won't be disappointed. It's a story that proves anything is possible if you only try.
was impossible to miss the damp stains that were creeping up the walls inside the kitchen. The pretty little Regency house that had seemed so captivating when Rob and I had first looked round it three years ago was beginning to show signs of neglect. A loud telephone ring interrupted my thoughts. Damn. Who could that be? “Oh there you are at last. I’ve been trying to get hold of you all morning.” It was Vi, my maiden aunt. She was a matron at a hospital in Somerset and took her role very
time I needed to eat or have a cup of tea, and I didn’t want to end up with a hacking cough like hers from the smoke. There was no such thing as an electric kettle in the shops round here, though I made a mental note to put one in my suitcase on my next trip back from England. Come to think of it, I had yet to see a washing machine. The village women all washed their clothes at the fountain in the piazza. Picturesque though the scene might be, it was not for me and I resolved to pay a visit to
of Rome, I longed to be back in San Massano and to see work advancing on the house. I had also begun to make some good contacts with newspapers in England, America, Canada and Australia and some of them were starting to take regular pieces, so I needed to keep some spare time in hand. My latest commission was for a magazine in London. The editor wanted a feature I had suggested on a colourful Italian businessman called Silvio Berlusconi, who had once been a singer on a cruise ship and now
and you could see that one of them was a baker, because he still had one of those hats on that they always wear, and he was covered in flour. The other fellow must have been a farmer or something like that. So the farmer says to the baker: ‘When do you find the time to sort out your wife, if you’re always working?’ The baker put on a serious expression and said: ‘I always give my wife a good poke on Saturday evenings, because I don’t have to get up so early on a Sunday. That’s the rule in
floor? “Too bad,” I muttered to myself, putting down the broom and reaching for the bucket and mop. If there was one thing that I certainly wouldn’t miss it would be cleaning floors with a mop. Hadn’t anyone heard of a vacuum cleaner? I wondered idly what my apartment would be like in New York. The news agency had rented one for me, and I had been told that it was small, though in a very good location on the Upper West Side, just off Central Park. It would be exciting to live in Manhattan.