The grassy slopes of the Madonie Mountains


Carlo buying his favorite pastries after a ride up Mount Erice

 

 
Francesca was really excited to show us around her mountains


The view not far from her house

But that morning was blissfully clear. We climbed until we found a tiny dirt path that snaked down one side of the slope. We followed Francesca round the rocks till we rounded the curve and found a ramshackle wooden hut with rounds of white ricotta on wooden slats outside. Three mountain men stirred a cauldron of hot milk over a wood fire. They took turns skimming foam off the top with an old sieve fixed to a gnarled branch. They greeted us warmly and we got off our bikes to chat. No more than five minutes go by before one man goes into the dark hut and emerges with a huge plate of fresh cheese, the likes of which I've never tasted in my life.
Then the second man runs into the shed, emerging with a huge loaf of fresh bread. The fresh ricotta, salty, filling and still warm, tastes like earth and mountain and sheep. We sat on rocks in the shade of a tree to eat and chat about cheese, sheep and the life of a shepherd, until the third man, the grizzled artisan himself, decides something's missing. "Vino!" he yells to the one stirring the pot, who goes into the shed and comes out with a plastic water bottle filled with homemade red wine. The perfect complement to a perfect meal. We ate, drank and chatted for over an hour and determined that we'd all meet again, with mountain biking group, at his farm by the sea this fall.