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+{"text":"\n\n## ANDREW GRAHAM-DIXON\n\n## Caravaggio\n\n#### A Life Sacred and Profane\n\nPENGUIN BOOKS\n\n## Contents\n\n_List of Illustrations and Illustration Acknowledgements_\n\n_Maps: Milan,_ c. _1590_ _;_ _Rome,_ c. _1600_ _;_ _Valletta,_ c. _1607_ _;_ _Naples,_ c. _1610_ _;_ _Italy,_ c. _1610_\n\n_Preface and Acknowledgements_\n\nPart One: Milan, 1571\u201392\n\nPart Two: Rome, 1592\u20135\n\nPart Three: Rome, 1595\u20139\n\nPart Four: Rome, 1599\u20131606\n\nPart Five: The Alban Hills, Naples, Malta, Sicily, Naples, Porto Ercole, 1606\u201310\n\n_Epilogue_\n\n_Illustrations_\n\n_Notes_\n\n_Further Reading_\n\n##### ABOUT THE AUTHOR\n\nFor more than twenty-five years, Andrew Graham-Dixon has published a weekly column on art, first in the _Independent_ and more recently, the _Sunday Telegraph_. He has written a number of acclaimed books, including _A History of British Art_ and _Renaissance_ , and is twice winner of the Hawthornden Prize, Britain's top prize for writing about art. He is one of the leading figures in broadcasting in the UK, having presented seven major television series on art for the BBC.\nPENGUIN BOOKS\n\n##### CARAVAGGIO\n\n'The author's insights into the individual paintings are remarkable, but what really gives the book its pep is the author's picking apart of the scanty evidence about Caravaggio's private life, the prostitutes and friends who people his paintings, and the seedy world of late-Renaissance Rome through which he swaggered' Andrew Holgate, _Sunday Times_ , Books of the Year\n\n'Remarkable... Sheds fresh light on the painter whose hot temper was as renowned as his work... uncovers details on pivotal events during the artist's turbulent career' Roya Nikkhah, _Sunday Telegraph_\n\n'Highly readable... thorough and elegant... _Caravaggio_ has done the artist proud' Ian Thomson, _Spectator_\n\n'Andrew Graham-Dixon's absorbing biography leaves no stone unturned... he is an entertaining art historian' _Economist_\n\n'Graham-Dixon's excellent new book... the complexity of Caravaggio's character as well as his art is vividly evoked by Graham-Dixon throughout this book... Graham-Dixon's biography will surely quickly establish itself as the outstanding introduction to Caravaggio's life and art' Brian Allen, _Standpoint_\n\n'Andrew Graham-Dixon brings the bad-boy genius of the seventeenth century to life as vividly as if he were one of today's pop stars. His book is scholarly, perceptive and very well written' John Richardson\n\n'An entertaining read... an engaging and well-written account of Caravaggio's life' Sheila McTighe, _Art Quarterly_\n\n'A beautifully paced narrative... its tremendous narrative drive... steers the story fluently and plausibly between the pitfalls of academic dryness and overdone speculation. As a human story it is ultimately tragic' Charles Nicholl, _Sunday Times_\n_To the memory of my mother, Sue, who first awoke my love of reading, writing and looking at art_\n\n## List of Illustrations\n\n_All works are by Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio (1571\u20131610), unless otherwise stated._\n\n1. _Portrait of Caravaggio_ by Ottavio Leoni (1578\u20131630), _c_. 1621\u20135 but clearly based on a life drawing originally done in _c._ 1595\u20131606, Biblioteca Marucelliana, Florence, Italy. Photo: Scala, Florence. Drawing: black chalk heightened with white on blue paper, 9.2 x 6.4 in. (23.4 x 16.3 cm).\n\n2. The _sacro monte_ at Varallo, Italy. Copyright _\u00a9_ Sabine Tilly.\n\n3. The _sacro monte_ at Varallo, Italy. Copyright _\u00a9_ Sabine Tilly.\n\n4. _The Lamentation_ by Guido Mazzoni (1450\u20131518), 1492, Church of Sant'Anna dei Lombardi, Naples, Italy. akg-images\/De Agostini Picture Library. Terracotta.\n\n5. _Mary Magdalen_ by Donatello ( _c._ 1386\u20131466), 1453\u20135, Museo dell'Opera del Duomo, Florence, Italy\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Gilt wood, height 74 in. (188 cm).\n\n6. _Portrait of Carlo Borromeo_ by Carlo Dolci (1616\u201386), Palazzo Pitti, Florence, Italy\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas (octagonal), 36.8 x 30.3 in. (93.5 x 77 cm).\n\n7. _The Adoration of the Shepherds_ by Simone Peterzano (1540\u201396), 1578\u201382, Charterhouse of Garegnano, Milan, Italy\/Alinari\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Fresco.\n\n8. _Venus and Anchises_ , The Farnese Gallery (detail) by Annibale Carracci (1560\u20131609), begun 1597, Palazzo Farnese, Rome, Italy\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Fresco.\n\n9. _Perseus and Andromeda_ by Giuseppe Cesari (1568\u20131640), 1602, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna, Austria\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on Canvas, 20.4 x 15 in. (51.8 x 38.2 cm).\n\n10. _Boy Peeling a Fruit_ , _c._ 1592\u20133, The Royal Collection \u00a9 2009, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II. Oil on canvas, 24 x 19 in. (61 x 48.3 cm).\n\n11. _Boy with a Basket of Fruit_ , _c._ 1593\u20134. Galleria Borghese, Rome, Italy\/Alinari\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on Canvas, 27.6 x 26.4 in. (70 x 67 cm).\n\n12. _Boy Bitten by a Lizard_ , _c._ 1595, National Gallery, London, UK. \u00a9 The National Gallery, 2010. Oil on canvas, 26 x 19.5 in. (66 x 49.5 cm).\n\n13. _Boy Bitten by a Crayfish_ by Sofonisba Anguissola (1532\u20131625), _c._ 1554, Museo di Capodimonte, Gabinetto dei Disegni, inv. 1030, Naples, Italy. Photo: Scala, Florence, courtesy of the Ministero Beni e Att. Culturali. Drawing.\n\n14. _Self-Portrait as Bacchus_ , _c._ 1593\u20134, Galleria Borghese, Rome, Italy\/Lauros\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on Canvas, 26.4 x 20.9 in. (67 x 53 cm).\n\n15. _Bacchus and Ariadne_ by Titian (Tiziano Vecellio) ( _c._ 1488\u20131576), 1520\u201323, National Gallery, London, UK. \u00a9 The National Gallery, 2010. Oil on canvas, 69.5 x 75.2 in. (176.5 x 191 cm).\n\n16. _The Cardsharps_ , 1595, Kimbell Art Museum, Fort Worth, Texas, USA\/Art Resource, NY\/Scala, Florence. Oil on canvas, 37  x 51  in. (94.2 x 30.9 cm).\n\n17. _The Gypsy Fortune-Teller_ , 1595, Pinacoteca Capitolina, Palazzo Conservatori, Rome, Italy\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 59.5 x 45.7 in. (151.2 x 116 cm).\n\n18. _Portrait of Cardinal Francesco Maria del Monte_ by Ottavio Leoni (1578\u20131603), 1616, Museum Purchase, Collection of the John and Mable Ringling Museum of Art, The State Art Museum of Florida, a division of Florida State University, USA. Drawing: black chalk heightened with white on blue paper, 9 x 6\u00bd in. (22.9 x 16.5 cm).\n\n19. _The Palazzo Madama_ by Giuseppe Vasi (1710\u201382). Engraving.\n\n20. _Medusa_ , _c._ 1598, Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence, Italy. Photo: Scala, Florence, courtesy of the Ministero Beni e Att. Culturali. Oil on canvas attached to wood, diameter 22 in (55.5 cm).\n\n21. _The Musicians_ , _c._ 1595\u20136, Metropolitan Museum of Art\/Art Resource\/Scala, Florence, Italy. Oil on canvas, 36\u00bc x 46  in. (92.1 x 118.4 cm).\n\n22. _Le Concert Champ\u00eatre_ by Titian (Tiziano Vecellio) ( _c._ 1488\u20131576), _c._ 1510, Louvre, Paris, France\/Giraudon\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 41.3 x 53.9 in. (105 x 137 cm).\n\n23. _Concert_ by Callisto Piazza (1500\u20131561), 1520, The Philadelphia Museum of Art, Philadelphia, USA\/Art Resource\/Scala, Florence. John G. Johnson Collection, 1917. Oil on panel 35  x 35\u00be in (90.5 x 90.8 cm).\n\n24. _The Lute Player_ , _c._ 1596, Hermitage, St Petersburg, Russia\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 37 x 46.9 in. (94 x 119 cm).\n\n25. _Basket of Fruit_ , _c._ 1596\u20138, Ambrosiana, Milan, Italy\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 12.2 x 18.5 in. (31 x 47 cm).\n\n26. _The Penitent Magdalen_ , _c._ 1595\u20136, Galleria Doria Pamphilj, Rome, Italy\/Alinari\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 48.2 x 38.8 in. (122.5 x 98.5 cm).\n\n27. _St Francis of Assisi in Ecstasy_ , _c._ 1596, Wadsworth Atheneum Museum of Art, Hartford, CT, USA\/Art Resource NY\/Scala, Florence. The Ella Gallup Sumner and Mary Catlin Sumner Collection Fund, 1943.222. Oil on canvas, 36  x 50\u00bc in. (92.5 x 127.8 cm).\n\n28. _The Rest on the Flight to Egypt_ , _c._ 1595\u20136, Galleria Doria Pamphilj, Rome, Italy\/Alinari\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 53.3 x 65.6 in. (135.5 x 166.5 cm).\n\n29. _The Judgement of Hercules_ by Annibale Carracci (1560\u20131609), _c._ 1595\u20136, Museo e Gallerie Nazionali di Capodimonte, Naples, Italy\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas 65.7 x 93.3 in. (167 x 237 cm).\n\n30. _Jupiter, Neptune and Pluto_ , _c._ 1598\u20139, Casino dell'Aurora, Villa Boncompagni Ludovisi, Rome, Italy\/akg-images\/Andrea Jemolo. Ceiling painting in oil, 124.4 x 59.8 in. (316 x 152 cm).\n\n31. _Bacchus_ , _c._ 1597\u20138, Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence, Italy\/Alinari\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 36.6 x 33.5 in. (93 x 85 cm).\n\n32. _Martha and Mary Magdalen_ , _c._ 1598, Detroit Institute of Arts, USA\/Gift of the Kresge Foundation and Mrs Edsel B. Ford\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil and tempera on canvas, 38.5 x 52.2 in. (97.8 x 132.7 cm).\n\n33. _St Catherine_ , 1599, Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza. Photo: Scala, Florence. Oil on canvas, 68.1 x 52.4 in. (173 x 133 cm).\n\n34. _Portrait of Fillide Melandroni_ , _c._ 1598, Gem\u00e4ldegalerie des Kaiser-Friedrich Museum, Berlin, Germany, inv. 356 (destroyed in 1945). Photo: Scala, Florence\/BPK, Bildagentur f\u00fcr Kunst, Kultur und Geschichte, Berlin, Germany. Oil on canvas, 26 x 20.9 in. (66 x 53 cm).\n\n35. _Judith and Holofernes_ , 1598\u20139, Palazzo Barberini, Rome, Italy\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 57.1 x 76.8 in. (145 x 195 cm).\n\n36. _The Entombment_ , 1604, Vatican Museums and Galleries, Vatican City, Italy\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 118.1 x 79.9 in. (300 x 203 cm).\n\n37. _Piet\u00e0_ by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475\u20131564), 1499, Basilica di San Pietro, Vatican, Rome, Italy\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Marble, 68.5 x 79.8 in. (174 x 195 cm).\n\n38. _The Calling of St Matthew_ , 1599\u20131600, Contarelli Chapel (left-hand-side wall), San Luigi dei Francesi, Rome, Italy\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on panel, 126.8 x 133.9 in. (322 x 340 cm).\n\n39. _The Creation of Adam_ (detail, post-restoration) by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475\u20131564), 1511\u201312, Sistine Chapel, Vatican, Italy. Fresco, 110.2 x 224.4 in. (280 x 570 cm).\n\n40. _The Martyrdom of St Matthew_ , 1599\u20131600, Contarelli Chapel (right-hand-side wall), San Luigi dei Francesi, Rome, Italy\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 127.2 x 135 in. (323 x 343 cm).\n\n41. _The Conversion of St Paul_ (first version), 1600\u20131601, Palazzo Odescalchi, Collection of Principessa Nicoletta Odescalchi, Rome, Italy. Photo: Scala, Florence. Oil on cypress, 90.6 x 68.9 in. (230 x 175 cm).\n\n42. _The Crucifixion of St Peter_ , 1600\u20131601, Cerasi Chapel, Santa Maria del Popolo, Rome, Italy\/Alinari\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 90.6 x 68.9 in. (230 x 175 cm).\n\n43. The Cerasi Chapel (front view), Santa Maria del Popolo, Rome, Italy. \u00a9 Archivo Fotografico, Soprintendenza Speciale per il Patrimonio Storico Artistico ed Etnoantropologico e per il Polo Museale della Citt\u00e0 di Roma.\n\n44. _The Conversion of St Paul_ (second version), 1600\u20131601, Cerasi Chapel, Santa Maria del Popolo, Rome, Italy\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 90.6 x 68.9 in. (230 x 175 cm).\n\n45. _The Supper at Emmaus_ , 1601, National Gallery, London, UK. \u00a9 The National Gallery, 2010. Oil on tempera on canvas, 55.5 x 77.4 in. (141 x 196.2 cm).\n\n46. _St_ _John the Baptist_ , 1602, Musei Capitolini, Rome, Italy. Photo: Scala, Florence. Oil on canvas, 50.8 x 37.4 in. (129 x 95 cm).\n\n47. _Ignudo_ (detail, post-restoration) by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475\u20131564), 1511\u201312, Sistine Chapel, Vatican, Italy\/Bridgeman Art Library. Fresco.\n\n48. _The Betrayal of Christ_ , 1602, National Gallery of Ireland, Dublin. With kind permission of the Jesuit community, who acknowledge the generosity of Dr Marie Lee Wilson. Oil on canvas, 52.6 x 66.7 in. (133.5 x 169.5 cm).\n\n49. _Street Scene_ by Francesco Villamena (1564\u20131624), 1601, British Museum, London, UK. \u00a9 The Trustees of the British Museum. Engraving, 13.6 x 19.5 in. (34.5 x 49.5 cm).\n\n50. _St Matthew and the Angel_ (first version), 1602, Gem\u00e4ldegalerie des Kaiser-Friedrich Museum, Berlin, Germany, inv. 365 (destroyed in 1945). Photo: Scala, Florence\/BPK, Bildagentur f\u00fcr Kunst, Kultur und Geschichte, Berlin, Germany. Oil on canvas, 87.8 x 72 in. (223 x 183 cm).\n\n51. _St Matthew and the Angel_ (second version), 1602, Contarelli Chapel, San Luigi dei Francesi, Rome, Italy\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 116 x 76 \u00be in. (295 x 195 cm).\n\n52. _The Death of the Virgin_ , 1606, Louvre, Paris, France\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 145\u00bc x 96\u00bd in. (369 x 245 cm).\n\n53. _The Death of the Virgin_ by Carlo Saraceni (1579\u20131620), 1610, Church of Santa Maria della Scala, Rome, Italy. Photo: Scala, Florence\/Fondo Edifici di Culto- Min. dell'Interno. Oil on canvas, 180.7 x 107.5 in. (459 x 273 cm).\n\n54. _Doubting Thomas_ , _c._ 1603, Schloss Sanssouci, Potsdam, Brandenburg, Germany\/Alinari\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 42.1 x 57.5 in. (107 x 146 cm).\n\n55. _The Sacrifice of Isaac_ , 1603, Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence, Italy\/Alinari\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 40.9 x 53.1 in. (104 x 135 cm).\n\n56. _Omnia vincit amor_ , 1602, Gem\u00e4ldegalerie, Staatliche Museen, Berlin, Germany\/Alinari\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 61.4 x 44.5 in. (156 x 113 cm).\n\n57. _Divine Love_ by Giovanni Baglione (1566\u20131644), 1602, Palazzo Barberini, Rome, Italy\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 94.5 x 56.3 in. (240 x 143 cm).\n\n58. Study for _The Resurrection_ by Giovanni Baglione (1566\u20131644), _c._ 1602\u20133, Louvre, Paris, France\/Lauros\/Giraudon\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 33.8 x 22.2 in. (86 x 56.5 cm).\n\n59. _St Jerome Writing_ , _c._ 1605, Galleria Borghese, Rome, Italy\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 44.8 x 62.8 in. (113.8 x 159.5 cm).\n\n60. _St Francis in Meditation_ , _c._ 1603, Palazzo Barberini, Rome, Italy\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 50.5 x 37.2 in. (128.2 x 94.4 cm).\n\n61. _St John the Baptist_ , _c._ 1604, Nelson Art Gallery, Kansas City, USA. Photo: Scala, Florence. Oil on canvas, 68 x 52 in. (172.7 x 132 cm).\n\n62. _The Madonna of the Rosary_ , _c._ 1603\u20134, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna, Austria. \u00a9 Mondadori Electa\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 143.5 x 98.2 in. (364.5 x 249.5 cm).\n\n63. _The Madonna of Loreto_ , 1604, Cavalletti Chapel, Church Sant'Agostino, Rome, Italy. Photo: akg-images\/Electa. Oil on canvas, 102.4 x 59.1 in. (260 x 150 cm).\n\n64. _The Madonna of the Palafrenieri_ , 1605\u20136, Galleria Borghese\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 115 x 83.1 in. (292 x 211 cm).\n\n65. The contract for _The Madonna of the Palafrenieri._ Archivio dell'Arciconfraternita di Sant'Anna dei Palafreneiri, Cod. 843 v.sch.n 62. As reproduced and cited in Maurizio Marini, _Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio 'pictor praestantissimus'_ (second edition, Rome 1979), p. 56.\n\n66. View of Zagarolo. Photo: Arsetfuror.\n\n67. _The Supper at Emmaus_ , 1606, Pinacoteca di Brera, Milan, Italy\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 55.5 x 68.9 in. (141 x 175 cm).\n\n68. _David with the Head of Goliath_ , 1606, Galleria Borghese, Rome, Italy\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 49.2 x 39.8 in. (125 x 101 cm).\n\n69. _Sleeping Cupid_ , 1608, Palazzo Pitti, Florence, Italy\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 28.3 x 41.3 in. (72 x 105 cm).\n\n70. _The Seven Acts of Mercy_ , 1606, Pio Monte della Misericordia, Naples, Italy\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 153.5 x 102.4 in. (390 x 260 cm).\n\n71. _Roman Charity_ (black and white photo, detail) by Pierino del Vaga (Pietro Buonaccorsi) (1501\u201347), _c._ 1528\u201334, Palazzo Doria Pamphili, Genoa, Italy\/Alinari\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas.\n\n72. _The Flagellation_ , 1607, Museo e Gallerie Nazionali di Capodimonte, Naples, Italy\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 112.6 x 83.9 in. (286 x 213 cm).\n\n73. _The Crucifixion of St Andrew_ , 1607, Cleveland Museum of Art. Leonard C. Hanna, Jr, Fund 1976.2. Oil on canvas, 79.7 x 60.1 in. (202.5 x 152.7 cm).\n\n74. _St Jerome Writing_ , 1607, Co-Cathedral of St John, Valletta, Malta. Photo: Scala, Florence. Oil on canvas, 46.1 x 61.8 in. (117 x 157 cm).\n\n75. _Portrait of Fra Antonio Martelli_ , 1607, Palazzo Pitti, Florence, Italy\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 46.7 x 37.6 in. (118.5 x 95.5 cm).\n\n76. _Portrait of Alof de Wignacourt, with His Pageboy_ , 1607, Louvre, Paris, France\/Peter Willi\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 76.4 x 52.8 in. (194 x 134 cm).\n\n77. _The Resurrection of Lazarus_ , 1609, Museo Regionale, Messina, Sicily, Italy\/Lauros\/Giraudon\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 149.6 x 108.3 in. (380 x 275 cm).\n\n78. _The Adoration of the Shepherds_ , 1609, Museo Regionale, Messina, Sicily, Italy\/Lauros\/Giraudon\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 124 x 83 in. (314 x 211 cm).\n\n79. _The Beheading of St John_ , 1608, Co-Cathedral of St John, Valletta, Malta\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on Canvas, 142.1 x 204.7 in. (361 x 520 cm).\n\n80. _St John the Baptist_ , 1610, Galleria Borghese, Rome, Italy\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 62.6 x 48.8 in. (159 x 124 cm).\n\n81. _The Adoration of the Shepherds_ (black and white photo), 1609, Oratory of San Lorenzo, Palermo, Italy\/Alinari\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Stolen in 1969. Oil on canvas, 105.5 x 77.6 in. (268 x 197 cm).\n\n82. _The Burial of St Lucy_ , 1608, Basilica di Santa Lucia al Sepolcro, Syracuse, Italy. Photo: Scala, Florence. Oil on canvas, 160.6 x 118.1 in. (408 x 300 cm).\n\n83. _The Denial of St Peter_ , 1610, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, USA\/Art Resource\/Scala, Florence. Gift of Herman and Lila Shickman, and Purchase, Lila Acheson Wallace Gift, 1997. Oil on canvas, 37 x 49.4 in. (94 x 125.4 cm).\n\n84. _The Martyrdom of St Ursula_ , 1610, Intesa Sanpaolo Collection, the Gallery of Palazzo Zevallos Stigliano, Naples. Oil on canvas, 56.3 x 70.9 in. (143 x 180 cm).\n\n85. _Experiment on a Bird in the Air Pump_ by Joseph Wright of Derby (1734\u201397), 1768, National Gallery, London, UK\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 72 x 96 in. (182.9 x 243.9 cm).\n\n86. _The Raft of the Medusa_ by Theodore G\u00e9ricault (1791\u20131824), 1819, Louvre, Paris, France\/The Bridgeman Art Library. Oil on canvas, 193.3 x 281.9 in. (491 x 716 cm).\n\n87. Still from _Mean Streets_ , directed by Martin Scorsese (1942\u2013 ), 1973, Taplin-Perry-Scorsese\/The Kobal Collection.\n\nText illustration, p. 325: Sketch of Caravaggio's sword and dagger made by the police officer who arrested him on the evening of 28 May 1605. As reproduced and cited in Maurizio Marini, _Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio 'pictor praestantissimus'_ (second edition, Rome, 1979), p. 54.\n\nText illustration, p. 328: _A Knight of Malta being Defrocked_ by Wolfgang Kilian (1581\u20131662), from C. von Osterhausen, Eigentlicher und gr\u00fcndlicher (Bericht, Augsburg, 1650), no. II. Photo: Zentralinstitut f\u00fcr Kuntsgeschichte. Engraving, 5 x 3 in. (12.7 x 7.5 cm).\n\n### Map 1\n\n### Milan, _c_. 1590\n\n### Map 2\n\n### Rome, _c_. 1600\n\n### Map 3\n\n### Valletta, _c_. 1607\n\n### Map 4\n\n### Naples, _c_. 1610\n\n### Map 5\n\n### Italy, _c_. 1610\n\n## Preface and Acknowledgements\n\nThis book has taken me a shamingly long time to write, more than ten years in total. My excuse is that I have had a lot of other things to do at the same time. For the first five of those ten years I was responsible for two weekly articles for the _Sunday Telegraph_ (latterly reduced to one, to make life workable); in 2007 I had to stop work on _Caravaggio_ almost completely to finish a book about Michelangelo's paintings in the Sistine Chapel; and throughout the past decade I have spent at least five months of every year writing and presenting various television series about the history of art for the BBC.\n\nWhile often frustrating, the many delays and interruptions have, overall, worked to the book's advantage. Had I delivered my manuscript more quickly, I might have caused my miraculously patient and long-suffering publisher, Stuart Proffitt, considerably less stress. But I would not have been able to take advantage of numerous recent archival discoveries \u2013 a set of remarkable finds that cumulatively have transformed our knowledge of Caravaggio, particularly of his later years. Because those discoveries have emerged piecemeal, often in out-of-the-way academic journals or private publications, I have found myself in the unusual and fortunate position of writing about one of the greatest artists ever to have lived fully four centuries after his death, yet able to draw on fresh and important documentary material unavailable to previous biographers.\n\nAs a result, I believe I have been able to shed light on aspects of Caravaggio's life that have until now remained shrouded in mystery to all except the scholars most closely involved \u2013 including the painter's sexuality, the circumstances that led him to commit the murder of 1606 that cast such a long shadow over the rest of his life, and the events surrounding his imprisonment on the island of Malta. In addition I publish here for the first time some hitherto overlooked descriptions of the Osteria del Cerriglio, the establishment in Naples where he was badly assaulted near the end of his life in a vendetta attack. By returning to other previously discovered documents I believe I have also been able to offer a convincing solution to the riddle of how Caravaggio met his death in the summer of 1610.\n\nMy principal focus throughout is on the artist's paintings. I dwell on them at length because they are the main reason to be interested in Caravaggio, notwithstanding the tempestuous drama of his life. Attentive readers will notice that I am less generous in my attributions than many other scholars of Caravaggio's work: I prefer to be too rigorous than over-inclusive. It may be assumed that if I do not mention a particular picture, for example the frequently proposed _Narcissus_ from the Barberini Collection, it is because I am not satisfied that Caravaggio painted it. The main exception to this is _The Annunciation_ in the Mus\u00e9e des Beaux-Arts in Nancy, which is indeed a Caravaggio, but one so badly damaged as not to be worth discussing here.\n\nI have incurred many debts in writing this book, above all to the community of scholars whose researches have yielded so much new information over the past half-century or so, especially in recent years. I am deeply grateful to Sandro Corradini for helping to guide me through the labyrinth of Rome's criminal archive and for sharing the fruits of his twenty years and more of research there. Maurizio Marini took me on a memorable tour of Caravaggio's old haunts in the artist's quarter of the city and made interesting suggestions, which I have developed, about the significance of damage done to the ceiling of a particular room in a house in the present-day Vicolo del Divino Amore. Maurizio Calvesi generously communicated his insights into the painter's 'pauperist' religious orientation, and the role that members of the Colonna family may have played in the various events of his life. In Naples, Vincenzo Pacelli showed me his archival discoveries concerning Caravaggio's last painting, _The Martyrdom of St Ursula_ , and shared some speculations about the painter's final days.\n\nMy thanks are also due to Peter Robb, who met me in Naples and sent me on what proved to be anything but a wild-goose chase on the island of Malta. On Malta itself I profited from conversations with Fr John Azzopardi and Keith Sciberras, who have between them shed much light on Caravaggio's ill-fated attempt to join the Order of the Knights of St John. John T. Spike, who received me at his home in Florence, allowed me to see an advance copy of the CD-ROM catalogue and bibliography that accompanied his monograph on Caravaggio: an invaluable guide to the vast literature on the artist. My old friend Mary Hersov, former Head of Exhibitions at the National Gallery in London, has talked and walked Caravaggio with me far beyond the call of duty.\n\nHelen Langdon, whose own biography of Caravaggio appeared in 1998, has also been extremely supportive throughout the writing of this book. In particular, she generously allowed me to profit from the time-consuming work that she put into combing through Riccardo Bassani and Fiora Bellini's sporadically fascinating but deeply flawed book of 1994, _Caravaggio assassino_ \u2013 the curate's egg of recent Caravaggio studies \u2013 sifting the true not only from the false but also from the outright invented. Helen also set me straight at a particular crossroads in my research into the painter's second and final stay in Naples, for which I am very grateful.\n\nI have not spoken to Sir Denis Mahon in the course of writing my book, but, like everyone engaged in serious study of Caravaggio, I have benefited enormously from his pioneering work. The shades of Walter Friedlaender and Roberto Longhi have given me much assistance along the way, as has that of my old tutor at the Courtauld Institute, Michael Kitson, whose wisdom I sought to absorb along with the smoke of many amiably shared packets of cigarettes. I have drawn rather more lateral inspiration from the work of John Michael Montias, whose _Vermeer and His Milieu_ of 1989 is a truly remarkable work. The shape of my own book has been certainly influenced by his, as well as by a meeting with Montias at his home in New Haven in the autumn of 2001. Without laying any claim to Montias's eminence as an archival scholar, I have myself tried to spin a 'web of social history', to use his phrase \u2013 to convey, through an account of one man's life and milieu, some sense of an entire lost world, in this case the civilization of Italy at the end of the sixteenth century and the beginning of the seventeenth. Charles Nicholl's books about Marlowe and Shakespeare, _The Reckoning_ and _The Lodger_ , have been among my other touchstones.\n\nWriting about Caravaggio has been an intellectual challenge, but it has also been an adventure, one which has led me into some fairly unusual situations. With John Azzopardi's generous help and the loan of a slightly rickety ladder, I have inspected the stone well, or _guva_ , in which Caravaggio was imprisoned on Malta (I can now laugh at the practical joke of his pretending to lock me in and leave me there, although it seemed less funny at the time). I have duelled (after a fashion) with master-swordsman Renzo Musumeci Greco in his Roman fencing school, in an attempt to understand the sort of manoeuvres that might result in the emasculation of a man during a swordfight. I have walked along the quays of the old port at Valletta with the Maltese naval historian Joseph Sciberras, to learn about transport by _felucca_ in Caravaggio's time. I have been allowed to inspect the book of the dead in the parish of Porto Ercole by local historian Giuseppe La Fauci. I have spent some happy hours poring over Caravaggio reproductions with the film director Martin Scorsese, who generously gave his time to open my eyes to the artist's importance for modern cinema. To these and all the others who have gone out of their way to help me \u2013 the boy who lowered that ladder down the _guva_ on Malta, the sacristan who got the keys to the church of Santa Lucia in Syracuse, the librarians and archivists in London, Rome, Naples, Milan and Malta who found so many books and documents \u2013 a heartfelt thank you.\n\nCloser to home, I would like to thank my producer Silvia Sacco for devising a schedule for my television and other work that made the seemingly impossible possible. Without her constant encouragement, moral support and ruthless deadline-setting, I really might never have written the book at all. Without the help of my researchers, I would certainly never have been able to finish it. Opher Mansour did a first-rate job of translating Corradini's essential anthology of archival documents, _Materiali per un processo_ , from a mixture of legalistic Latin and often difficult sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Italian vernacular slang. Opher also allowed me to read his enlightening doctoral thesis about censorship in Caravaggio's Rome and unearthed several eyewitness accounts of the plague that ravaged Milan in the mid 1570s. In the very final stages of the book, Nicholas Stone Villani took time away from his own thesis to travel to Italy on my behalf, where he found out the seedy truth about the Osteria del Cerriglio. My principal researcher throughout has been Eug\u00e9nie Aperghis-van Nispen tot Sevenaer, who has been unfailingly helpful, resourceful and thorough in carrying out what must sometimes have seemed a daunting series of tasks. She also did the picture research for the book and secured the reproduction permissions. While running her marathon, Eug\u00e9nie was ably assisted by Kasja Berg, who on more than one occasion responded to my plaintive demands for particular texts or documents with exemplary calm and efficiency. My mother and father, far more knowledgeable about music than I ever will be, kindly brought their considerable erudition to bear on Caravaggio's early paintings of musicians and lute-players, greatly to my advantage.\n\nI will always remain affectionately grateful to Roger Parsons, with whom I first began to explore the complexities of Caravaggio's world such an absurdly long time ago. Stuart Proffitt has made extremely valuable suggestions concerning style, structure and approach. Donna Poppy, my copy editor, has improved my original manuscript immeasurably with her rigorous and unsleeping eye for sense, proportion, perspective and detail. Finally I would like to thank my wife, Sabine, who must have read this book ten times while I was writing it once, for contributing so many emendations, corrections and indeed fresh ideas \u2013 and also my whole family, for helping me to keep my sanity and managing to keep their own while enduring the difficult birth of this long-gestated child.\n\n_London, February 2010_\n\n## PART ONE  \nMilan, 1571\u201392\n\n#### DARKNESS AND LIGHT\n\nCaravaggio's art is made from darkness and light. His pictures present spotlit moments of extreme and often agonized human experience. A man is decapitated in his bedchamber, blood spurting from a deep gash in his neck. A man is assassinated on the high altar of a church. A woman is shot in the stomach with a bow and arrow at point-blank range. Caravaggio's images freeze time but also seem to hover on the brink of their own disappearance. Faces are brightly illuminated. Details emerge from darkness with such uncanny clarity that they might be hallucinations. Yet always the shadows encroach, the pools of blackness that threaten to obliterate all. Looking at his pictures is like looking at the world by flashes of lightning.\n\nCaravaggio's life is like his art, a series of lightning flashes in the darkest of nights. He is a man who can never be known in full because almost all that he did, said and thought is lost in the irrecoverable past. He was one of the most electrifyingly original artists ever to have lived, yet we have only one solitary sentence from him on the subject of painting \u2013 the sincerity of which is, in any case, questionable, since it was elicited from him when he was under interrogation for the capital crime of libel.\n\nMuch of what is known about him has been discovered in the criminal archives of his time. The majority of his recorded acts \u2013 apart from those involved in painting \u2013 are crimes and misdemeanours. When Caravaggio emerges from the obscurity of the past he does so, like the characters in his own paintings, as a man _in extremis_.\n\nHe lived much of his life as a fugitive, and that is how he is preserved in history \u2013 a man on the run, heading for the hills, keeping to the shadows. But he is caught, now and again, by the sweeping beam of a searchlight. Each glimpse is different. He appears in many guises, moods and predicaments. Caravaggio throws stones at the house of his landlady and sings ribald songs outside her window. He has a fight with a waiter about the dressing on a plate of artichokes. He taunts a rival with graphic sexual insults. He attacks a man in the street. He kills a man in a swordfight. He and a gang of other men inflict grievous bodily harm on a Knight of Justice on the island of Malta. He is himself attacked by four armed men in the street outside a low-life tavern in Naples. His life is a series of intriguing and vivid tableaux \u2013 scenes that abruptly switch, as in the plays of his English contemporary William Shakespeare, from comedy to tragedy, from low farce to high drama.\n\nAnyone attempting a biography of Caravaggio must play the detective as well as the art historian. The facts are rarely straightforward and the patterns of intention that lie behind them often obscure. The artist's life can easily seem merely chaotic, the rise and fall of an incurable hot-head, a man so governed by passion that his actions unfold without rhyme or reason (this was, for centuries, the prevailing view of him). But there is a logic to it all and, with hindsight, a tragic inevitability. Despite the many black holes and discontinuities in the shadowplay of Caravaggio's life, certain structures of belief and certain habits of behaviour run through all that he did and all that he painted. The evidence has to be decoded using guesswork, intuition, speculation and above all a sense of historical imagination \u2013 a willingness to delve as deeply as possible into the codes and values that lie behind the words and deeds of a far distant past.\n\nA lot has been made of Caravaggio's presumed homosexuality, which has in more than one previous account of his life been presented as the single key that explains everything, both the power of his art and the misfortunes of his life. There is no absolute proof of it, only strong circumstantial evidence and much rumour. The balance of probability suggests that Caravaggio did indeed have sexual relations with men. But he certainly had female lovers. Throughout the years that he spent in Rome he kept close company with a number of prostitutes.\n\nThe truth is that Caravaggio was as uneasy in his relationships as he was in most other aspects of life. He likely slept with men. He did sleep with women. But he settled with no one. From a very young age, and with good cause, he suffered from a deep sense of abandonment. If any one thing lay behind the erratic behaviour that doomed him to an early death, it was the tragedy that befell him and his family when he was still just a little boy. The idea that he was an early martyr to the drives of an unconventional sexuality is an anachronistic fiction.\n\nTo understand the emotions that drove him and the experiences that most deeply shaped him, it is necessary to begin where he was born: in the town of Caravaggio, in Lombardy, from which he would later take his name. He lived both there and in the nearby city of Milan for the first twenty-one years of his life. His youth is the least documented period of his existence \u2013 the darkest time, in every sense, of this life of light and darkness. But in its shadows may be found some of the most important clues to the formation of his turbulent personality.\n\n#### FACTS AND FICTIONS\n\nThere are three early biographies of Caravaggio. All were composed after his death, and each is unreliable for different reasons. The first was written during the second decade of the seventeenth century by Giulio Mancini, a physician from Siena who met Caravaggio in Rome, probably in about 1592, and who knew him well between 1595 and 1600. The second was published in 1642 by Giovanni Baglione, a rival painter who had competed and quarrelled with Caravaggio during his years in Rome, in particular between 1601 and 1606, on one occasion suing him for libel in response to some scabrous verses, on another going so far as to accuse him of hiring paid assassins to kill him. The third was written, three decades later, by an antiquarian and art theorist named Giovanni Pietro Bellori, who had never known Caravaggio and who based his own account on those of the two earlier authors.\n\nMancini is sporadically informative but frustratingly brief. Baglione is more circumstantial and surprisingly objective, given that he was writing the life of a man whom he suspected of having plotted to murder him. As a rule of thumb, Baglione is the most trustworthy early source. His biography has been shown to be extremely accurate in its presentation of the bare facts. Many later discoveries of original documents concerning Caravaggio have simply confirmed the truth of his original account. Baglione is only really unreliable in his smug, moralizing conclusions, which are plainly coloured by _Schadenfreude_. This is particularly evident in the mean-spirited passages that tell the story of Caravaggio's various falls from grace.\n\nBellori wrote his life of Caravaggio considerably later. It was published in 1672, more than sixty years after the painter's death. Bellori plainly drew much of his material from Baglione. But he did glean some new facts. He also went to much trouble to see the painter's works _in situ_. He was seduced by their power and their drama, and fascinated by the novelty of Caravaggio's technique. Bellori wrote about the painter's art with far greater sensitivity than either Mancini or Baglione. Yet he was also fundamentally appalled by it. Caravaggio's vivid capturing of poverty and violence \u2013 his depictions of Christ and the Virgin Mary as barefoot paupers, his bloodily realistic portrayals of Christian martyrdom \u2013 went directly against Bellori's own most cherished beliefs. Bellori upheld the academic principle that art should not represent the world as it is, but as it should be, sweetened and idealized. So although he responded instinctively to Caravaggio's captivating realism, he felt bound to condemn him all the more strongly for it. Bellori crystallized what would remain for centuries the standard academic objection to the painter's work:\n\n> Repudiating all other rules, [Caravaggio] considered the highest achievement not to be bound to art. For this innovation he was greatly acclaimed, and many talented artists seemed compelled to follow him... Such praise caused Caravaggio to appreciate himself alone, and he claimed to be the only faithful imitator of nature. Nevertheless, he lacked _invenzione_ , decorum, _disegno_ [draughtsmanship], or any knowledge of the science of painting. The moment the model was taken from him, his hand and his mind became empty.\n\nBellori went on to say that 'Just as certain herbs produce both beneficial medicine and most pernicious poison, in the same way, though he produced some good, Caravaggio has been most harmful and wrought havoc with every ornament and good tradition of painting.' In other words, the painter might have had a gift for mimicking reality, but there was no depth to him. If Bellori were to be believed, he was little more than a machine for producing optically convincing images \u2013 a kind of human camera, with his workshop a prototypical photographer's studio, long before the invention of photography itself. In this way was the myth of Caravaggio as an untutored, thoughtless virtuoso, the master of a debased and pernicious brand of naturalism, attached like an anchor to his posthumous reputation. In fact, he was an extremely thoughtful, inventive painter, a close and careful reader of the texts that he was called to dramatize and to embody in the form of images. But how and where he got his education remains unknown, partly because his three biographers have so little to say about his early life.\n\n#### MODEST ORIGINS, NOBLE CONNECTIONS\n\nCaravaggio was born three years after the publication of the second, revised edition of Giorgio Vasari's pioneering anthology of artists' biographies, _The Lives of the Most Excellent Painters, Sculptors and Architects_. Vasari's book was the model on which later writers such as Baglione and Bellori based their own collections of artists' lives. In it, he confirmed and sought to extend a great rise in the status of artists within the Italian peninsula during the period now known \u2013 also largely thanks to Vasari's efforts \u2013 as the Renaissance. Previously the profession of art had been ranked low because it involved work with the hands and was therefore classed as a form of manual labour, a craft rather than a liberal art. But implicit throughout Vasari's thousand and more pages is the belief that the greatest artists deserve to be ranked with poets and philosophers as men of true genius, rightful companions of kings and princes.\n\nAs well as raising the reputation of his own profession, Vasari established certain formulae for writing the life of an artist. Particularly famous painters and sculptors, such as Giotto or Michelangelo, are established as miraculous prodigies from an early age: the brilliance of Giotto, for example, is said to have been discovered by the older artist Cimabue, who came upon the young man when he was still a callow shepherd and found him drawing perfectly upon a stone. But no such uplifting fables are attached to the youth of Caravaggio by his biographers. Mancini compresses his early life to just two sentences, and Baglione to a paragraph. Bellori has a tale to tell about the young Caravaggio, but it runs counter to the kind of prodigy stories favoured by Vasari because it is designed to stress the artist's principal failing, as Bellori saw it \u2013 his supposed _lack_ of intellect, which meant that his work could never rise from mere craft.\n\nBellori's story tells of Caravaggio's origins as the son of an artisan. Since the painter 'was employed in Milan with his father, a mason, it happened that he prepared glue for some painters who were painting frescoes and, led on by the desire to paint, he remained with them, applying himself totally to painting. He continued in this activity four or five years...' Bellori may have meant to imply that this imitative, unreflective training predisposed Caravaggio to his great mistake \u2013 that of recognizing 'no other master than the model, without selecting from the best forms of nature'. His moral is certainly blunt: once a craftsman, always a craftsman.\n\nThe story is not exactly true but like many stories about Caravaggio it contains elements of the truth. He could never have been employed in tasks such as preparing glue or plaster for his father, because his father died when Caravaggio was only five years old. But the record shows that Fermo Merisi was indeed a mason. This might suggest that the artist's origins were, as Bellori implies, rooted in the humble world of the artisan. But the sources hint at a more complicated truth. There is room for ambiguity because Fermo Merisi's job of mason could encompass different ways of working with stone, and possibly even the vocation of architect.\n\nBaglione's brief account broadly agrees with that of Bellori \u2013 he simply says that the artist, 'born in Caravaggio in Lombardy, was the son of a mason, quite well off'. But Mancini makes the artist's background sound considerably grander. According to him, 'He was born in Caravaggio of honourable citizens since his father was majordomo and architect to the Marchese di Caravaggio.' Mancini may have got the gist of his account from the artist himself, in particular the idea that Caravaggio was of better than merely common birth. A number of incidents in the painter's later life indicate that he believed that he came from good stock, and deserved respect on account of that. It is important to establish the truth, because Caravaggio's elevated sense of his own status would lie at the root of many of his future troubles.\n\nMost of the known facts about Caravaggio's youth were published by the scholar Mina Cinotti in 1983. One of the more revealing documents to emerge from her research records the wedding of the artists' parents. On 14 January 1571 Fermo Merisi married a woman called Lucia Aratori. Fermo was born in about 1540 and was a widower, with a daughter named Margherita by his first marriage. Lucia was some ten years younger than him and had not been married before. Fermo was recorded as resident in Milan, but the marriage took place in the town of Caravaggio, where both his bride and the rest of his family lived. It would have been an unexceptional wedding had it not been for the presence, among the witnesses, of the Marchese Francesco I Sforza di Caravaggio. The marchese was a member of one of the leading noble families of Italy, the Sforza, who were former lords of Milan. His wife, the young Marchesa di Caravaggio, was from the enormously powerful Colonna family. These were the most important people in the neighbourhood.\n\nThe presence of nobility at the nuptials of the Merisi family turns out to have had precious little to do with Caravaggio's father. Fermo Merisi was just an ordinary stonemason, perhaps reasonably well off but with no great social pretensions. He was certainly _not_ an architect. In a number of documents relating to him he is referred to as a _mastro_ , designating him as a qualified artisan with the right to set up his own workshop and hire apprentices. He ran this modest business in Milan. His probate inventory lists 'some old iron mason's tools', but does not include any books or instruments that would indicate a knowledge of the theoretical aspects of architecture. His retention of an independent workshop makes it unlikely that he was in the direct employ of the Marchese di Caravaggio. Caravaggio's paternal grandfather, Bernardino Merisi, was himself no higher up the social scale. He too had run a small business. He was a wine merchant and vintner based at the family home in Porta Seriola, in the north-east quarter of Caravaggio.\n\nThere were in fact close links between Caravaggio's family and the noble Colonna dynasty, but all on the side of the painter's mother. Her father, Giovan Giacomo Aratori, was an _agrimensor_ , or 'surveyor', whose job it was to help resolve disputes over land ownership. He was also involved in buying and selling land. His work brought him directly into contact with the Colonna, who owned much property in the region. Whereas Caravaggio's father and paternal grandfather worked with their hands, Giovan Giacomo was a professional rather than an artisan. His work required more literacy than that of a mason, as well as a knowledge of geometry and arithmetic. In 1570, a year before the birth of his grandson, the future painter, he was made a member of the college of land surveyors of the Duchy of Milan.\n\nGiovan Giacomo Aratori also played his part in the religious life of Caravaggio. The most celebrated event in the history of this sleepy little agricultural town had occurred in 1432, when a peasant girl working in the fields was reputed to have had a vision of the Virgin Mary. According to legend a freshwater spring had miraculously gushed from the spot where she experienced her vision, and a shrine had been subsequently erected to the honour of the wonder-working 'Madonna della Fontana'. By the second half of the sixteenth century, the shrine of Santa Maria della Fontana had become the most significant religious institution in Caravaggio. It was administered by a body of _scolari_ , to which Giovan Giacomo was elected at various times from the mid 1560s onwards.\n\nIn addition, he held important positions in the local _comune_ , as councillor, treasurer and emissary to the Spanish authorities (the Duchy of Milan, including the town of Caravaggio, was at that time part of the vast Habsburg empire, controlled by Philip II of Spain from the Escorial, his palace and monastery outside Madrid). Giovan Giacomo's many responsibilities meant that he was a familiar figure among the local nobility. He acted directly as an agent for the Marchese Francesco Sforza I di Caravaggio, served as a legal witness for the Sforza family and collected rents on their behalf. Some documents connect him directly to the marchese, others to the marchese's wife, Costanza Colonna.\n\nThere were yet more intimate links between the Colonna family and the Aratori clan. Giovan Giacomo's daughter Margherita, Caravaggio's maternal aunt, was wet-nurse to the Sforza children. She lived in the Colonna household for many years and breastfed Costanza Colonna's sons, including the future adventurer and sometime militant Knight of the Order of St John, Fabrizio Sforza Colonna. In 1584, as a reward for her service, Costanza gave Margherita a small estate in Fara d'Adda, near the town of Caravaggio. As late as 1601 Margherita was still in regular touch with the marchesa, writing letters to her in Rome \u2013 at a time when Caravaggio, elsewhere in the city, was receiving some of his most important commissions.\n\nCostanza Colonna would be called on many times by Caravaggio. Always she would respond. She would be a constant support to him in times of crisis, giving him shelter when he was on the run and shielding him when he was under sentence of death. Yet, unlike any of his other noble allies or protectors, she would never try to acquire a painting by his hand. All the evidence suggests that she genuinely cared for him, perhaps even loved him as a child of her own. Her influence and that of her family, with its tentacular network of feudal and familial alliances, reaching right across the Italian peninsula, can be sensed throughout Caravaggio's life _\u2013_ but especially during his later and more troubled years.\n\nSocial class, in particular questions of 'nobility' and 'virtue', would be at issue in many of Caravaggio's future disputes and quarrels. These were matters of intense debate in medieval and Renaissance Italy. In northern Europe the aristocracy took its own pre-eminence for granted and assumed that nobility was a quality that could only truly inhere in those fortunate enough to be born into the upper, landed classes. There, a nobleman was easily identified: a man of virtue and pure blood, who had the right to bear arms in the service of his monarch, who was a skilled swordsman and horseman and would never dirty his hands with trade. In Italy the situation was more ambiguous, because Italian society was more fluid and its ruling elites more diverse, made up of imperial knights, communal knights, magnates and other types of feudal lord. It was also an increasingly urbanized society, and that too led to the blurring of social distinctions. From the second half of the fourteenth century onwards, urban patriciates sought to tighten their hold on government. The men who made up those bodies, which included merchants, moneylenders, textile manufacturers and other drivers of early capitalism, were themselves intensely class conscious. They founded their own dynasties, staked their own claims to _nobilit\u00e0_ \u2013 so much so that the very term itself became, in Italy, shifting and unstable. As early as the fourteenth century, writers ranging from the poet Dante to medieval jurists had struggled to define the concept. Legal definitions based purely on titles conferred by the monarchy or the church were countered by those who preferred to regard nobility as a moral quality to which, in theory, almost anyone could aspire.\n\nWhat position did Caravaggio's maternal grandfather occupy within this world of subtly shaded social distinctions? Giovan Giacomo Aratori is referred to in the documents of the time as _signor_ , _messer_ or _dominus_. While his social status was certainly higher than that of anyone on the Merisi side of Caravaggio's family, neither he nor his descendants possessed any actual titles. He was a member of what might be called the upper, professional bourgeoisie, while the likes of Bernardino and Fermo Merisi belonged to the petty, trade bourgeoisie. Mancini's statement that Caravaggio was born into a family of 'very honourable citizens' \u2013 _cittadini_ is the word he uses in Italian \u2013 was entirely accurate.\n\nBut in the small world of Caravaggio, where the artist spent much of his youth, his status may to him have seemed grander than that. As we have seen, his maternal grandfather was a highly respected man, but other factors may have conspired to make him feel that both he and his family were blessed by aristocratic favour. Maybe Costanza Colonna showed particular favours or kindnesses to Caravaggio's mother, Lucia, sister to her own children's wet-nurse. Lucia's early years of motherhood were hard indeed, marked by bereavement and loss. Costanza Colonna too had suffered a difficult time during the early years of her marriage to Francesco I Sforza. She had been married off, as the custom then was among the nobility, at the age of thirteen. The duties of a wife had at first been abhorrent to her, so much so that she had at one point threatened suicide. Did Costanza Colonna feel a particular sympathy for Lucia and her young children during the harsh years of their early upbringing? It is impossible to know for sure, but she certainly took a particular interest in Caravaggio's wellbeing later in his life. Perhaps the date of his birth had something to do with it too, because as far as anyone in Christendom was concerned \u2013 but especially a Colonna \u2013 he was born at an auspicious time.\n\n#### THE ANGEL WITH SWORD AND SHIELD\n\nCaravaggio grew up as Michelangelo Merisi. It was an evocative name for a future artist \u2013 the same Christian name as that of the most famous Italian sculptor and painter of all, Michelangelo Buonarrotti, who had died just seven years earlier. But Caravaggio's parents did not have that in mind when they named their son. They called him Michelangelo for reasons of faith and superstition. He came into the world on 29 September 1571. His parents named him after the Archangel Michael, whose feast day it was.\n\nThis was a charged and momentous time in the history of Christendom. Throughout the 1550s and 1560s the Christian powers of the western Mediterranean were threatened by the forces of Islam \u2013 led first by the Ottoman Sultan Suleiman 'The Magnificent', and then by his successor, Selim II. The bitter and bloody conflict between Muslim and Christian reached a climax at exactly the moment of Caravaggio's birth. In 1570\u201371 Christian Cyprus, a strategically vital island fortress long controlled by the Venetians, fell into Ottoman hands. The garrison stationed at Famagusta, the last Christian stronghold in Cyprus, fought bravely before being forced to surrender. The survivors of the siege were cruelly massacred. Churches and cathedrals were converted into mosques, their stained glass smashed, their paintings and sculptures destroyed, their belltowers turned into minarets. Pope Pius V was appalled not only by the atrocity and its immediate consequences, but also by the possibility that the Ottomans might gain control over the principal trade routes of the Mediterranean. He joined forces with the Venetians, and together the allies sought additional support wherever they could find it. Missions were sent to Spain, to Portugal and to all the independent states of Italy. The princely families of southern Europe rallied together and thousands of soldiers were pressed into service. The result was no mere political alliance, but a self-styled Holy League for the defence of Christendom against the infidel.\n\nUnder the command of Don Juan of Austria, illegitimate brother of Philip II of Spain, a vast fleet of galleys \u2013 most of them constructed, in record time, within the great dockyard-cum-factory production-line that was Venice's Arsenale \u2013 set out to humble the Turkish navy. Eight days after Caravaggio's birth, on 7 October 1571, the two sides met in the Greek Gulf of Corinth, then known in the west as the Gulf of Lepanto. The result was the last great sea battle fought between galley-rowed ships. Both sides suffered heavy casualties. Eight thousand Christians died, and many more Turks. But, while the fleet of the Holy League survived the battle all but intact, the Ottoman fleet was destroyed and its commander-in-chief killed. One of the heroes of the battle was the commander of the papal forces, Marcantonio Colonna, father to Costanza Colonna, father-in-law to Francesco I Sforza, who had been witness at the wedding of Fermo Merisi and Lucia Aratori. After the victory, the pope declared that the Virgin Mary herself had interceded with God on behalf of the Holy League. Henceforward, the day of the victory was to be remembered as the Feast of Our Lady of Victory. Marian cults across Catholic Europe received a huge boost to their popularity. In Venice the day was declared a permanent _festum solemnis,_ to be marked every year by a procession led by the doge, and by celebratory masses. All across Italy, churches were built in honour of Santa Maria della Vittoria. Devotion to the Rosary reached a new pitch of intensity.\n\nThe Battle of Lepanto was a triumph to salve the wounds of a Christian world that had been sundered by the Reformation some half a century before. The Protestant king of faraway Scotland, James VI, was so carried away by the news that he wrote an epic poem to celebrate the great Catholic victory (though he felt compelled to add a prefatory disclaimer that Don Juan of Austria, hero of his verses, should still be regarded as 'a foreign papist bastard'). Meanwhile, Costanza Colonna's father, Marcantonio, made his triumphal entry into Rome. He rode into the city on a white horse, a modern-day Mark Antony stealing the glory of the caesars of old. But he also had the decorum to temper that show of pride with a spectacular display of humility. Having processed in triumph, he exchanged the armour of victory for rags and set forth on a pilgrimage to give thanks to Our Lady of Loreto.\n\nMichelangelo Merisi had been born on a day full of promise for zealous Christians, whose world was under threat. Archangel Michael had been the guardian angel of the Hebrew nation, and was associated with the protection of the faithful from harm. He had also been adopted, in Christian times, as the principal saint of the Church Militant. In depictions of the Last Judgement, he weighs the souls of the blessed and the damned, separating good from evil. In such paintings he is commonly shown wearing chain-mail and armed with a sword and shield, symbols of the archangel's ancient association with knights and crusades, and holy wars against the infidel.\n\nMichelangelo was a fitting Christian name for any child within the sphere of the Colonna family, defenders of the faith and warriors against heresy \u2013 but all the more so in the case of a child born not just on the saint's name day, but on the eve of a great battle between Christian and Muslim in which the head of the Colonna family himself would take a leading role. When victory at the Battle of Lepanto followed within just over a week of his birth, the hopes and prayers attendant on his baptism were answered. Perhaps he was thought of as a child who had brought good luck. Perhaps that was another reason why, despite his difficult personality and frequent lapses into criminal behaviour, Costanza Colonna would always stand by him.\n\n#### TOWN AND CITY\n\nThe artist's early life was divided between the town of Caravaggio and the city of Milan. The contrast between the two could hardly have been greater. Set in the fertile plains of Lombardy, Caravaggio was a quiet place, architecturally undistinguished, which had once been a Roman outpost. The activities of the town revolved around agriculture, which was vital to the booming prosperity of the region. Since the later Middle Ages the entire area had been intensively developed. Irrigation channels, networks of stream and canal that still criss-cross the fields today, had been systematically introduced. Better understanding of crop rotation had transformed the area into a prime producer of cereals. Large plantations of mulberry trees were grown as feed for silkworms, silk being the essential raw material for Milan's booming textile industry. The people of Caravaggio lived and worked by the rhythms of nature. They were known for their phlegmatic character, their solid business sense and their piety, the symbol of which was, from the 1580s onwards, the construction of the great shrine dedicated to Santa Maria della Fontana. Caravaggio was tranquil bordering on dull, a place where it felt as though nothing much had happened for a hundred years and more.\n\nMilan, the great city, two hours' ride away, had a population of 100,000, much the same as that of London or Paris at the time. Milan was noise and bustle, trade and industry, a populous and prosperous city \u2013 the place where Fermo Merisi, Caravaggio's father, went to work each day with his mason's tools of iron. It was a city known for the skill of its stone-workers and the ingenuity of its sword-makers. Milanese armour, Milanese swords and Milanese daggers were renowned as the finest in Italy. The men of the city were famous for their swordsmanship, a skill at which Caravaggio would come to excel.\n\nThe men of Milan were also known for their singular reluctance to marry. 'In Italy marryage is indeede a yoke, and that not easy, but so grevious, as brethren no where better agreeing, yet contend among themselves to be free from marryage.' Distrust of matrimony was common enough in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Italy, especially among the upper classes, to have provoked many such comments from visitors. Italian humanists, including Petrarch and Leonbattista Alberti, had railed against marriage as a distraction to the intellect and a potential cause of economic ruin. Nowhere was the misogynistic cult of celibacy stronger than in Lombardy. It did not necessarily entail sexual abstinence, merely a refusal to be yoked to any single woman. The rate of celibacy among the Milanese aristocracy reached unprecedentedly high levels in the second half of the seventeenth century, so much so that it has been calculated that more than fifty per cent of all high-born males in the city never married at all. Caravaggio would never marry either, although it is impossible to establish whether this was another example of the painter imitating aristocratic _mores_ , or simply the result of his restless temperament.\n\nThe traveller Thomas Coryat visited Milan in 1608, by which time Caravaggio was long gone from the city. But the Englishman's vivid account, published in 1611 under the title _Coryat's Crudities_ , describes the metropolis much as it had been when Caravaggio was young. Coryat noted Milan's conspicuous opulence, and the many luxury trades that thrived there: 'No City of Italy is furnished with more manuary arts than this. Their embroderers are very singular workemen, who worke much in gold and silver. Their cutlers that make hilts are more exquisite in the art than any that I ever saw. Of these two trades there is a great multitude in the city: Also silkemen do abound here, which are esteemed so good that they are not inferiour to any of the Christian world.'\n\nHe grouped the city's armourers and sword-makers together with its embroiderers and silk-workers, perhaps implying that all were working in different branches of the Milanese fashion industry. The ability to fight was certainly just as important, to a young man out to impress, as the clothes that he wore. Swordsmanship was part of that intangible code of pseudo-chivalric skills and values encompassed by the Italian words _virt\u00f9_ and _nobilit\u00e0_ \u2013 although in Caravaggio's Italy it was never easy to tell whether a young man's aspirations to virtuous nobility were rooted in fact or fantasy.\n\nCoryat was also struck by the number of churches in Milan and impressed by the city's close links with some of the most dynamic figures of early Christianity. He visited the church of St Ambrose, where the relics of Ambrose himself, Bishop of Milan in the fourth century, were preserved. He seems not to have visited Santa Maria delle Grazie, the Dominican friary for which Leonardo da Vinci, more than a hundred years before, had painted his famous _Last Supper_ (another English traveller, Fynes Moryson, who visited Milan in 1618, noted that 'in this Monastery... in the place where the Friers eate, the supper of our lord is painted with wonderfull art'). But Coryat did pay a trip to Milan's cathedral, 'an exceeding glorious and beautifull Church, as fair if not fairer then the Cathedrall Church of Amiens', where he witnessed 'one of the nayles wherewith Christ was crucified, as they affirme'. He then climbed the cathedral tower to get a view of the whole city and the plains beyond, the little town of Caravaggio somewhere in their midst. As he did so, looking out and beyond the city's nine great gates, he encompassed the whole world of the artist's childhood:\n\n> There I observed the huge suburbs, which are as bigge as many a faire towne, and compassed about with ditches of water: there also I beheld a great part of Italy, together with the lofty Apennines; and they shewed me which way Rome, Venice, Naples, Florence, Genoa, Ravenna &c. lay. The territory of Lombardy, which I contemplated round about from this tower, was so pleasant an object to mine eyes, being replenished with such unspeakable variety of all things, both for profite and pleasure, that it seemeth to me to be the very Elysian fieldes, so much decantated and celebrated by the verses of Poets, or the Tempe or Paradise of the world. For it is the fairest plaine, extended about two hundred miles in length that ever I saw, or ever shall if I should travell over the whole habitable world: insomuch that I said to my selfe that this country was fitter to be an habitation for the immortall Gods than for mortall men.\n\nMilan was built on a circular plan. At the centre of the circle stood the massive, intimidating Castello Sforzesco. This daunting structure had originally been built as a palace for the mighty Sforza dynasty. It is an epitome of the Renaissance architecture of tyranny, with its dark and towering walls covered with diamond rustication, like the studs on a knuckleduster. When Milan came under Habsburg control in the 1530s, the patronage of the Sforza came to an end. Caravaggio knew the building as the fortress from which the city's Spanish governors nervously ruled, ever on the lookout for insurrectionists within and heretics without. Hostile, watchful suspicion was a frame of mind deeply ingrained in the Spanish rulers of Milan. They knew how important it was that they maintained their grip on the city. Whoever controlled Milan controlled the overland route from Italy to the rest of Europe. Milan would be on the front line in the event of any attempted invasion from the Protestant north, so it needed its heavy fortifications. In Caravaggio's day, the principal danger was thought to lie in France and, to a lesser degree, Switzerland. For all the animosity between the Milanese and their occupiers \u2013 caused to a large extent by taxes and grain levies on the local people to feed the Spanish troops \u2013 the religious and political interests of Catholic Spain and Catholic Italy were as one in the face of such perceived threats from the Protestant north.\n\nMilan had been a strategically important city since the days of the Roman empire, when Julius Caesar and Pompey had at different times made their residence there. Unlike the caesars of the past, Philip II of Spain did not go so far as to live in Milan. But he jealously guarded his power over the city. He had inherited both his crown and his empire from his father, Emperor Charles V. There is no more vivid document of the larger world of _realpolitik_ , of the patterns of religious and political division that fractured Europe in Caravaggio's time, than the long 'Instruction' that the ailing Charles V dictated, towards the end of his life, for the benefit of his son. He warned his heir to watch out for the dangers lying in wait throughout the vast range of his territories, from Spain to Naples, from the Netherlands all the way across to Germany and Austria. He gave particular emphasis to the importance of keeping a grip on Milan, a key military outpost at the crossroads of Europe:\n\n> Leave German affairs, as I now do, to my brother Ferdinand, but maintain contacts there, for your vigilance must be alert throughout all the possessions of our house. The most constant threat comes from France. Their kings have been and are bound to us by treaties, but remember that they are not true to their undertakings and only keep to their word when they are too poor to go to war... Keep a good guard on our northern borders with France, and maintain a fleet of galleys in the Mediterranean as a warning both to the Turks and to the French. We need to maintain good relations with Genoa because of its port, so take good care for this.\n> \n> In the north-east I have strengthened Flanders against France by my annexation of Guelders, Utrecht and Frisia. Still, you must keep money on hand there in case there is need for a sudden mobilisation; the inhabitants are reasonably loyal to us, but do not relax your watchfulness... I have settled the affairs of Savoy somewhat to the detriment of our ally the Duke, but do not help him to recover the lands occupied by the French even if they are his by right. That could give the French an excuse to press south again against our Milan and if that happens our links with Genoa and Florence and our rule in Naples and Sicily could all be put at risk.\n\nStill Charles V continued, spinning out a web of complex alliances and counter-alliances, seeking to pass on to his son his own, pragmatically paranoid brand of statecraft:\n\n> Further to Italy: do not trust the Pope, who neither honours his word nor has the general interests of Christianity at heart; keep an eye on any strengthening of the Duke of Ferrara's family relationships with the French; Venice is unlikely to form any close attachment to France, Florence is much indebted to our support of the Duke and is safe, but be watchful of Lucca and Siena. Above all, keep Milan and Naples well garrisoned with troops regularly paid to keep them loyal to us. As for the rest, remember that the Swiss covet part of our Franche-Comte; keep on good terms with England but, given the Pope's resentment against that country, very warily; with Scotland, you need have little to do.\n\nCharles V gave Philip II that advice in 1548. By the 1570s relations between Spain and the papacy had somewhat improved, but Europe remained the same fractious place described in the emperor's world-weary anatomy of the continent's political and religious divisions. And Milan, important enough to get two mentions in his long memorandum, remained vital to Spanish interests. Charles V always regarded the city as 'the key to Italy', and his son Philip II never deviated from that view. To lose Milan would not only expose the whole of Spanish rule in southern Italy to danger; it would also separate Spain from its territories in the Low Countries. The caution of Milan's Spanish rulers was exacerbated by their knowledge that the city's defence was in the hands of no more than around 5,000 soldiers. Any hint of trouble \u2013 the merest suggestion that the French were fomenting revolt in Genoa, the chance appearance of a group of gypsies from Venice \u2013 and a state of emergency was liable to be declared.\n\nOn the surface, the city where Caravaggio spent much of his youth was run as it had been during the era of Sforza rule. The Duchy of Milan might have become a vassal of Spain, but its bureaucratic apparatus remained unchanged and the same magistracies held the reins of power. The most significant difference was that the Consiglio Segreto, or 'secret council', that had once advised the Sforza dukes now reported to the Spanish governor. The Senate continued to exercise supreme judicial and administrative authority in the city, but was obliged to do so with a careful eye to Spanish interests. The members of the Senate were jurists drawn from the Milanese patriciate, men with a strong sense of Milanese legal traditions, whereas the governor of the city was one of the highest representatives of the Spanish sovereign, who was naturally disposed to act in accordance with Spain's larger strategic aims. Milanese politics was a balancing act, a fragile equilibrium of occupier and occupied.\n\nInstitutional continuity under Spanish rule was mirrored by a continuity of approach to the balance of secular and religious powers. The Sforza had pursued a gradually consistent policy of strengthening civil authority and weakening that of the Church. One of their main aims had been to establish control over ecclesiastical nominations in the Duchy of Milan, so that those whom they considered politically undesirable, or outright hostile, could be excluded from powerful positions such as that of bishop. Under Spanish rule, this strategy was pursued to the point where many other traditional powers of the Church were usurped by the state. Frequently, it was the civil, rather than the religious, authority that tried those accused of heresy, that took responsibility for discipline in the duchy's convents and monasteries, and that assumed the right to punish clerical abuses. This naturally reinforced Spanish power over all areas of life in Milan, but, though its aim was to limit ecclesiastical powers and privileges, it was never intended to weaken the Catholic faith itself.\n\nIn his instructions to his viceroys and governors, the fervently devout Philip II constantly stressed that the defence of Catholicism was his absolute priority. He had inherited a medieval Spanish conception of his role as monarch, according to which his first duty was _servicio de Dios_. He was brought up to believe that as king he had been singled out as the instrument of divine will. So, by a self-perpetuatingly circular logic, his policies were held to be those decreed by God and those best calculated to advance the holy mission of Catholicism. Spain's cause _was_ the cause of God; and this was true even if Spanish policies clashed directly with those of the supreme ecclesiastical authority, the pope. That was exactly what happened in Milan during the years immediately before and after the birth of Caravaggio. Other circumstances besides conspired to create a mood of incendiary religious fervour, often bordering on hysteria, in the city where the artist spent his formative years.\n\n#### CARLO BORROMEO\n\nThe dominant figure in Milan during Caravaggio's youth was not a Spaniard but an Italian. Carlo Borromeo was a dour and deeply pious man with a fierce sense of mission. He became Archbishop of Milan in 1565. He saw the city as the world itself in microcosm, a place teetering on the brink of damnation, teeming with sinners to be converted and souls to be saved. Like the ascetic Dominican friar Savonarola, who had preached in Florence almost a hundred years before, Borromeo galvanized the Milan of Caravaggio's childhood into regular paroxysms of mass repentance. His appearance, gaunt, hollow-cheeked, charismatically severe, was itself symbolic: a visible sign, like the rags adopted four centuries earlier by St Francis of Assisi, that Borromeo had renounced wealth and privilege to follow directly in the footsteps of Christ and his apostles.\n\nAlthough he would become one of the most radical reformers of the Catholic faith and way of life, he had first been pressed into the service of the Church by the forces of old-fashioned nepotism. His uncle, Pope Pius IV, appointed him to the position of his own private secretary and elevated him to the rank of cardinal when Borromeo was still barely in his twenties (and despite the fact that he had received no theological training). Yet he soon justified that favouritism. A skilled negotiator, he played a vital part at the end of the Council of Trent. This was the hugely significant nineteenth Ecumenical Council of the Roman Catholic Church \u2013 and was, in essence, the Catholic Church's concerted response to the multiple challenges to its authority posed by the Protestant Reformation.\n\nIt was at the Council of Trent that the Catholic Church reaffirmed the importance of the sacraments and the role of the priesthood; that it insisted on the importance of good works as well as of faith, in contradiction of Martin Luther's belief in 'justification by faith alone'; that it pronounced its own interpretation of the Bible final, branding any Christian with the temerity to substitute his or her own interpretations a heretic; and that it reaffirmed a multitude of Catholic practices that had been criticized by reformers in the north, such as pilgrimage and the veneration of saints and their relics. These were the basic principles that would underpin the Counter-Reformation, as it became known, the Catholic riposte to Protestant reformers. Yet such was the mood of contention surrounding the questions under debate, in which nothing less than the future of the Catholic Church was at stake, that there were many times when it seemed as though agreement might never be reached. First summoned in 1537, the council was concluded only in 1562\u20133. Carlo Borromeo was one of the men who saved it, at the last, from breaking down altogether.\n\nHe was a hard worker, who rarely slept for more than five hours and often went without food due to the permanent backlog of papal business requiring his attention. But to those who did not know about his punishing regime he may well have seemed like just another corrupt cardinal-nephew, the latest in a long line of such self-serving placemen. The pope appointed him to a dazzling array of positions, including the Protector of Portugal, of Lower Germany and of the seven Catholic cantons of Switzerland; as well as Protector of the Carmelites, Franciscans, Humiliati, Canons Regular of the Holy Cross at Coimbra and of the orders of St John and Christ in Portugal. He was also the absentee abbot of a number of monastic foundations. From these sources and his family estates he derived an annual income of around 50,000 scudi, a princely sum in mid sixteenth-century Italy. He was a keen and energetic huntsman who spent lavishly on his horses and hounds, and equally lavishly on his household, which he turned into a magnificent manifestation of his innate asceticism and sobriety: he kept one hundred and fifty servants and retainers, all dressed from head to toe in a uniform of funereal black velvet.\n\nBorromeo in his youth was a volatile combination of pride and piety, but it would take a personal tragedy to transform him into one of the most fervent and inventively radical priests of the Counter-Reformation. His elder brother, Federico Borromeo, died suddenly in 1562. Carlo, who was administrator of the pope's native diocese, the Archbishopric of Milan, was widely expected to give up his career in the Church, renounce his vows of piety and continue the family line by marrying in order to father a son and heir. Instead, he concluded that all man's earthly hopes and aspirations amounted to no more than a handful of dust. He gave up the trappings of wealth, sacked the majority of his household staff and forbade those remaining in his service to wear garments of silk or to indulge in any other luxuries. He took holy orders and briefly considered retreating from the world altogether, to a monastery. Eventually he decided that it was his role in the divine plan to revive and reform the Roman Catholic Church \u2013 and he set about the task with the evangelical zeal of a man convinced that he had God on his side.\n\nIt was only after the death of his brother that Carlo Borromeo's influence would really be felt in Milan. In 1565 he was consecrated Archbishop of Milan. He signalled his intentions by making his triumphal entry into the city wearing archbishop's robes, rather than dressed as a cardinal. It was his way of indicating that he came with his own sense of duty and purpose, not as the mere servant of papal Rome. He was determined to make the city and its provinces into the crucible for an extraordinary socio-religious experiment. Under his steely control and watchful gaze, the 900,000 souls of the Duchy of Milan were to be systematically indoctrinated in the ways of his own, deeply ascetic brand of piety. What he attempted was nothing less than a form of forced mass conversion to what he saw as the real and true tenets of Christian faith.\n\nThe archbishop had a darkly pessimistic view of human nature. He passionately opposed the doctrine of free will favoured by so many Protestants, and by some within his own church. To him, the idea that man had a God-given ability to choose between good and evil was a pernicious lie. He had a revealing disagreement with another prominent figure in the Counter-Reformation Catholic Church, the Bolognese theologian Gabriele Paleotti. Paleotti argued that 'Since God created human volition free and its own arbiter, it can be forced by no chains, but only sparked with the help of God's grace.' In Borromeo's bleaker view, human nature is 'already tainted by sin' \u2013 the Original Sin of Adam and Eve \u2013 and 'is by itself so inclined to evil that we easily neglect and forget to do good'. Borromeo's stern conclusion was that 'we need help and stimulants to live well, and always someone to remind us of it.' What that sentence portended, for the people of Milan, was a systematic attempt to change their way of life and transform their habits of thought. Borromeo saw himself as a spiritual successor to St Ambrose. Just as Ambrose had defied the Roman emperor, so Borromeo challenged the Spanish governors of Milan with the aim of asserting his own authority as the city's spiritual leader.\n\nOne of his first acts was to reassert the ancient right of the Archbishop of Milan to maintain a private army. Borromeo's so-called _famiglia armata_ , or 'armed family', which was a corps of armed men drawn from his own household, became a key weapon in his fight to reform what he regarded as the rotten state of the city. The archbishop claimed wide-ranging powers, so that those suspected of any offence that he judged to touch on public morality \u2013 such as heresy, blasphemy or sodomy \u2013 were liable to receive the not so tender attentions of his 'family'. He revived the defunct civil and criminal tribunals of the archiepiscopal curia, and reopened ancient prisons for the confinement of those found guilty in Milan's ecclesiastical courts. Borromeo's insistence on the unrestricted use of his _famiglia armata,_ and his extension of ecclesiastical authority into areas of life long regulated by the secular courts and justice system, led to numerous clashes with the city's Spanish rulers. At the climax of one particularly acrimonious row over jurisdiction, Borromeo went so far as to excommunicate the Spanish governor, the Marqu\u00e9s de Requesens. When Requesens retaliated, Borromeo himself was nearly exiled from the city.\n\nBorromeo saw to it that the Spanish Inquisition, which operated in Spain's offshore Italian possessions, Sardinia and Sicily, was excluded from Milan. He was able to clip and curtail Spanish power in a number of such ways, largely because he had strong support in Rome. He removed jurisdiction over alleged religious crimes from Milan's Spanish rulers, insisting that he himself should be the final judge in all such cases. But he also slowly won the grudging respect of the pious Philip II \u2013 to whom he explained, in a long and persuasive letter, that his aim was not to usurp Spanish power but to strengthen the Roman Catholic Church.\n\nFor two decades, throughout the formative period of Caravaggio's life, the archbishop pushed through a multitude of Church reforms intended to control the hearts, souls and minds of the people at large, measures that ranged from the introduction of new confessionals to the segregation of men and women in church. He made no secret of his distaste for self-styled elite clerical associations such as the Theatines or the Barnabites. He actually suppressed one of the orders nominally under his protection, the Humiliati, on the grounds that its membership was restricted to a corrupt, self-serving clique of aristocrats. He was promptly shot in the back at close range by a disgruntled Humiliatus, but survived the attack unharmed \u2013 an escape subsequently attributed, by his hagiographers, to divine intervention.\n\nBorromeo was an obsessive regulator and centralizer, and he did his best to turn his clergy into a spiritual equivalent of the _famiglia armata_ \u2013 a body of Christian soldiers animated by a single purpose and method. All priests with a pastoral duty were obliged to preach every Sunday and feast day. Reports were gathered from every parish in the diocese and underperforming priests were summoned to the archbishop's presence to practise their skills in front of him (they also had to leave a written copy of their sermon behind for his perusal). Not least because Milan was on the frontier with partly Protestant Switzerland, Borromeo was determined to turn his diocese into a shining demonstration of revitalized Roman Catholicism \u2013 a beacon to those who had erred, the brilliance of which might persuade them to mend their ways. He built new churches by the score and trained up an army of new priests to spread the word of God to their congregations. He founded diocesan seminaries and many schools. By the time of his death some 40,000 children in the diocese of Milan were being educated at any one time, an unprecedentedly high proportion of the juvenile population. Caravaggio's own family would be directly involved in the Borromean spiritual experiment: his only brother became a priest. No one in Milan and its surroundings was left untouched by the archbishop's plans for spiritual revival.\n\nBorromeo saw sinfulness everywhere and envisaged his priests as an army of spiritual stormtroopers taking the battle to the devil. No detail was too small to escape his eye, especially in the design of churches, which he saw as machines for the purification of an evil world. He wrote entire volumes of instructions about the minutiae of ecclesiastical architecture, the so-called _Instructiones_ , in which he pronounced on matters ranging from the precise amount of space church architects should allow for each member of the congregation ('one cubit and eight ounces square' exactly, four square feet in modern terms) to the appropriate scale and decoration of the entrances: 'the middle doorway must be distinguished by its width and ornamented with sculptures of lions... to represent the Temple of Solomon and the vigilance of bishops.' Borromeo was particularly concerned to ensure that men and women be separated from one another in church. He devised movable screens to be erected between groups of male and female worshippers, to prevent them exchanging glances with one another \u2013 often, in Borromeo's view, the first occasion for sin. He also sought to set strict controls on the clothes worn by worshippers, especially female worshippers, whom he berated for coming to church dressed for seduction, as if they were going to Carnival rather than participating in a holy ritual.\n\nThe mass of directives issued from the archiepiscopal palace of Milan must have occasionally wearied even the most conscientious of the Milanese clergymen whose task it was to enforce them. Here for example is the archbishop on the intricacies of the holy-water stoup, its placement, its design, its necessary accessories:\n\n> [The holy-water stoup] should not be put outside, but rather inside the church, accessible to those who enter and at their right hand, if possible. One font should be placed on the side where men enter and another... where the women enter. These [stoups] should not be near the wall but distant from it in proportion to the space that is there. They should be supported... on a small pillar, or some type of base on which nothing profane appears. There should be a sprinkler on a small metal chain hanging from the rim... it should not terminate with a sponge rather than bristles. It may terminate with a sponge only if it is enclosed in a silver, tin, or brass-perforated knob that has bristles on the outside.\n\nThe bristles about which Borromeo was so particular symbolized the cleansing branches of hyssop that purify the souls of the faithful in the ancient biblical psalm (Psalm 50): 'Sprinkle me with hyssop and I shall be cleansed; wash me and I shall be made whiter than snow.'\n\nMany years later, near the end of his life, when Caravaggio was a fugitive from justice in the Sicilian town of Messina, he was offered some holy water in a little church. The story is told by Francesco Susinno, a Messinese writer of artists' lives. It suggests that Caravaggio may still have carried with him some sardonic remembrance of the obsessive concern with the purification of souls that had coloured so much of his childhood and youth in Milan: 'One day he went into the church of the Madonna of Pilero with certain gentlemen, and the politest of them stepped forward to offer him some holy water. Caravaggio asked him what it was for, and was told 'to cancel venial sins'. 'Then it is no use,' he said. 'Because mine are all mortal.' That terse remark captures the darkest of the painter's moods \u2013 the sullen conviction that nothing, certainly no holy water, could ever wash _his_ soul clean or whiten the stain of _his_ sins.\n\n#### 'EGO TE ABSOLVO'\n\nFor Carlo Borromeo, confession was the Church's greatest weapon in the war on sin and evil. His highest priority was to regularize and control the administering of the sacrament of penance \u2013 which he believed could be used not only to mould the individual conscience but to redesign society. In Borromean Milan the hearing of confession was restricted to trained teams of diocesan confessors, who were allowed to operate only under direct licence from the archbishop himself. Each confessor was obliged to attend weekly classes to hone his confessional technique and receive the latest instructions from Borromeo. The archbishop told his confessors that they were even more important than the parish priests when it came to the saving of souls; he told them that they 'have the souls in their hands' and 'speak to Jerusalem's heart'.\n\nIn 1566 a new Roman Catechism had been composed, under Borromeo's supervision, in which the sacrament of penance had been described as 'the fortress of Christian virtue'. It had preserved the Roman Catholic Church from the attacks of the devil and his heretical minions, and it was to be considered responsible for 'whatever today's Church has preserved in holiness, piety and religiosity'. Borromeo went to great lengths to ensure that 'the fortress of virtue' remained pure of carnality or corruption. He popularized a new article of furniture for the administering of the sacrament, the confessional box, to create a physical separation between confessor and penitent \u2013 and thus avert any danger of unclean thoughts polluting their necessarily intimate relationship. It placed the confessor in his own kind of indoors fortress, making him invisible to the penitent and, it was hoped, immune to temptations and blandishments.\n\nThe archbishop's suspicious view of human nature extended to his own priests and confessors. In the late 1570s, when a woodworker named Rizzardo Taurini was commissioned to build five confessionals for the new Jesuit church of San Fedele in Milan, he provoked Borromeo's rage by fractionally curtailing one of the partitions at the bottom of the standard double sentry-box design. The Jesuit provost of San Fedele recalled the archbishop's outraged protest \u2013 'the confessor can easily touch the woman's feet with his own.' Borromeo repeated the objection several times, to the evident exasperation of the provost, who found the archbishop's insistence on the moral dangers inherent in a proximity between two people's feet more than faintly absurd. 'He greatly insisted on this,' the provost remembered, 'as if lust enters the body through one's shoes, and he is unaware that in his confessionals the woman's mouth is close to the confessor's ear.' The Jesuit knew a truth that Borromeo did not want to acknowledge: no matter how strong the grilles and walls of any confessional box, nothing could absolutely prevent priests and penitents from harbouring feelings for one another. The partitions intended to separate man from woman might even enhance the illict thrill of such emotions. This exchange between the worldly provost and the archbishop reveals the paranoid fear of sinfulness \u2013 and the corresponding desire to close off almost every avenue of human sensuality \u2013 that lay at the heart of Borromean piety.\n\nBorromeo believed that confession was nothing less than an instrument, given to him by God, to purify the world. The sacrament of penance already gave the confessor a fearsome weapon for the discipline of each soul \u2013 the power to grant or withold absolution. But Borromeo enhanced that power by putting checks in place to ensure that penance was true and not merely a matter of words and assurances. He insisted that confessors make enquiries about their penitents with their parish priests. Those priests in turn were instructed to tell confessors of any conditions that might disqualify a particular penitent from absolution \u2013 adultery, for example, or cohabitation outside wedlock. If absolution were not granted, the penitent would soon find himself or herself before the episcopal magistrates, and under the threat of imprisonment.\n\nBorromeo also ordered his confessors to interrogate their penitents for any knowledge they might have of heretics, or of anyone harbouring prohibited books. This cast the net wide, since such was the repressive cultural effect of the Counter-Reformation that the list of banned books \u2013 the Index \u2013 included many of the works now considered part of every Italian's intellectual heritage: Boccaccio's _Decameron_ , the poetry of Petrarch and Ariosto, the political theory of Machiavelli, to name just some. Anyone who made too public a display of owning any of those books was likely to find themselves given away to the authorities.\n\nThe situation in Milan was not unique, in that harsh measures against heresy were being taken in cities all across Italy, but it was extreme. For example, when the Roman Inquisition recommended that Catholic confessors should encourage their penitents to inform on heretics, Borromeo applied the condition with particular severity. In Milan any confessor too fastidious to enquire about heresy was summarily excommunicated; and if a penitent _did_ confess to knowledge of heretical activities, he or she was immediately sent to higher authorities to give further information about these enemies of the faith \u2013 to supply names and addresses, to give details of what they had done or might be planning to do. Only then might the penitent return to their confessor to hear the consoling words, ' _Ego te absolvo_.'\n\nBorromeo did not entirely succeed in his efforts to turn Milan into a model Tridentine police state. Even though he had the firm support of the pope and, eventually, Philip II of Spain, some of his attempts to redesign the Milanese way of life met with angry resistance. He tried in vain to ban dancing on feast days and Sundays, and in 1579 he even attempted to kill off the exuberantly joyful pre-Lenten tradition of Carnival. To the disgust of many Milanese citizens, he prohibited all jousts, tournaments, masquerades, plays and dances, and declared the automatic excommunication of all those participating in or attending such spectacles. Borromeo regarded Carnival as the devil's work, a dissolute rite lodged like a parasite at the beginning of the holy season. His prohibition was backed up by the threat that his confessors would exploit their information-gathering networks to identity those who had taken part in the celebrations. But this time he had gone too far. Borromeo's attempt to shut down the festive life of the city was met with panic by the civic authorities and rage by the people. Rome and Spain both had to intervene to prevent a popular uprising and Borromeo was forced, reluctantly, to acknowledge that there were limits to his power. In the end, the Milanese were content to fall short of spiritual perfection.\n\n#### THE POWER OF THE IMAGE\n\nFor all his inflexibility, Borromeo was an immensely charismatic and transformative individual. He changed his world, and has been rightly remembered as one of the most dynamic figures in the history of the Roman Catholic Church. In the words of Ludwig von Pastor, author of _The History of the Popes_ , 'he stands as a milestone in the history of the Church, at the boundary line between two epochs, the dying Renaissance and the triumphant Catholic reform.' As the first resident Archbishop of Milan for nearly a century, he cast a giant shadow over the city throughout the 1570s and early 1580s.\n\nThere is good reason to believe that the acts and ideas of Carlo Borromeo played a profound part in the formation of Caravaggio \u2013 an artist whose greatest gift would be an unprecedentedly stark and vivid naturalism, deeply attuned to the ideals of Counter-Reformation piety that permeated the city of his youth. Borromeo embodied more than just a particularly direct and messianic form of piety. His faith was rooted in an intense, spectacularly visual imagination. Borromeo's way of believing in Christ \u2013 which involved putting Christ at the centre of his life not in an abstract way, but as actually as possible \u2013 depended essentially on a process of mental projection identical to that required in painting pictures.\n\nIn early life Borromeo had been strongly influenced by the founder of the Jesuits, St Ignatius Loyola. He had read and followed Loyola's _Spiritual Exercises_ , a work that placed great emphasis on the role of visualization in Christian meditation. Loyola specifically advised his readers to visualize Christ's sufferings, insisting that the necessary prelude to any deep and serious meditation on Christ's Life and Passion was a mental process that he termed 'composition, seeing the place'. What that involved was, in effect, a kind of internalized version of the act of painting itself: 'In contemplation or meditation on visual things, as in contemplating Christ our Lord, who is visible, composition will be to see by the eye of the imagination a physical place where that thing is found which I wish to contemplate. By a physical place I mean, for example, a temple or mountain, where Jesus Christ, or Our Lady is found, according to that which I wish to contemplate.'\n\nThe Ignatian belief in the power of visualization carried within it the implication that if worshippers can see the image of Christ in their mind's eye, then they can empathize with his sufferings all the more fully \u2013 opening themselves to that emotional involvement which leads to the deeper forms of meditative experience. But the idea was not new to Loyola. It goes back to the Middle Ages, and finds especially powerful expression in the writings of the early followers of St Francis of Assisi. A good example is an early Franciscan tract entitled the _Little Book on the Meditation on the Passion of Christ Divided According to Seven Hours of the Day_ , which describes the exercise thus: 'It is necessary that when you concentrate on these things in your contemplation, you do so as if you were actually present at the very time when he suffered. And in grieving you should regard yourself as if you had our Lord suffering before your very eyes, and that he was present to receive your prayers.'\n\nA late thirteenth-century guide to prayer entitled _Meditations on the Life of Christ_ , probably written by a Franciscan friar from Tuscany, vividly demonstrates how such practices developed. The process involved ever more complicated and detailed visualizations, so that a succession of almost cinematic images would follow, one after another, in the mind:\n\n> reflect on the benignity of the Lord in having to sustain persecution so soon and in such a way... He was carried to Egypt by the very young and tender mother, and by the aged saintly Joseph, along wild roads, obscure, rocky and difficult, through woods and uninhabited places \u2013 a very long journey. It is said that couriers would take thirteen or fifteen days; for them it was perhaps two months or longer. They are also said to have gone by way of the desert, which the children of Israel traversed and in which they stayed forty years. How did they carry food with them? And where did they rest and stay the night? Very seldom did they find a house in that desert. Have pity on them, for it was a very difficult, great and long exertion for them as well as for the Child Jesus. Accompany them and help to carry the Child and serve them in every way you can... Here there comes a beautiful and pious, compassionate meditation... These and other things about the boy Jesus you can contemplate. I have given you the occasion and you can enlarge it and follow it as you please.\n\nThe rise of this form of popular devotion was closely linked to the development of painting, from the thirteenth to the fifteenth centuries and beyond. Throughout Western European Christendom, and especially in Italy and the Low Countries, artists competed with each other to create convincing illusions of actual presence, developing new techniques such as mathematically calculated perspective to paint ever more convincing images of the life and sufferings of Christ. Painters made their pictures as realistic as they could in order to assist worshippers in their own acts of mental picture-building. The common goal was to summon up the events described in the New Testament as vividly as possible, so that devout Christians might imagine themselves present as actors at the scene \u2013 mourning the dead Christ, for example, or helping to tend him as an infant on the Holy Family's flight to Egypt, as the author of _Meditations on the Life of Christ_ had written. Religious painting and religious meditation were, in fact, branches of the same activity.\n\nBut by the middle years of the sixteenth century the relationship between art and religious contemplation in Italy had become less straightforward. In the more sophisticated artists' circles, the idea of appealing to the popular devotional imagination with images of painstaking realism was regarded with disdain. Art became seen instead as an idealized, generalized language for the expression of higher thought. Michelangelo, the outstanding painter-sculptor of the High Renaissance, deliberately distanced himself from the pious naturalism of earlier religious painting, which he associated above all with the oil painting traditions of Flanders: 'They paint in Flanders,' he contemptuously remarked in the 1540s, 'only to deceive the external eye, things that gladden you and of which you cannot speak ill. Their painting is of stuffs, bricks and mortar, the grass of the fields, the shadows of trees, and bridges and rivers, which they call landscapes, and little figures here and there. And all this, though it may appear good to some eyes, is in truth done without _reason_ , without symmetry or proportion, without care in selecting or rejecting.' It was a form of painting, he concluded, fit only for 'young women, monks or nuns, or certain noble persons who have no ear for true harmony'.\n\nBut Michelangelo's subtle, poetically allusive and metaphorical ideal of art seemed, to many in the Roman Catholic Church, to be increasingly out of tune with the times. His use of the idealized nude figure was considered scandalous and his famous cycle of paintings for the Sistine Chapel ceiling was systematically censored in the late 1550s with the addition of a multitude of decorously placed fig leaves. Religious art was a highly controversial subject. Protestant reformers had attacked religious images altogether, on the grounds that they violated the Second Commandment ('Thou shalt not make to thyself any graven image'). The Catholic clerics who assembled at the Council of Trent had their own counter-argument, based on centuries of Church tradition. They resoundingly defended religious paintings and statues as divinely ordained tools for transmitting the messages of the Bible to the illiterate poor. But, at the same time, they acknowledged that many religious artists had forgotten their fundamental role to aid and assist devotion. It seemed clear to most of the leading formulators of Counter-Reformation policy that artists had become so caught up in abstruse ideas, so concerned to demonstrate their own ingenuity and originality, that they had forgotten the humility required of them as servants of the will of God. Not only was the Sistine Chapel ceiling censored, but the Venetian artist Paolo Veronese was publicly castigated for including all kinds of irrelevant details in a painting of _The Last Supper_. The Venetian Inquisition, which called Veronese to account for himself, was outraged by the presence in that picture of parrots, dwarfs, buffoons and, worst of all, Germans (regarded with detestation throughout Italy ever since Charles V's army led by Lutheran _Landsknechts_ had sacked Rome in 1527). The painter was forced to find an ingenious solution to the dilemma, which he did by changing both title and subject: Veronese's _Last Supper_ became instead a depiction of _Christ in the House of Levi_.\n\nSuch developments marked a great shift in attitudes. During the Renaissance religious artists had come to believe that, within fairly loose constraints of Christian orthodoxy, they were free to interpret and depict the stories of the Bible as they liked. As a result of the Counter-Reformation, the Roman Catholic Church set new and stringent limits on the presumed freedom of artists. The principal aim of this policy was to replace the Renaissance cult of freedom and originality with the ideals of artistic duty and responsibility. The second half of the sixteenth century witnessed a widespread call to order \u2013 a movement intended to take religious art back to the values of an earlier and supposedly purer time. Carlo Borromeo was at its forefront. As well as containing recommendations of every kind about church architecture and decoration, his _Instructiones_ set out his views on art with typical forthrightness. No animals or other distracting details should be included, unless actually mentioned in the biblical text that the artist had been instructed to illustrate. In the seventeenth chapter of his book, devoted to the correct representation of sacred events, Borromeo determined the appropriate fines and punishments for artists who failed to meet the strictest standards of decorum. In Milan, errant artists as well as heretics were liable to come to the attentions of the archbishop's _famiglia armata_. No painter could be in any doubt about what was required of him. Images should be clear and direct. It was the job of art simply to educate spectators and move them to penance.\n\nBorromeo's influence on art in his native Milan is well documented. Simone Peterzano, the feeble late Mannerist painter with whom Caravaggio would sign a contract of apprenticeship, developed a sparer and more austere style in direct response to Borromeo's pronouncements. The archbishop himself owned a collection of paintings that, to judge by its contents, he is likely to have used in his meditations. According to an inventory of 1618, these included an _Adoration of the Magi_ by Titian, an _Agony in the Garden_ by Antonio Campi and an _Annunciation to the Shepherds_ by Jacopo Bassano (all three paintings can be seen, today, in Milan's Pinacoteca Ambrosiana). Such works reflect his taste for the art of Venice and the Veneto, and his marked preference for small-scale devotional pictures. But the most intriguing aspect of Borromeo's taste, for the student of Caravaggio, is his implicit rejection of high art in favour of more traditional, popular visual representations aimed squarely at the promotion of mass piety. Within five years of becoming Archbishop of Milan, he had sold his entire personal collection of art and given the proceeds to charity. This was an act consistent with his personal asceticism, indicating that Borromeo shared the widespread belief \u2013 propounded by supporters and opponents of the Reformation alike \u2013 that money spent on 'dead' images of Christ, i.e. paintings, could be yet better spent on Christ's 'living' images, namely the real flesh-and-blood poor.\n\n#### THE SACRED MOUNTAIN\n\nBorromeo was not against religious art _per se_ , but he had forceful likes and dislikes. There was a powerfully retrospective cast to his thought. He believed that the best solution to the problems of the modern Catholic Church lay in a return to the past. As a corollary to that, he favoured popular spectacle over the intellectual abstractions of supposedly sophisticated 'High' Renaissance art. Long after he had sold his own paintings, Borromeo continued to sponsor and support particular forms of popular Christian visual spectacle \u2013 events and phenomena that were literally 'vulgar', in the sense of being aimed directly at the _vulgus_ , the crowd, the general mass of people. Borromeo himself staged numerous theatrical performances of his own extreme ideal of Christian faith. In times of trouble or pestilence for the city, he would march barefoot through the city of Milan with thousands of his supporters, all in sackcloth and ashes. Such processions might themselves be seen as a form of choreographed visual art.\n\nBorromeo's theatricality was another reflection of his belief in the value of constantly remembering and re-enacting the life of Christ \u2013 whether actually or in the mind's eye. It was deliberately unsophisticated, direct and immediate, and that was part of its point. Borromeo was intentionally attempting to revive the emotive methods of the itinerant medieval friars such as Francis of Asissi and his followers. The teachings of Francis had unleashed a flood of early Renaissance painting on the walls of churches throughout fourteenth- and fifteenth-century Italy, clear images bringing Christ's message to the poor. But Francis had also helped to found yet more popular and rabble-rousing forms of artistic expression \u2013 not only penitential processions of the kind imitated by Borromeo, the pious medieval equivalent of performance art, but also a very particular type of folkish _mise-en-sc\u00e8ne_ in which painted statues were arranged to conjure up events from the Bible. The first and most widely copied example of this was the crib that Francis created at the monastery of Greccio for the Christmas of 1223: a three-dimensional mock-up of the Nativity, complete with painted carvings of Mary, Joseph and the infant Christ, it was all done, in his words, 'to bring home to the people of Greccio what the birth of Christ at Bethlehem was like'.\n\nFrancis's innovation of celebrating the Nativity with the creation of a crib proliferated and mutated. Over the following centuries it produced other, far more elaborate traditions of folk art, including the so-called _sacro monte_ , or 'sacred mountain'. It was here that several of the most vital elements of popular piety \u2013 including the practice of empathetic visualization of the life of Christ, the ideal of religious meditation and a much enlarged version of the sculptural arrangement devised by St Francis in the crib \u2013 all came together in a single carefully orchestrated experience.\n\nThe earliest _sacro monte_ came into being at the end of the fifteenth century when a Franciscan friar named Bernardino Caimi decided to re-create the sites of Christ's life and passion \u2013 ranging from Bethlehem to Nazareth, from Gethsemane to Mount Sion \u2013 in the mountains above the town of Varallo, in what is today the Piedmont region. Caimi received papal permission and support for his plan, which involved the construction of numerous chapels linked by mountain paths. Each chapel was to contain polychrome figures acting out the stories of the Bible. Eventually a total of forty-five such chapels were built, allowing pilgrims who climbed up to them to travel even further in spirit \u2013 journeying all the way from Original Sin, where they would encounter Adam and Eve tempted by the serpent, to Golgotha, 'the place of the skull', where Christ was crucified. Carlo Borromeo spent the last days of his life on just such a pilgrimage, ascending the mountain at Varallo and praying day and night among its painted figures.\n\nSomewhat decayed, and much restored during the intervening centuries, these sculptures remain _in situ_ today. Some of the figures are carved; others are formed from terracotta or stuffed fabric. The effect is inconsistent but full of lively touches of naturalism, somewhere between sculpture and waxwork theatre. The chapel of the Massacre of the Innocents is particularly vivid and gruesome, with its goitred executioner and grieving mothers, its floor strewn with dismembered babies. The _sacro monte_ took the kind of interior, spiritual journey advocated for centuries in manuals of prayer and meditation, and turned it into an actual, physical itinerary, with suitably moving or horrifying scenes for the traveller moving up the mountain to witness at each new point of arrival. The sacred mountain gave a palpable form and structure to the instructions contained in devotional handbooks such as the fifteenth-century Venetian text _The Garden of Prayer_ \u2013 books that, like the Franciscan prayer manuals before them and Ignatius's _Spiritual Exercises_ afterwards, counselled the worshipper to summon up a chain of places and images as vividly as possible within the space of the mind:\n\n> The better to impress the story of the Passion on your mind, and to memorize each action of it more easily, it is helpful and necessary to fix the places and people in your mind: a city, for example, which will be the city of Jerusalem \u2013 taking for this purpose a city that is well known to you. In this city find the principal places in which all the episodes of the Passion would have taken place \u2013 for instance, a palace with the supper-room where Christ had the Last Supper with the Disciples, and the house of Anne, and that of Caiaphas, with the place where Jesus was taken in the night, and the room where he was brought before Caiaphas and mocked and beaten... And then too you must shape in your mind some people, people well known to you, to represent for you the people involved in the Passion \u2013 the person of Jesus himself, the Virgin, Saint Peter, Saint John the Evangelist, Saint Mary Magdalen, Anne, Caiaphas, Pilate, Judas and the others, every one of which you will fashion in your mind.\n\nThe sacred mountain was designed to ease the process of devotional visualization. The worshipper must make the physical effort of ascending from one chapel to another, but once inside each space he or she would find that the job of visualization had already been accomplished. The images at Varallo were begun by the artist Gaudenzio Ferrari in the late fifteenth century, but they were ultimately destined to be created, re-created and continually restored in a centuries-long collaborative process involving generations of sculptors, craftsmen and architects. What those images did was, precisely, to re-create scenes from the Bible as if enacted by 'people well known to you'.\n\nThe most skilfully carved and painted of the figures have a shocking actuality about them. This is not art that seeks to idealize or generalize life; it is art that aspires to the condition of a simulacrum of life itself. Collectively, the chapels of the _sacro monte_ exemplified an ancient, pious fairground form of realism \u2013 a type of art that has in general been overlooked or avoided by most art historians precisely because of its naked and self-conscious 'vulgarity'. Yet the art of the _sacro monte_ also had strong roots in traditions of high artistic realism going back to the start of the Renaissance. This was a tradition that had produced the sculpturally immediate, emotionally vivid and highly theatrical fourteenth-century paintings of Giotto \u2013 which themselves had strong links with certain forms of sacred drama, miracle plays and the like, promoted by the Franciscans and other orders of mendicant friars; as well as the startlingly lifelike fifteenth-century sculptures of Donatello, creations such as the _Mary Magdalen_ or the _Habakkuk_ , which struck his contemporaries as so eerily imbued with human presence that he was even suspected of necromancy.\n\nThis tradition of the work of art as, essentially, a speaking likeness intended to bring the Bible to life was displaced during the later Renaissance \u2013 or, at least, it was so transformed by the values and imperatives of the High Renaissance, of Michelangelo and Raphael and the Mannerists who came after them, that its original, uncanny effects were greatly diminished. Yet it continued to thrive away from the perceived centres of art such as Rome or Florence. In Emilia-Romagna and throughout Lombardy, unsettlingly realistic groups of figures were created by a school of sculptors working in the malleable and highly expressive medium of terracotta. Their art is still insufficiently appreciated, but a sculptor such as Guido Mazzoni from Modena, whose breathtakingly emotive works can still be seen in churches across northern Italy \u2013 and indeed as far south as Naples \u2013 deserves to be ranked alongside any of his better-known contemporaries. The traditions of the highly realized terracotta sculpture, and of the _sacro monte_ , played a crucial role in shaping the imagination of pious Italians in the fifteenth, sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.\n\nBoth traditions were also deeply influential on Caravaggio. Caravaggio's mature paintings, such as _The Crucifixion of St Peter_ and _The Conversion of St Paul_ , are blatantly rooted in the traditions of popular pious realism that produced the sculptures of the sacred mountain and the freestanding groups created by Mazzoni and other such masters. So clear and direct is the connection, so manifest the visual resemblance, that it might even be said that his principal strategy as a religious artist was to translate the effects of these two particular branches of theatrical sculpture into the painting of his time. The way in which he paints the wrinkled faces and bodies of his protagonists has its exact parallel in the wizened physiognomies conjured from clay by the masters of terracotta sculpture in Lombardy and Emilia-Romagna \u2013 so much so that some of the older faces in his painting might almost have been copied direct from sources in terracotta sculpture.\n\nCaravaggio's fondness for going into gruesome, visceral detail \u2013 his depiction, for example, of the gouts of blood that spurt from the decapitated tyrant's head in _Judith and Holofernes \u2013_ also vividly testifies to the affinity between his art and the rowdy, bloody, popular spectacle of much _sacro monte_ imagery. But even more telling is his constant habit of framing and composing scenes as though confined within a single, small, contained, theatrical space. There is very little landscape in Caravaggio, very little feel of the open air. The scenes he depicts are mostly to be imagined taking place indoors. He habitually collapses the immensity of the world to the confines of a room in which he can control the action and rigorously limit the cast of actors \u2013 a space analogous to the densely packed, theatrical spaces devised by the creators of the popular, pious, sculptural _mises-en-sc\u00e8ne_.\n\nTo say this is to deny neither Caravaggio's virtuosity nor his powers of invention. The way in which he adapted the conventions of popular sculpture to painting, the way in which he made them thoroughly _pictorial_ \u2013 above all through his use of light and shade \u2013 was so original that it gave painters nothing less than a whole new grammar and vocabulary. The very idea of looking _back_ , past the etiolated late Mannerism of his day, past the art of the High Renaissance, to vivid and robust traditions of popular religious sculpture \u2013 that too was a profoundly original move. It ran directly counter to the prevailing aesthetic orthodoxy of late Renaissance thought, as expressed by Giorgio Vasari in his _Lives of the Artists \u2013_ namely, the belief that art should continually evolve and progress, and that it was the duty of every artist to increase that forward momentum, whether he did so incrementally or through some great leap of innovation.\n\nThere was admittedly room for a degree of retrospection within Vasari's fundamentally teleological view of history. As he tells the tale of a great rebirth, or _Rinascita,_ in Italian art, Vasari allows that the earliest masters, such as Giotto or the Pisano family, had been obliged to look back to the art of classical antiquity to rekindle the painting and sculpture of their own day. In articulating that belief, he was adapting a commonplace of the poet Petrarch's thought \u2013 the idea that the classical past was a 'golden age' that could be recovered and eventually surpassed thanks to the efforts of humanist scholarship \u2013 and applying it to the discipline of art history. Because Vasari was the very first art historian, his notion of art as essentially progressive has proved peculiarly persistent. But the idea that an Italian artist born in the sixteenth century might have thought it worthwhile to look back past the art of Michelangelo and Raphael, not to the classical world but to the art of the earlier Renaissance, and even to the popular arts of the Middle Ages \u2013 that would have shocked and bewildered Vasari. He would have regarded such a preference, for the old and the popular over the new and sophisticated, absurd and perverse. Yet Caravaggio exhibited and proclaimed just such a preference. It might even be said that he was the first self-conscious primitivist in the entire history of post-classical Western art. The force, imagination and ingenuity with which he asserted his position made his art seem all the more iconoclastic and persuasive \u2013 compelling the admiration of subsequent painters as diverse as Rembrandt and Rubens, Ribera and Zurbar\u00e1n.\n\nHow was it that Caravaggio came to formulate his aggressively retrograde strategy? The most plausible solution would seem to lie in the painter's roots in Borromean Milan. Caravaggio's reinvention of devotional religious painting along the lines of a direct, theatrical, visceral, popular art would take place not in Milan but in Rome, and it would happen more than a decade after Borromeo's death. But it would represent, none the less, a strikingly faithful translation, into the field of art, of the imperatives of Carlo Borromeo's piety. In matters of piety Borromeo was a dramatist, a populist and \u2013 for all his innovations in church architecture and furnishing \u2013 a primitivist. The religious art that Caravaggio was destined to create could hardly have been more closely aligned to the beliefs and sensibilities of the charismatic Archbishop of Milan.\n\nThere are certainly elements of Caravaggio's religious painting of which Borromeo would not have approved. The full-breasted figure of the Virgin Mary in Caravaggio's _The Madonna of the Palafrenieri_ would doubtless have offended his sense of decorum. He would have been disturbed altogether by the painter's intense sensuality, by his feel for the flesh and blood of the human body and by his sensitivity to the suggestions implicit in the least exchange of glances. Yet even here, Borromeo may have exerted a subtle influence on the painter. Caravaggio paints with a strong and unmistakable sense of the perils and the powers of looking. His pictures both embody and evoke an acute and piercing gaze. Caravaggio sees what he sees with such intensity \u2013 even if it is only an image in his mind's eye, an image conjured from the imagination \u2013 that he makes seeing itself seem a compulsive and potentially fraught act. It is as if he feels at every moment that to see is also to possess and, potentially, to _be_ possessed. This is why Caravaggio's paintings have a destructive effect on pictures by other artists hung anywhere near them in art galleries. They exert such a sensually charged, magnetic attraction that they seem almost as though backlit, or somehow illuminated from within, while the pictures around them \u2013 even those of great artists, whether Rembrandt or Poussin or Vel\u00e0zquez \u2013 appear by comparison to recede, to retreat from the gaze.\n\nPablo Picasso was another artist whose pictures project such deep intensity of looking that they have an obliterating effect on other works of art. In his case, the phenomenon seems to have been linked to a powerfully distinctive way of seeing learned from the culture in which he grew up \u2013 the male-dominated and intensely Catholic society of late nineteenth-century Andalusia, where they even had a phrase for this kind of looking, the _mirada fuerte_ (which literally means 'strong gazing'). It has been succinctly characterized by the historian David Gilmore: 'When the Andalusian fixes a thing with a stare, he grasps it. His eyes are fingers holding and probing... the sexual element is present also... The light of the eyes is highly erotic... In a culture where the sexes are segregated to the point of mutual invisibility, the eye becomes the erogenous zone par excellence...' The explanation for Caravaggio's own intensity of looking may also lie in the distinctive milieu of his youth, the milieu of Borromean Milan \u2013 a place where, just as in Picasso's Andalusia, rigorous attempts were made to keep men and women apart.\n\nIf the dangers inherent in the sense of touch disturbed Borromeo, he was yet more disturbed by the opportunities for corruption furnished by the sense of sight. In the words of the _Methodus Confessionis_ \u2013 the sixteenth-century confessor's manual that Borromeo himself recommended to his Milanese clergy \u2013 sight was described as the most dangerous of all the senses precisely because it was superior to the rest and had the ability to 'incite man to many sins'. In a sermon delivered in the Lombard town of Lecco on 2 July 1583, Borromeo went even further. Reflecting on the murky biblical tale of the rape of Dinah (Genesis 34), he argued that the origins of all such sexual crimes lay within the sense of sight. Dinah was at fault for the rape, he decreed, because she had allowed herself to be seen and had underestimated what can happen when men are given sight of the flesh that they sinfully covet. The eyes, he pronounced, 'are like two gates to the castle of our body. So when they are in the Devil's control, he is also the master of our heart, and can introduce into our soul whatever he wants... consequently, since the eyes can introduce great mischief into the soul, they are to be guarded with the utmost diligence. For \"death has come up through our windows\" [Jeremiah 9:21]: therefore we have to keep them shut.'\n\nIt was remarkable advice to give to any congregation. To avoid sin, close your eyes. Take Borromeo's views one step further and the logical thing to do would be to inflict blindness systematically on the whole Christian community to keep it pure of lust and other evil thoughts. He was also of course perfectly capable of taking exactly the opposite line, especially when it came to images of the kind to be encountered on the sacred mountain at Varallo. There, Carlo Borromeo would counsel the faithful to open their eyes as wide as possible \u2013 as he did, in the days before his death \u2013 and drink in the spectacle of Christ's suffering. For all his contradictions, one thing is certain. At the centre of the paranoid and extremist edifice of Borromeo's religious thought there was a profound, superstitious belief that the sense of sight was the most direct route to the soul.\n\nThe evidence of his art suggests that Caravaggio was profoundly shaped by the insistent, manic ocularity of Borromean piety. He would surely have been a very different artist had he not been exposed to the very particular nexus of Milanese attitudes that linked seeing with guilt-ridden sensuality on the one hand, and salvation on the other. His pictures certainly speak of an intense sensitivity to every aspect of visual experience. So too do his notorious arguments and quarrels. Nearly all of the disagreements that would mark and mar Caravaggio's life would turn on a glance taken amiss, a perceived slight or insult implying a potential loss of face. When he looked at people, nothing missed his attention and sometimes his sensitivity may have fooled him into seeing things that really were not there. When people looked back at Caravaggio, they did so at their peril.\n\n#### PLAGUE\n\nIn the summer of 1576, when Caravaggio was almost five years old, the city of Milan was struck by an outbreak of bubonic plague. A census taken at the end of that year in the Milanese parish of Santa Maria della Passerella records the presence there of Fermo Merisi and his wife Lucia. Also listed were Fermo's daughter by his first marriage, Margherita, as well as Giovan Battista Merisi, Caravaggio's brother, four years old at the time. Mysteriously, there is no mention of Caravaggio himself, or of his two-year-old sister, Caterina, or of his still younger sibling, Giovan Pietro.\n\nIt is possible that by November or December they had already been evacuated from the city to the relative safety of the countryside, although it is not clear why they alone should have been sent away, leaving the equally vulnerable Giovan Battista at risk. Perhaps the censor missed their presence in the household; perhaps they were not there on the day that he came; perhaps Fermo and Lucia hurriedly managed to conceal at least some of their children when the censor visited, making it easier to evacuate them, unnoticed, at a later date. The movement of people and goods was strictly controlled in time of plague, and almost as soon as the contagion had become apparent, in August, Carlo Borromeo had issued edicts prohibiting anyone from leaving the city. At the end of October, as the disease appeared to abate, this quarantine was briefly lifted \u2013 although even then only a select group of wealthier families was allowed to leave. Is it possible that Caravaggio's parents took advantage of their contacts with the Colonna family to secure safe passage for their children, away from Milan, at that time? All that the historical record shows, for sure, is that the whole family had moved to their home in Caravaggio by the autumn of 1577 at the latest. Whatever the subsequent course of events, there is no reason to believe that the artist was not living with his parents in Milan when the outbreak struck in August of 1576. So he is likely to have witnessed much of the horror of the epidemic, especially during its early months, at first hand.\n\nThe symptoms of bubonic plague ( _yersinia pestis_ ) are grim and unmistakable. On infection, plague bacteria swiftly multiply in the sufferer's lymphatic system, affecting tonsils, adenoids, spleen and thymus. Within a day or two, the victim suffers fevers, chills and headaches. Vomiting and diarrhoea follow. But the most decisive sign of plague, the true mark of death, is the appearance of the so-called 'buboes' \u2013 swellings caused by internal bleeding that appear in the neck, groin and armpits, at the point of the lymph nodes, oozing both blood and pus. Damage then quickly spreads throughout the victim's underlying tissue, until the whole body is covered in dark, purplish blotches. The majority of sufferers die within about four days of contracting the disease.\n\nTo the young Caravaggio and his contemporaries, the plague was a visitation, a mysterious curse, like a torture from the bowels of hell inflicted on the living. What could be more appalling than this death by spontaneous internal putrefaction, this sudden consuming of the body from within? Bubonic plague was carried by rats and transmitted to human beings by fleas that jumped from those rats, but no one in Caravaggio's world was aware of that fact. The concept of infection was understood and so was the importance of quarantine, so that houses known to be plague-ridden were locked from the outside, their inhabitants forbidden to leave until the contagion had passed (when all those trapped within were usually found dead). But, although the precise cause of the disease was unknown, human intuition had groped towards an understanding that the illness might in some way be linked to hygiene. Public proclamations issued at regular intervals by Milan's health office in the late 1570s give no fewer than seven accounts of the true cause of the plague, and although they differ widely it is striking how many of them involve rumours about unclean bedding or clothes \u2013 which no doubt did, indeed, harbour the fleas that carried the disease. The plague was said to have begun in Venice, originating with Jews trading in used household goods; to have been brought from Mantua by a Jew who had come from that city to Milan selling \u2013 again \u2013 used household goods; to have been caused by a citizen of Mantua, a man carrying the disease who had spent the night in a Milanese inn and thereby infected the bedding on which he had slept; to have been transmitted by a dirty shirt, worn by a traveller and unwisely confiscated by an innkeeper in part settlement of his bill; and so on.\n\nAs well as carrying inklings of the truth about the actual mechanisms of infectious transmission, these stories vividly demonstrate the extent to which plague was liable to stir up a hornets' nest of prejudice. There was a long, ignoble history of such accusations. During the fourteenth century, when all of Europe suffered unprecedented mortality rates from outbreaks of the Black Death, as plague became known, the rumour was put about that Jews were deliberately spreading the disease. The idea of a _pestis manufacta_ , a plague-inducing substance secretly manufactured by the enemies of Christianity, took hold of the popular imagination. In the lower Rhineland and parts of Provence, many Jews suspected of such terrorist acts had been interrogated and tortured, and when confessions had been extorted from them entire Jewish communities had been systematically liquidated. There was no such response to the Milanese plague of the 1570s, but there was a recurrence of rumours about the role of _untori_ \u2013 unguent-spreaders \u2013 in creating the epidemic. According to a Jesuit eyewitness, Paolo Bisciola, 'it is said that there were certain men who went about touching the walls, gates, and streets with artificial unguents, which opinion many affirmed through the discovery one morning that almost all of the gates and _cadenazzi_ of the Corsa di Porta Nuova _,_ had been smeared, and the walls in various places had been soiled by unguents.' The presumed culprits, this time, were not the Jews but the Spanish. For a while, the people of Milan convinced themselves that their hated rulers were to blame for the evil that afflicted them. The Spanish governor of Milan felt compelled to pass legislation that forbade anyone from repeating the accusation \u2013 which only made the Milanese population even more jittery.\n\nIn truth, the Spanish government _was_ partly to blame, although not in the way so luridly imagined. The plague had actually been brought from Sicily to Milan by the entourage of Don Juan of Austria, illegitimate brother of Philip II of Spain and hero of Lepanto: the group had arrived in the city in August 1576, with several of its members already close to death. The inner circle of the Milanese Senate knew this, and so did members of the city's Health Tribunal. The plethora of alternative official explanations was a smokescreen created partly to protect the reputation of the Spanish royal family and preserve the _status quo_. The dirty laundry, the flea-infested bedding, really _was_ theirs; but this had to kept from the people at large or riots might ensue.\n\nAny risk of the truth coming out was dispelled when Carlo Borromeo involved himself in the situation. From his perspective, the plague was a God-given opportunity to force home his severe spiritual message; and, as far as he was concerned, there was absolutely no ambiguity about its source. It had nothing to do with bedlinen or shirts or phantom _untori_ going around wiping poison on gateposts. It certainly had nothing to do with the Spanish or the visit of Don Juan. Its source was human sin. The Milanese had neglected their souls, had confessed too infrequently, had debauched themselves at Carnival and had indulged in luxuries. The plague was being visited upon them by a vengeful God, and even if it seemed terrible it was truly a blessing in disguise \u2013 a call to universal repentance that could not be ignored.\n\nBorromeo was so prominent a figure in the events of the plague of 1576\u20138 that it would eventually be nicknamed after him \u2013 remembered forever as _la peste di San Carlo_. It brought out, in equal measure, his extreme piety and his fondness for the exercise of bureaucratic control. In the first two months of the epidemic, when as many as 10,000 people are thought to have died, the city almost fell into a state of anarchy. There was inadequate provision for the disposal of so many corpses and during 'the terrible September' of 1576 \u2013 the month of Caravaggio's fifth birthday \u2013 carts heaped high with bodies rolled along the cobbled streets of the town at all hours of the day and night. Piles of half-naked cadavers were left in open view. The much feared _monatti_ , or 'gravediggers', public health officials whose responsibility it was to collect the dead and purge houses of disease, were said to be running amok. Dark tales abounded of the _monatti_ pillaging the houses they were supposed to make safe, and raping the few female survivors they found there.\n\nFaced with a city descending into nightmare, Borromeo requested and duly received a brief from Pope Gregory XIII giving him full authority to redirect all the energies of his clergy to the alleviation of the plague. He mobilized his private army and summoned all the priests and monks of his diocese to a vast congregation. To each was assigned a different task. No more corpses were to be left outside. Every victim was to be given a proper burial, 'with crosses and lights'. Borromeo also organized partial quarantines, especially for women, whom he regarded not only as more likely to occasion sin but as the primary carriers of plague (because, he said, they talked so much and constantly visited each other's houses). On his orders, many of the women of the city were confined within their homes for long periods of time or held in purpose-built isolation cabins. Such measures were not always entirely effective: because women continued to live in terror of the _monatti_ , they often failed to disclose the presence of plague or the existence of the dead, with the result that the disease continued to spread, albeit behind closed doors.\n\nBorromeo's most successful strategy against the disease was the reopening of Milan's _lazzaretto_ , one of the first great penitentiaries for the plague built in Italy. This was a vast moated structure that had originally been constructed during the late fifteenth century on the orders of Francesco Sforza, following an outbreak of plague in 1483\u20135. The _lazzaretto_ \u2013 so named after Lazarus, who had been raised from the dead by Jesus and who was often portrayed in art as a plague victim, spotted with buboes \u2013 had been left empty for more than fifty years. But it served Borromeo's purposes well. Into its compound of 288 rooms were squeezed nearly all of Milan's homeless and destitute (a nearby monastery was also conscripted to accommodate any overspill, confining the spread of the disease to great effect). In its regimented spaces, those who remained healthy could be segregated from those who fell ill. The bodies of the deceased were kept in plague pits at the centre of the compound, to be taken away at regular intervals for mass burial. Death was being bureaucratically managed, to Borromeo's satisfaction. Most important of all, the whole itinerant population of the Milanese diocese was now being held in one place.\n\nThe man whom Borromeo installed in charge of the _lazzaretto_ was a Franciscan friar named Fra Paolo Bellintano, who later published a detailed account of his methods. Under his stewardship, the _lazzaretto_ became a kind of centralized fortress for the management of plague. He employed a team of _sbirri_ \u2013 policemen, or constables, recruited like himself from within the Franciscan order \u2013 to maintain discipline within the _lazzaretto_ itself, and enforce their own standards on those working with plague victims in the city at large. The _sbirri_ were, he wrote, an essential part of his tactical plan:\n\n> Many needs arose during the day which could not be remedied without these. I dare to say that without them Milan would have become a den of thieves. How would I have been able to hold back so many _monatti_ who cleaned out the houses without fear of justice? Decrees and proclamations could have been made without end, and they would not have feared a thing. But they saw that almost every day I had people whipped, birched, imprisoned, scourged, tied to a column, and that I imposed other punishments besides. And they did not want to become familiar with all this [i.e., suffer the same fate themselves].\n\nAs a result, he noted with tight-lipped satisfaction, the behaviour of the _monatti_ was soon much improved.\n\nBellintano's account of the methods applied within the _lazzaretto_ graphically demonstrates how the terrors of the plague were used to scourge the collective Milanese soul. The people were being punished for their attachment to the pleasures of Carnival, yet Bellintano himself takes a positively carnivalesque relish in the ways that he and his _sbirri_ devised to ensure their penitence. He tells the story of how, one night, the inmates put on a secret dance to raise their spirits. One of his fellow Franciscans, Fra Andrea, got wind of the party and determined to puncture the festive mood. He went to the plague pit in the middle of the _lazzaretto_ and retrieved the bloated corpse of an old woman. As he heaved her on to his shoulders, a great belch of air was expelled from her swollen guts. Unperturbed, he told her to keep quiet and get ready for a dance. He went to the room where the inmates were dancing and asked to join their party. When they opened the door, he threw the dead body into their midst, shouting out 'Let her dance too!' There then followed a brief sermon, after which, Bellintano drily observes, 'the dance ended.'\n\nPublic counterparts to such dark, private theatricals were the processions organized by Carlo Borromeo. Believing that the only way to salvation was passionate identification with the suffering body of the Lord, he staged a series of re-enactments of Christ's journey to Calvary. In October 1576 he announced three days of fasting and ordered that Milan's most prized relic, a nail said to come from the True Cross on which Christ had been crucified, be taken out of the Cathedral:\n\n> His holiness performed the three processions dressed _di mestitia_ , with a large rope around his neck, barefoot and hooded, dragging his clothes on the ground, and with a large Crucifix in his arms. And on the Sabbath he carried the Holy Nail in procession, supplicating God by the merits of His Most Holy Passion to turn away the ire he had conceived against this people, and use them with mercy. He went in the same habit, and manner, as the previous days, but was also accompanied by about a thousand flagellants, who beat themselves continuously, causing great pity in whoever saw them. All the portable relics of the city were also carried in procession that day. But that which most moved the people to tears, penitence and dolour was [the sight of] the illustrious Cardinal in such sad and mournful dress, that great black cross on which he carried the Holy Nail, the blood that was seen to issue from his feet. When the procession was finished he preached a public sermon almost three hours long, with such spirit and fervour that he was like another St Paul. I believe there were few who did not weep. When the days of prayer were over he carried it all through the city once more, especially in those places where the disease was worst. On this journey he spilt much blood from his feet, and was accompanied by barefoot priests and monks, with ropes around their necks.\n\nThe author of this eyewitness description, the Jesuit Paolo Bisciola, describes how huge crowds were exhorted to join in these mass demonstrations of faith. He also notes, without apparent irony, that 'on these occasions, the plague grew very much.' Bisciola's account is also interesting for its visual detail. He says that Borromeo ordered temporary altars, lit with candles, to be set up throughout the streets of the city, 'so that to walk in the streets was like walking in church'. As autumn advanced, and as the nights drew in, the city seemed ablaze with 'the lights of piety and religion'. On a multitude of outdoor altars 'there burned a great quantity of candles and much incense'. Flame and shadow: Milan had become a city of chiaroscuro.\n\nThe artist was five when the plague reached its height, and only a year older when it reached into his life and tore his family to pieces. The sequence of events is charted in a series of documents from the archives. On 20 October 1577 the death was recorded, in Caravaggio, of the artist's father, Fermo Merisi, his paternal grandfather, Bernardino Merisi, and his (unnamed) grandmother. The document states that they died within a day of each other. An earlier document, of 17 August 1577, indicates that Caravaggio's uncle Pietro had died earlier in the year. The document in question is a claim to Pietro's estate, which indicates that he died without having made a will, that is, unexpectedly. It also provides the only explicit link to the plague, stating that Pietro lived in Milan but was in Caravaggio because of the epidemic sweeping the city.\n\nThe archive contains no description of the events that took place in the Merisi household in late October 1577. It was not a notary's job to paint pictures of human suffering. But the art of Caravaggio's maturity would be saturated in the ineradicable memory of night terrors. It would be an art of paroxysm and abandonment, filled with images of turmoil in dark places. Towards the end of his life, working in Sicily \u2013 the place where Milan's great plague had started \u2013 he would paint a huge altarpiece of the _The Resurrection of Lazarus_. He himself chose the subject of the picture. It would be a meditation on death and salvation \u2013 a work that, though shaded by ambiguity, has a miraculous story to tell. But nothing could change the story of Caravaggio's own early years. No miracle had raised his father, his grandfather, his uncle, from the dead. By the age of six, Caravaggio had lost almost every male member of his family.\n\n#### THE BAD APPRENTICE\n\nBy 18 February 1578 the plague finally abated. A fifth of the population of the diocese of Milan was dead and everyone else was trying to reassemble their lives. On that day Caravaggio's mother, Lucia, signed a document in which she assumed legal guardianship of all four of her children. It shows that the family was now resident in Caravaggio.\n\nNearly a year later, on 21 January 1579, another document shows that Fermo Merisi, her late husband, had died intestate. It apportions his estate and parts of his parents' estate too. They had also died intestate, on the same night as him, creating a tangle of legal complications. There had evidently been some dispute between Lucia and Fermo's three half-brothers \u2013 a quarrel about who was to get what. Arbitration was necessary. The largest property at issue, Bernardino's house and land in Porta Seriola (together with his business premises), went to the half-brothers. In exchange Lucia and her children were relieved of Fermo's debts, which amounted to 1,737 lire. They were also granted four modest landholdings, which the document goes on to list:\n\n  1. 7 _pertiche_ of land in Canigio Nuovo (which is divided, with three quarters going to Fermo's brothers, the rest to Lucia's children);\n  2. land and a vineyard in Rovere, 8 _pertiche_ ;\n  3. 2\u00bd _pertiche_ of land on the road to Calenzano;\n  4. an orchard outside Porta Prato, 1 _pertica_.\n\nOne _pertica_ , in Lombardy at that time, was the equivalent of approximately 6,500 square feet. So altogether the Merisi family, Fermo's wife and her four children ended up with roughly 18.5 _pertiche_. That is 120,250 square feet, just under three acres. The land's value amounted to about 3,000 imperial lire, or 500 gold scudi: not a lot of money.\n\nNothing is known about Caravaggio's early education but he certainly received one. An inventory of his possessions made several years afterwards, when he was a fully fledged painter working in Rome, reveals that he owned several books. The pictures that he would paint, later in life, are without doubt the works of a questing, curious and literate mind. His brother Giovan Battista, who was destined for the Church, would later study at the Jesuit Collegio Romano in Rome. The Jesuits were among the most intellectually demanding of the religious orders, so Caravaggio's brother must have been given at least the rudiments of an education in classical and Italian literature. Numerous grammar schools had been set up across the diocese of Milan at the instigation of Carlo Borromeo, who believed that educated souls were less likely to stray into temptation. Caravaggio's brother probably attended one such school, which makes it more likely that Caravaggio did too.\n\nBy 1583 Giovan Battista Merisi had decided that he was destined for the Church. He was following in the footsteps of his father's brother, Ludovico, who was a priest. By 1584, it seems, Caravaggio had decided to become a painter. On 6 April of that year, at the age of thirteen, he signed a contract of apprenticeship with Simone Peterzano. The contract was signed in Milan, where Peterzano had his workshop, and it spelled out the nature of Caravaggio's commitment to his _dominus_ , or 'Master', and described what he was to expect in return:\n\n> The said Michelangelo will stay and live with the said Master, Simone, to learn the art of painting for the next four years beginning from today, and that the said Michelangelo will train in that art night and day, according to the custom of the said art, well and faithfully, and that he will commit no deceit or fraud upon the goods of the said Master, Simone.\n> \n> The said Master, Simone, is required and obliged to support the said Michelangelo in his house and workshop, and instruct him in that art all that he can, so that at the end of the four years he will be qualified and expert in the said art, and know how to work for himself. The said Michelangelo is required to give and pay to the said Master, Simone, for his recompense, twenty-four gold scudi at the rate of six imperial lire to the scudo, to be paid in advance every six months by the said Michelangelo to the said Master, Simone, of which he now receives ten scudi in advance payment, of which Michelangelo promises to pay the remainder.\n\nThese were not exactly standard terms. Caravaggio and his family had to pay Peterzano 24 gold scudi each year of the apprenticeship, six months in advance \u2013 a total of 96 scudi. Payment for apprenticeships was not an invariable part of such contracts, in that the apprentice's labour was regarded as recompense to the Master for his tuition. When the Master also provided board and lodging, as in Caravaggio's case, some payment from the apprentice was customary, but Peterzano's fee on this occasion was unusually high. For example, when the painter Gerolamo Lomazzo had been apprenticed in Milan in 1556, he had been required to pay just 8 gold scudi a year. Peterzano's only other known apprentice, Francesco Alicati, was actually _paid_ 24 scudi a year for his contributions in the workshop. The implication is that Alicati already had some skills in painting, whereas Caravaggio had none.\n\nSimone Peterzano was an eclectic and mediocre artist who was originally from Bergamo but preferred to stress his links with Venice, where he may have been trained. He claimed to be a disciple of Titian, the most celebrated painter of Renaissance Venice, and sometimes even signed his pictures _titiani alumnus_ , 'pupil of Titian'. A number of contemporary sources refer to him as Simone Veneziano. The most extensive surviving example of his art is to be found in the presbytery of the Certosa di Garegnano, north-west of Milan. There, he and his workshop painted a monumental fresco cycle depicting scenes from the life of Christ. Work was begun in 1578 and finished in 1582, so the resulting pictures are a reasonable guide to Peterzano's style as it was when he took Caravaggio on as his apprentice just two years later. It is a flaccid, bloodless late variant of Mannerism, exemplified by _The Adoration of the Shepherds_ at Garegnano \u2013 an exercise in saccharine piety, complete with a cast of lumpen shepherds whose decorously draped forms, in various postures, were perhaps meant to demonstrate virtuosity but only reveal Peterzano's inadequacies as a painter of the human anatomy. At the centre of the picture a sober and dignified Joseph, the sole convincing figure, is joined by a slack-jawed, pinheaded Mary. Both kneel in adoration of a mannequin baby Jesus, while unconvincing angels circle overhead.\n\nWhat Peterzano's fresco cycle communicates more vividly than anything else is his determination not to cause offence. His pictures embody the Tridentine timidity that infected so much Italian painting in the years that immediately followed the Counter-Reformation. Before he had begun work on the Garegnano fresco cycle, the artist had been made to sign a contract obliging him to follow the new rules of decorum laid down by the Council of Trent: 'All the human figures, and above all the saints, should be executed with the greatest honesty and gravity, and there should not appear torsos, nor other limbs or parts of the body, and every action, gesture, clothes, attitude and drapery of the saints should be most honest, modest and full of divine gravity and majesty.' Peterzano was careful to follow these instructions \u2013 all the more careful, no doubt, because Carlo Borromeo himself was known to visit the charterhouse at Garegnano to practise the spiritual exercises. It might be said that he painted according to the negative principles of Borromean piety, in the sense that his overriding priority was to avoid courting controversy or violating decorum. It would be Caravaggio's genius to express that same piety in boldly positive terms, to create an art of agonized humility and bleeding flesh that would stir up controversy wherever it was seen. In short, there is no trace of a debt to Peterzano's work in the art of Caravaggio's maturity. Were it not for the existence of the actual contract of apprenticeship, there would be no reason whatever to connect the two men.\n\nSo what did Caravaggio learn during his apprenticeship? It might be supposed \u2013 it is the conventional view \u2013 that he received a traditional grounding in the techniques of Renaissance painting. In other words, he learned to prepare and grind colours; he learned how to draw; and he learned how to paint in _buon fresco_ , the 'true fresco' technique, like Peterzano himself. But Caravaggio never painted a fresco and no single drawing exists by his hand. X-rays of his oil paintings show that he did not even use preparatory drawings on the canvas, as a guide for the brush. In other words, there is almost no resemblance between his daringly improvisatory techniques and those that would have been taught in the studio of an artist such as the safe, dull and cautious Simone Peterzano.\n\nIt seems that something must have gone awry during Caravaggio's apprenticeship. He was a painter of extraordinary innate talent, a unique virtuoso when it came to conjuring the illusion of three-dimensional reality within the two dimensions of painting. Yet his earliest known works, while forceful, are relatively gauche and crude. Those pictures were done after 1592 and they were done in Rome. If someone with his gifts really _had_ applied himself to the study of art in Milan for four whole years from 1584 to 1588 \u2013 working 'day and night', as the contract says \u2013 he should have been far better than he actually was by then. The breakneck pace of Caravaggio's subsequent acceleration, from uncertain beginnings to full-blown mastery, begs further questions. Was it perhaps only in the early 1590s that he first took painting seriously? Is it possible that he began his career with the merest smattering of an education, and taught himself most of what he knew about painting on the job? Could it be that he spent much of his presumed apprenticeship playing truant?\n\nThe hypothesis has the virtue of helping to explain Caravaggio's extreme technical originality. It is easier, in some ways, for a man to reinvent painting if he has almost nothing in the way of conventionally ingrained techniques to impede him. His contemporaries described him as a difficult young man who liked to settle disagreements with violence and who was prone to disappear for days on end. There is no reason to believe that he was anything but an unruly teenager. Even if he did absorb some of the rudiments of art, he is unlikely to have been a model student. What evidence we have suggests that he was probably a very bad one.\n\n#### 'THEY COMMITTED A MURDER'\n\nThe bare bones of the archive \u2013 and they are pretty bare, for this part of the painter's story \u2013 indicate that these were difficult years for the whole Merisi clan. On 25 August 1584 the richest and most influential member of the family, Giovan Giacomo Aratori, went to his grave. On 7 June 1588 Caravaggio's youngest brother, Giovan Giacomo, died of unknown causes. By this time the painter's apprenticeship, such as it was, had finished. He was back in Caravaggio by 25 September 1589, to sell a parcel of land. He was not quite eighteen, so the sale could take place only with his mother's permission, which she gave. There were more land sales the following year. On 30 May and 20 June 1590 Caravaggio and his brother, the future priest Giovan Battista, parted with all of their remaining property in Canigio Nuovo, 'to clear debts [accumulated] by them or their mother, or by the said Michelangelo by entering into a contract'. The brothers had no option, it seems, but to eat into their rapidly dwindling capital.\n\nThere is a hint of trouble too in the fact that legal responsibility for this sale had been suddenly passed from the brothers' mother, Lucia, to their uncle, the priest Ludovico Merisi, who was their next closest relative. Was Lucia ill or incapacitated in some way? It seems so. On 29 October 1590 she made her will, bequeathing her entire property in equal proportions to her three surviving children. Exactly a month after that she died.\n\nThere were two more sales and then \u2013 on 11 May 1592 \u2013 the final division of Lucia's estate between Caravaggio and his two siblings. Giovan Battista got some land and the family's two houses in Porta Folceria. Caterina got some land as well as an undertaking from Giovan Battista that he would pay her dowry of 200 lire. Caravaggio was excused from any obligation to either of them and took nothing except the cash from one last land sale. It looks like the behaviour of a man who wanted to cut all ties with his past. Not long after the division of the property, he would leave Caravaggio and Milan, never to return.\n\nBy the middle of 1592 he had raised altogether 1,957 imperial lire from the family's capital \u2013 the equivalent of 600 gold scudi, or about six times the cost of his apprenticeship. By the end of the same year, he would have run through it all. No one knows what he did with the money, just as no one knows exactly what he was doing with his life during and after his apprenticeship. He was twenty-one years old in 1592. By the same age his namesake, Michelangelo Buonnarotti, had established himself as one of the leading artists in Italy. Yet, as far as anyone has been able to establish, Michelangelo Merisi, soon to be known as Caravaggio, had not even painted a picture.\n\nAll this suggests he was not so much a slow developer as a reluctant one. Perhaps he did not even want to be an artist. Perhaps he explored other possibilities, such as becoming a mercenary or soldier of fortune. He was good with a sword, and the alacrity with which he would later jump at the chance to become a Knight of Malta suggests he may always have nurtured romantic fantasies about becoming a knight at arms. Another distinct possibility is that he had got into bad company and was just living it up during these years, with no thought to the future \u2013 until the money finally ran out. Children often define themselves in opposition to one another, and the fact that Caravaggio's brother was chosen for the priesthood is in itself suggestive. If Giovan Battista was the good little boy, maybe Caravaggio had taken the role of the rogue. It would not have been surprising. He had grown up with barely a single close male role model. In fact almost all the men closest to him \u2013 the men who might have controlled him, helped him, shown him how to live \u2013 had died of the plague.\n\nThere was no shortage of opportunities for getting into trouble in Milan. Carlo Borromeo was not just flourishing his priestly rhetoric when he called it a city of sin. Milan had a reputation as a violent place, infested with vagabonds, conmen, pimps and whores. Street crime was rife and the murder rate soared during the 1580s and 1590s. The Spanish governor was constantly issuing proclamations about the need to clean up the city and offering rewards for the capture of bandits, muggers and murderers. There are passages in the writings of Caravaggio's biographers which suggest that he got involved \u2013 and got out of his depth \u2013 in this dangerous Milanese underworld. Bellori baldly states that 'being disturbed and contentious, because of certain quarrels he fled from Milan.' But that is not the last word from him on the matter, because on the front page of his copy of Baglione's biography of Caravaggio (still preserved in the Vatican Library), he wrote a further note, just as bald but more informative: 'he ground colours in Milan and learned to colour and because he had killed one of his companions he fled the country.'\n\nBaglione, who seems to have known nothing about Caravaggio's life in Milan, is silent on the subject. Mancini, in _his_ life, was keen to tell the version of the story that Caravaggio himself wanted the world to believe, sweeping any suggestions of ill-doing under the carpet of a single brisk sentence: 'At a young age he studied diligently for four to six years in Milan, though now and then he would do some outrageous thing because of his hot nature and high spirits.'\n\nMancini too left some scribbled, marginal mutterings that throw more light into this dark corner. There is a manuscript copy of Mancini's life of Caravaggio in the Marciana Library in Venice that contains a number of barely legible lines of disconnected prose: 'They committed a murder. Prostitute tough guy gentleman. Tough guy hurts gentleman prostitute slashes insult into the skin with knife. Policeman killed. They wanted to know what the accomplices... He was in prison for a year and then he wanted to see his property sold. In prison he didn't confess he came to Rome and said no more about it.'\n\nIt is with this gnomic, fragmented record \u2013 this mangled account of mysterious skulduggery and impenetrable misdeeds \u2013 that Caravaggio's life in Milan comes to a close.\n\n## PART TWO  \nRome, 1592\u20135\n\n#### VIOLENT TIMES\n\n> 'Whore, bitch, tart! I throw a bowl of shit in your face! Go on, fuck yourself with a horsewhip! I'll stick the handle of my paintbrush up your arse!'\n\nThese are the words of an artist scorned, addressed to a courtesan who refused to sleep with him. They are preserved in a deposition in the State Archives of Rome for 1602. The man was before the magistrates for abuse and physical assault. As well as insulting and beating her, he had actually knifed the woman. She had been badly injured, cut deeply to the face. The facial wound was an example of a _sfregio_ , a slash with the blade inflicted as a mark of shame \u2013 doubly damaging to a courtesan, whose face was her fortune.\n\nThere are many such tales in the annals of the lives of the artists who thrived, floundered or failed in Counter-Reformation Rome. Here is another example.\n\nAn artist catches his mistress in the company of his own younger brother, an assistant in his workshop. He pursues his brother to St Peter's, where they are busy on a commission, and breaks two of his ribs with a crowbar. He then tries to kill him with his sword, but the brother escapes and seeks sanctuary in a church. Meanwhile, the artist sends his servant to the house of his offending mistress, with instructions to give her a _sfregio_. He finds her in bed and slashes her face with a razor.\n\nNeither of these stories directly concerns Caravaggio. The first is about a now forgotten painter whose misdemeanours took place at the start of the seventeenth century. The second involves the flamboyant sculptor Gianlorenzo Bernini, who caught his brother _in flagrante_ with his mistress in 1638. More than thirty years and a gulf of talent separated the two artists but they behaved in an identically hot-headed way. Both men acted in the heat of the moment, spurred on by a slight to their honour \u2013 a loss of face punished, with terrible literalness, by cuts and slashes to the actual faces of their victims.\n\nDuring his own fourteen years in Rome, Caravaggio would become embroiled in more than his fair share of assaults, disputes and bloody vendettas. He was a violent man, but it is important to remember that he lived in a violent world. Throughout seventeenth-century Italy \u2013 throughout seventeenth-century Europe \u2013 an inflammatory code of honour prevailed. The _fama_ of an individual, by which was meant not only his fame or reputation but also his good name, was paramount. Any insult to it had to be paid for, and the price was often blood. Caravaggio went to greater extremes than his contemporaries, in life as in art. He was no angel, even if he had been named after one. He had a hot temper and was forever spoiling for a fight. But he was not the freak or absolute exception that he has often been painted to be \u2013 both by his enemies and by those who have claimed to idolize him.\n\n#### IN ROME\n\nHaving cut all ties with his family, the artist travelled to Rome in the autumn of 1592. Bellori says that Caravaggio went there via Venice, 'where he came to enjoy the colours of Giorgione, which he then imitated'. A brush with Venetian art at this formative moment in his life seems likely, although Bellori overplays Caravaggio's indebtedness to Giorgione. Giorgione's work had inspired Titian, the most celebrated painter of Renaissance Venice. But that axis of Venetian painting \u2013 rich, brightly coloured, with a strong sense of paint as eloquent, material _stuff_ , to be pushed about with the fingers as well as manipulated by the brush \u2013 did not hold the young Caravaggio's attention. Aside from his innate sense of pictorial drama, he would have little in common with either of those great masters. Only in the paintings of his very last years would he move towards the impressionistic manner of Titian's later work.\n\nIf any Venetian painter touched him to the core it was Jacopo Tintoretto. Tintoretto's brooding, monumental religious canvases, full of dramatic contrasts of light and dark \u2013 lightning strikes of supernatural illumination that shiver like spiritual electricity \u2013 are the only late sixteenth-century Italian paintings to prophesy elements of Caravaggio's own mature style. Simone Peterzano, who liked to think of himself as a painter in the Venetian mould, may well have inspired his unruly apprentice to visit the city. If so, he contributed to the final eclipse of whatever dim influence his own art might have had on Caravaggio's imagination.\n\nThe trip to Venice remains hypothetical, but highly plausible. According to such a version of events, the young Caravaggio arrives in Rome with his memory full of vast, dark pictures teeming with images of humanity _in extremis_. This helps to make sense of his subsequent development. The preferred, monumental scale of his work as well as the ambition behind it; the extreme sense of light and dark; even the distinctive, low-toned palette that Caravaggio would make his own \u2013 where could he have got the first glimmerings of all this, if not from Venice, and Tintoretto?\n\nFor the next fourteen years Caravaggio would be at the heart of Roman Catholic Christendom, achieving fame and notoriety in equal measure. The most vivid late sixteenth-century account of the city was written by the French essayist and philosopher Michel de Montaigne, who spent several months there in late 1580 and early 1581. That was ten years before Caravaggio's time. But the city Montaigne described was, by and large, the city that Caravaggio knew.\n\nMontaigne was immediately struck by the ugliness and poverty of the surrounding countryside: 'The approaches to Rome, almost everywhere, look uncultivated and barren, either for want of soil, or, what I consider more likely, because this city has hardly any labourers and men who live by the work of their hands.' The few labourers who _were_ to be encountered in the fields tended to be migrant workers, from the mountains of northern Italy: 'When I came here I found on the way many groups of villagers who came from the Grisons and Savoy to earn something in the season by labouring in the vineyards and the gardens; and they told me that every year this was their source of income.'\n\nRome was a city of migrants. Its shifting population was drawn from every corner of the Christian world \u2013 priests seeking preferment, pilgrims seeking salvation, courtesans seeking riches. 'It is the most universal city in the world,' proclaimed Montaigne, 'a place where strangeness and differences of nationality are considered least; for by its nature it is a city pieced together out of foreigners; everyone is as if at home.'\n\nIt was also a suspicious city. On arrival, Montaigne's baggage was seized. The books in his travelling library were meticulously inspected by Rome's customs officials. They were looking for forbidden texts, for evidence of heresy, and, although they found little to concern them, Montaigne was struck by the severity of their regulations: 'the rules were so extraordinary here that the book of hours of Our Lady, because it was of Paris, not of Rome, was suspect to them, and also the books of certain German doctors of theology against the heretics, because in combating them they made mention of their errors.' Much to Montaigne's annoyance, the authorities confiscated a book 'on the histories of the Swiss, translated into French, solely because the translator \u2013 whose name, however, is not given \u2013 is a heretic... it is a marvel how well they know the men of our countries.'\n\nMore than half a century had passed since the Lutheran troops of Emperor Charles V sacked the city in 1527. But Rome had still not recovered. Thousands had died during the Sack and many others had abandoned their homes. Montaigne was struck by the contrast between the splendour of the papal court \u2013 'remarkable houses and gardens of the cardinals... palaces divided into numerous apartments, one leading to another' \u2013 and the squalid, neglected condition of so much of the rest of the city.\n\nRelics and reminders of ancient Rome were everywhere, so that 'in many places we were walking on the tops of entire houses... in truth, almost everywhere, you walk on the top of old walls which the rain and the coach ruts uncover.' But so mangled were the tangible remains of the classical past that Montaigne felt the totality of its destruction more keenly than anything else: 'those who said that one at least saw the ruins of Rome said too much, for the ruins of so awesome a machine would bring more honour and reverence to its memory: this was nothing but its sepulchre. The world, hostile to its long domination, had first broken and shattered all the parts of this wonderful body; and because, even though quite dead, overthrown, and disfigured, it still terrified the world, the world had buried its very ruin.'\n\nLike any other migrant worker from the north, Caravaggio would have entered the city through the Porta del Popolo, into the Piazza del Popolo. In those days the great square was flanked on its northern side by the church and monastery of Santa Maria del Popolo, and on the south by a line of ordinary houses. Attempts had recently been made to aggrandize this main avenue of entry to the city. In 1587 an obelisk had been erected in the middle of the square. A marble fountain had been added too, but still the piazza was anything but grand. A traveller just arrived might get something to eat from one of the fritter vendors at the foot of the obelisk. He might sit with his back to the stump of a classical column \u2013 there were several protruding from the ground, like broken teeth \u2013 to munch his snack. There was a drinking trough nearby, used by farmers bringing pigs and goats to market, and a watering place where women did their laundry in the open air.\n\nMuch of Rome was still down at heel, as it had been when Montaigne visited. But by the time of Caravaggio's arrival the city was in the throes of a great transformation. In the spring of 1585 a devout Franciscan, Felice Peretti, Cardinal of Montalto, had been elected Pope Sixtus V. Energized by the same sense of mission as the formidable Carlo Borromeo \u2013 with whom he collaborated on an edition of the writings of St Ambrose \u2013 he set out to rebuild Rome both spiritually and physically. The edicts of the Counter-Reformation, handed down at the Council of Trent, were to be scrupulously observed. The fabric of the city itself had to be transformed into the visible symbol of a triumphantly reaffirmed Catholicism.\n\nUnder Sixtus V and his immediate successors, the appearance of Rome was dramatically altered. Seven grand new radial avenues were created to link the seven principal Christian basilicas and to ease the passage of pilgrims through the city. Many of the ancient Christian sites of Rome \u2013 including the catacombs, the tombs of the early martyrs \u2013 were excavated and restored. The dome of St Peter's, begun by Bramante nearly a century earlier, continued by Antonio da Sangallo and finally redesigned by 'the divine' Michelangelo, had at last been completed. Within a year of Caravaggio's arrival a gleaming ball topped by a golden cross had been mounted above its lantern.\n\nAs if to justify Montaigne's assertion that ancient Rome still 'terrified the world', its vestiges were yet more thoroughly subjected to Christian zeal. Prominent remains of antiquity were appropriated \u2013 moved, transformed, sometimes defaced and demolished \u2013 to demonstrate the eternal triumph of a resurgent Catholic Church over paganism and heresy alike. Sixtus V's principal architect, Domenico Fontana, transported a vast obelisk from the Circus of Nero to the square of St Peter's. Inscriptions were added to its base, declaring that a monument erected to the impious cults of the ancient gods had been brought to 'the threshold of the apostles' and consecrated to 'the undefeated cross'. The old Renaissance spirit of admiration for the art and literature of the classical past began to be regarded with a distrust that bordered on outright hostility.\n\nThe same, severe repudiation of pagan antiquity had been expressed by one of the most prominent commissions of Sixtus's predecessor, Gregory XIII: Tommaso Laureti's painting _The Triumph of Christianity_ \u2013 a fresco decoration for the Sala di Costantino in the Vatican Palace, completed in the mid 1580s. In a chilly atrium, a statue of Mercury lies shattered at the foot of an image of Christ on the Cross. The fragments of stone that symbolize the destruction of the ancient gods \u2013 hand, torso, decapitated head \u2013 have been placed in the foreground, at the start of a brutally insistent single-point perspective scheme. The vanishing point of the picture is like a black hole, where all energy converges. The painter rushes the eye from pagan idol to redeeming Christ and beyond \u2013 to a glimmering avenue of architectural mystery that stands, by implication, for the ineffable mystery of the one true faith.\n\n#### CLEMENT VIII\n\nCaravaggio arrived in Rome some seven or eight months after the election of a new pope. Clement VIII was determined to carry on the work begun by his predecessors, albeit in a somewhat less militant style. He was a shrewd, cautious and deeply pious man, whose pontificate was marked by a relaxation of hostility towards the culture and mythology of antiquity. In the private sphere, at least, it became permissible to commission paintings on profane subjects from the artists of the city. So it was that during the 1590s the Bolognese painter Annibale Carracci covered the ceiling of the Palazzo Farnese \u2013 the palace of Cardinal Odoardo Farnese, one of the richest men in all Italy \u2013 with a dizzying cornucopia of nudes re-enacting the loves of the gods on earth, in the air and in the water. There had been nothing like this joyful celebration of Eros in Rome since the Renaissance.\n\nClement VIII had been elected, on 30 January 1592, on the strength of his supposed moderation. In practice, he would tread a fine line between political pragmatism and Counter-Reformation zeal. He could be ruthless in the suppression of heresy and dissent, so the Rome that Caravaggio knew could hardly be described as a haven of creative and intellectual freedom. It was under Clement's pontificate that the speculative mystic Giordano Bruno \u2013 who believed in a thousand different worlds spinning through space, but denied the existence of God \u2013 was burned at the stake in 1600. Clement was not actively hostile to Philip II of Spain, but he set out to emancipate the papacy from what he perceived as undue Spanish influence. Rival French and Spanish factions lobbied tirelessly for influence in Rome, and at times their disagreements spilled over into street fights and public brawls. Clement steered a skilful middle course. He cultivated closer relations with France, acknowledging the legitimacy of Henri IV's claims to the throne and thus paving the way for the French king to renounce Protestantism and return to the Catholic fold. He then brokered the peace of Vervins of 1598, which effected a rapprochement between Henri IV and Philip II.\n\nThe French king's conversion was a tremendous coup for the Catholic Church and would come to be considered the greatest triumph of Clement's reign. (The pope also courted James I of England, whose queen, Anne of Denmark, was already a convert to Catholicism, but to no avail.) At home he did his utmost to restrict the powers of the aristocracy, reining in the feudal barons of the Papal States at every opportunity. In 1597, when the venerable Este dynasty failed due to the lack of a male heir, he promptly claimed title to the family's fiefdom of Ferrara and incorporated it into the papal states. Clement revised the Vulgate, promulgated a new edition of the _Index librorum prohibitorum_ and took his duties as Bishop of Rome no less seriously than his role as supreme pontiff. He curbed prostitution, introduced a general ban on the carrying of weapons in public, outlawed duelling, made libel a capital offence and sought to enforce the strict celibacy of his clergy. The papal _sbirri_ , the constabulary, were a vital tool in his control of the city. They were the equivalent of the Bishop of Milan's _famiglia armata_ , but even more numerous. They were given wide-ranging powers, including the power to stop and search anyone suspected of heresy, of bearing arms or of being out after curfew without good cause. They did much of their work at night and were known for the dark cloaks that they wore to conceal themselves as they tailed their suspects, or paid unannounced visits to the houses of witnesses and potential informers.\n\nPunishment, by contrast, took place in broad daylight. Death by execution was a grim public spectacle, a theatre of retribution designed to instil fear and the spirit of penitence into all who witnessed it. In 1581 Montaigne had observed the last moments of 'a famous robber and bandit captain' by the name of Catena:\n\n> they carry in front of the criminal a big crucifix covered with a black curtain, and on foot go a large number of men dressed and masked in linen, who, they say, are gentlemen and other prominent people of Rome who devote themselves to this service of accompanying criminals led to execution and the bodies of the dead; and there is a brotherhood of them. There are two of these, or monks dressed and masked in the same way, who attend the criminal on the cart and preach to him; and one of them continually holds before his face a picture on which is the portrait of Our Lord, and has him kiss it incessantly. At the gallows, which is a beam between two supports, they still kept this picture against his face until he was launched. He made an ordinary death, without movement or word; he was a dark man of thirty or thereabouts...\n\nAfter the criminal's death, his body was cut into pieces. At this point, Montaigne notes, 'Jesuits or others get up on some high spot and shout to the people, one in this direction, the other in that, and preach to them to make them take in this example.' Such executions were still very much part of life in the Rome that Caravaggio knew.\n\nReligious observance was not a matter of choice. At Easter everyone living in Rome was obliged to take Communion and procure a ticket of evidence from the priest who administered the sacrament. Procuring the ticket \u2013 proof of orthodoxy, and necessary to pass muster with the police \u2013 was itself part of a system of surveillance and involved a separate visit to the priest, who was obliged to write down the name and address of each communicant. But he also had to write down other details, noting for example who lived where and with whom, and listing their servants. It was, in effect, an annual census. It is because Counter-Reformation Rome was such an intensely controlled society that so much is known about those who lived there.\n\nAs in the Milan of Caravaggio's youth, great importance was attached to the question of what people should see, or be allowed to see. In a world where even the death of a criminal could be orchestrated as a grisly spectacle, religious art was inevitably subject to all kinds of supervisions. At the very start of his pontificate (1592\u20131605, therefore coinciding almost exactly with Caravaggio's years in Rome) Clement proved particularly keen to establish himself as a ruthless enforcer of the doctrines laid down by the Council of Trent. On 8 June 1592, some four months after his election, he issued the papal Bull _Speculatores domus Israel_ , declaring a 'Visitation' of all churches of the city of Rome. The clergy would be inspected and so would the fabric and decoration of their churches, including works of art.\n\nIt was to be no comprehensive survey. The churches Clement actually visited are listed, in order, in the so-called Secret Vatican Archives (Archivio Segreto Vaticano). He started at the top, with St Peter's itself on 3 July 1592. He then went on to Santa Maria Maggiore, followed by San Giovanni in Laterano. By the time the Visitation had finally petered out, four years later, only twenty-eight churches had been covered. The reason was not dilatoriness but Clement's meticulous attention to detail. He insisted on visiting every church himself, and interrogating any suspect members of his clergy personally. Even though he surrounded himself with an entourage of four cardinals and three bishops \u2013 including Audwyn Lewis, the Bishop of Cassano, a Welsh Catholic who had left England in 1579 \u2013 the work of inspection was painfully slow. Its eventual abandonment may be taken as further proof of Clement's common sense. Although deeply concerned for the well-being of the Church, Clement was not a man in the same obsessive mould as Carlo Borromeo. He stopped, perhaps knowing that his point had been made. The mere threat of the Visitation had reminded the Roman clergy to pay close attention to the works of art in their churches, and to use their powers of censorship if necessary. Caravaggio's career would be directly affected as a result. Several times during his years in Rome he would experience the humiliation of having a painting intended for the altar of a Roman church rejected on the grounds of indecency or impropriety.\n\n#### IN THE ARTISTS' QUARTER\n\nLike his immediate predecessors, the new pope was determined both to stabilize the foundations of the Catholic Church and to reassert the Eternal City as the radiant centre of Christendom. The beauty of Rome's churches must compel faith and crush heresy. That is why the city was filled with artists. Painters, sculptors and architects throughout Italy, and further afield, knew that there was more than enough work to go round in Rome. As Florence had been during the fifteenth century, and as Paris would be at the peak of Louis XIV's power, Rome under Clement VIII was the artistic capital of Europe. The artists of the city were so numerous \u2013 at a rough estimate, there were 2,000 of them, out of Rome's total population of around 100,000 \u2013 that they had their own quarter.\n\nThis was an area of a little more than two square miles situated, roughly, between the Piazza del Popolo and the Piazza di Spagna. Artists tended to arrive in groups \u2013 whether from Naples or Bologna, Lombardy or Emilia-Romagna, Flanders or France \u2013 and to board together to save money; it was not unusual for two or three to share a room, using the space both as bedroom and workshop. Rome could be stiflingly hot, which placed a premium on the lower, cooler floors of rental accommodation. But that suited the traditionally hard-up community of painters, who preferred the less expensive upper floors anyway, because there was more light there to paint by. They particularly favoured houses backing on to the Pincio, the hill perched above the Piazza del Popolo.\n\nDifferent national groups of artists ran in gangs and swapped racial insults with their rivals. There were stereotypes to fit all. Germans were crude, the Flemish were drunks, and the French were violent thugs hiding behind a veneer of fake refinement. The Italians themselves, according to the exiled English earl encountered in Rome by the hero of Thomas Nashe's novel of 1594, _The Unfortunate Traveller_ , were addicted to 'the art of epicurising, the art of whoring, the art of poysoning, the art of sodomitry'.\n\nAn Englishman like Nashe grouped all Italians together, but for them the matter of national belonging was less clear cut. Italians had some sense of communal identity but an even sharper feeling for the distinctions that set them apart from one another. The Bolognese were known to hate the Tuscans, while most Romans treated Sicilians as if they were little better than peasants. Neapolitans were said to be obsessive about horsemanship. The Milanese, as we have seen, were famously keen swordsmen, and naturally unruly \u2013 although 'Lombards' as a group were often stereotyped as sluggish provincials, heavy of mind and body thanks to their rustic diet.\n\nIn 1589 the writer Giovanni Botero went so far as to propose a north\u2013south fissure in the Italian temperament: 'Those who live in northern countries but not in the extreme north, are bold but lack cunning; southerners on the other hand are cunning but not bold... They are as the lion and the fox; whereas the northerner is slow and consistent in his actions, cheerful and subject to Bacchus, the southerner is impetuous and volatile, melancholy and subject to Venus...' The personality of Caravaggio would be hard to locate on this particular map. He does not fit either profile, and in fact he would make his sense of his own singularity the subject of one of his earliest paintings \u2013 a self-portrait _as_ Bacchus, but a Bacchus who is suffering and full of melancholy.\n\n#### CITY OF MEN, CITY OF WHORES\n\nThe chronology of Caravaggio's early years is impossible to establish with precision, although we can work out that he changed his address frequently \u2013 ten times or so between 1592 and 1595. The houses changed but the milieu was always the same: the dark network of alleyways clustered around the Piazza del Popolo; the narrow streets bordering the Palazzo Firenze, home of the Medici's ambassadors to Rome; the Piazza Navona, which had once been the stadium of Domitian and still preserved its ancient double-horseshoe outline; the Campo de' Fiori, the marketplace.\n\nThis artists' quarter was a dangerous area of the city. Fights were common and fists were not the only weapons used. In an attempt to deter armed violence, the papal police made a public example of anyone caught wielding a _pugnello_ , the short-handled dagger that was so often Exhibit A in the cases brought before Rome's criminal tribunals. At the corner of Via del Corso and Via dei Greci, in full shaming view of the city whose laws he had violated, the arrested suspect would be subjected to the _strappado_ , an excruciating form of rope torture. The victim's hands were tied behind his back, with another loop of rope passed beneath his joined arms. He was then hauled into the air and left dangling for half an hour, the full weight of his body gradually pulling his arms further and further back and behind him. The inevitable result was dislocation of both shoulders. Victims eventually recovered but they did not forget the pain in a hurry. A painter subjected to the _strappado_ could not work for weeks.\n\nAt night Caravaggio, his friends and his enemies shared the streets with the city's prostitutes. Rome's whores and courtesans had long been one of the sights of the city. In the early 1580s Montaigne had noted a craze for open-topped carriages especially adapted for the purpose of erotic ogling: 'One preacher's joke was that we turned our coaches into astrolabes... To tell the truth, the greatest profit that is derived from this is to see the ladies at the windows, and notably the courtesans, who show themselves at their Venetian blinds with such treacherous artfulness that I have often marvelled how they tantalise our eyes as they do; and often, having... obtained admission, I wondered at how much more beautiful they appeared to be than they really were...'\n\nBy Caravaggio's time the prostitutes were so numerous that they had been coralled by papal edict into their own enclosure by the Tiber, the Ortaccio di Ripetta \u2013 a name which joked that the place was a kind of reverse Eden, since the literal meaning of _ortaccio_ was 'evil garden'. But they would escape after dark to ply their trade in the ill-lit streets around the Piazza del Popolo. They were an embarrassment to the authorities because their very presence in such great numbers represented a blatant betrayal of Christian ethics at the very heart of the Catholic world.\n\nRome was not just an overwhelmingly male city; it was a city full of young and unattached men competing desperately with one another for favours. The city's whores were a much needed outlet for the accumulated sexual energy of this male-dominated, testosterone-fuelled society. But they were also, often, an occasion for violence in themselves. Some girls offered certain services for free to clients whom they liked, which could easily breed resentment. For an artist, the service might be posing naked for a picture (painting the nude model was officially illegal and this was one way of getting around the rules). But if the girls' pimps discovered such an arrangement, there was generally trouble.\n\nThe young artists who came to Rome to make a name for themselves lived on top of each other, competed for the same work, drank in the same taverns, frequented the same restaurants and bought their materials \u2013 paints, canvases, stretchers \u2013 from the same artists' supplier. His name was Antinoro Bertucci and he had a street stall on the Corso. Painters and sculptors of all nationalities would meet there, to buy what they needed for the next day's work and to discuss the latest gossip and news \u2013 to find out about workshop vacancies, to learn who was in and who was out with this or that influential prelate or cardinal. A visit to Antinoro's in the evening was also a good way to dodge the curfew regulations, because the paint-seller kept a fire burning at all hours. Going out for heat and light was a legitimate excuse for breaking curfew, so if a gathering should be interrupted by the police everyone would say they had gone to Antinoro for that reason. 'We were at Antinoro's because our fire had gone out' is a phrase that recurs in the witness statements of Rome's artists.\n\nThe ultimate ambition of every artist was the same: namely to work for the cardinals closest to the pope, to secure the most important commissions and win lasting fame \u2013 along with the money and security that went with it. The rules of the game were by no means straightforward. Everybody knew of mediocre artists who had been promoted above their abilities, and of deserving painters who had been overlooked. In a world where competition and rivalry were intense, resentment flourished easily, so Antinoro's was a rumour factory as well as an artists' supply shop. Stories of sabotage abounded \u2013 of the scaffolding that collapsed in the night, of the painter whose rival poisoned his colours with acid so that all his blues turned green in a matter of days. Once an artist got a reputation for bad luck or inefficiency, once it got around that he had 'the evil eye', his commissions would soon dry up.\n\nThough they disagree in some details, taken together Caravaggio's early biographers paint a convincing picture of a young man struggling to find his way in a harsh and unfamiliar world. During these first years in Rome he had contacts to ease his passage into the city: his uncle, Ludovico Merisi, the priest, was living there in 1591\u20132, Costanza Colonna in late 1592. But he seems to have fended mostly for himself, moving restlessly from one studio to another in search of employment \u2013 and quite possibly instruction too.\n\nBaglione reports that 'in the beginning he settled down with a Sicilian painter who had a shop full of crude works of art.' Bellori, in his marginal notes to Baglione's life, gives the Sicilian painter a name of sorts \u2013 Lorenzo Siciliano, whose line of work was painting crude bust-length heads for general sale. According to Bellori, in Lorenzo's workshop 'Caravaggio painted heads for a groat apiece and produced three a day.' The 'heads' in question may have been portraits of the famous men of the past, a subject in vogue among collectors of art since the middle years of the fifteenth century. The mercenary soldier and intellectual Federigo da Montefeltro, ruler of Urbino, had turned his private study into a gallery of such pictures, encompassing figures as various as Cicero and St Thomas Aquinas. If Caravaggio did paint his own versions of such subjects, none is known.\n\nIt was while staying with Lorenzo Siciliano that Caravaggio met an ambitious but unpredictable young Sicilian artist called Mario Minniti. According to the eighteenth-century biographer Francesco Susinno, who had access to sources now lost or destroyed, the young Minniti had been forced to flee Syracuse, via Malta, to get away from unspecified troubles. Arriving in Rome, he lodged with a hack painter from Sicily, in whose studio he befriended Caravaggio. Susinno implies that they were united in their dissatisfaction with the type of work which 'that coarse artisan' demanded of them, and dreamed together of rising to greater things. They became close friends, Minniti even posing for the impoverished Caravaggio \u2013 who could ill afford a model \u2013 on several occasions. His moon-shaped, mumpish face can be recognized in a number of early works. Minniti would also prove to be a useful contact much further along the pitted track of Caravaggio's life.\n\nAccording to Mancini, during this period Caravaggio also lodged with a beneficed priest of St Peter's named Pandolfo Pucci, from the town of Recanati. He may have been introduced through his connections with the Colonna: the priest was household steward to a member of the Peretti family, and the Peretti and the Colonna were close. Mancini says that Pucci gave the artist a room and allowed him to paint there in exchange for domestic chores. The deal was not to the painter's satisfaction, and not only because he was not the sort of man to take pleasure in doing the housework: 'Worse, he was given nothing but salad to eat in the evening, which served as appetizer, entr\u00e9e and dessert \u2013 as the corporal says, as accompaniment and toothpick. After a few months he left with little recompense, calling his benefactor and master \"Monsignor Salad\".'\n\nMancini records that during his time with the parsimonious Pucci, Caravaggio 'painted some copies of devotional images', which the priest took home to Recanati with him when he left Rome in 1600. No trace of them has been found. Lost too is 'a portrait of an innkeeper who had given him lodgings' as well as another, unnamed portrait mentioned by the biographer. But the young Caravaggio's painting of a 'boy who is peeling a pear with a knife', also mentioned by Mancini, has perhaps survived.\n\nThere are at least ten versions of a similar subject, all showing the same rudimentary composition. The painting in the British Royal Collection, which is thought to have been acquired by Charles II, is conceivably the original picture described by Mancini. It was already recorded in the James II inventory of the collection as a work by 'Michael Angelo', which indicates that it was regarded as an autograph Caravaggio as early as the seventeenth century. An adolescent boy in a white shirt sits at a table on which various fruits, including cherries, peaches and nectarines, are scattered. The boy's shirt is spotlessly white, his hands unblemished, details suggesting that he is of noble birth. He peels not a pear but a green Seville or Bergamot orange, a bitter fruit. Perhaps this symbolizes his determination to choose the path of virtue, to avoid the sweeter temptations that life has to offer, or perhaps it is an emblem of the disappointments and difficulties that lie ahead even for a boy like this, blessed by wealth and fortune \u2013 a characteristically sour note for Caravaggio to have struck. But the mood of the painting is anything but ominous, so it might be unwise to burden it with too much hidden meaning. If it is indeed an autograph work, this undistinguished genre picture confirms just how little progress Caravaggio had made as a painter by the early 1590s. The handling is crude, the boy's expression wooden. Only in the extreme contrast of light and shade \u2013 the whiteness of the shirt, the depth of the shadows \u2013 can some presage of Caravaggio's later work be discerned.\n\n#### THE BROTHERS CESARI\n\nFor the rest of his early time in Rome, Caravaggio appears to have been very much out on his own. Having left Monsignor Salad to his greens, he probably spent some time in the studio of a Sienese painter called Antiveduto Gramatica. Gramatica was an artist of limited gifts about whom little is known save for the fact that his father had a questionable sense of humour. After predicting his son's premature birth, he registered his prescience by giving him his joke of a name \u2013 _antiveduto_ , meaning 'foreseen'.\n\nCaravaggio may have entered his studio in early 1593. In the same year Gramatica became a member of the guild of painters, the Accademia di San Luca. He was prolific, turning out small-scale devotional pictures, portraits and copies of portraits by the score. Particularly popular were his copies of a series of _Famous Men_ then at the Villa Medici. Caravaggio, whose work for Lorenzo Siciliano had probably included similar pictures, may have painted his own copies of the Villa Medici 'heads' while in Gramatica's studio. If so, it is possible that he now came to the attention of his future protector, the Medici cardinal Francesco Maria del Monte, for the first time.\n\nThe next studio in which Caravaggio found work was more exalted. It was that of Giuseppe Cesari, otherwise known as the Cavaliere d'Arpino, one of the most prominent artists in Rome in the 1590s. Giuseppe Cesari was only three years older than Caravaggio but far more successful. He was from a family of artists: his father, Muzio, was a painter. His brother, Bernardino, was his chief assistant and may also have acted as workshop manager. When he was a boy, Giuseppe had shown such precocious gifts as a draughtsman that his mother had taken him to Rome. At the age of just thirteen he had found work as a colour mixer for Niccol\u00f2 Circignani, who was then directing the decoration of the Vatican Loggie for Pope Gregory XIII. He soon graduated to the painting team and made enough of a name for himself to win several important independent commissions in Rome during the later 1580s. Following the death of his most influential patron, Cardinal Farnese, in 1589, he accepted an invitation to carry out a series of paintings for the Certosa di San Martino in Naples, including a monumental canvas, _The Crucifixion_. He returned to Rome in 1591 and on Clement VIII's accession became the pope's leading painter.\n\nCesari's art was a limp but occasionally elegant hybrid of High Renaissance and Mannerist styles. As a painter of religious subjects, he answered the Counter-Reformation call for clarity, grace and decorum. But in his smaller, erotically charged mythological pictures, he experimented with complicated poses and frequently arcane symbolism. He painted the rape of Europa and the judgement of Paris, as well as the naked Diana and her companions surprised by the huntsman Actaeon. A composition of Perseus swooping from the skies to rescue an alluring and unusually languid Andromeda from the clutches of a diminutive lapdog of a dragon proved especially popular; several versions survive.\n\nCaravaggio probably began working for the Cesari brothers in the middle of 1593. It was an eventful time for his new employers. In late 1592 Bernardino Cesari had been sentenced to death for associating with known bandits and had run away to Naples. But by May of the following year he was back in Rome, having secured a papal pardon thanks to the intervention of Cardinal Paolo Emilio Sfondrato, one of several powerful patrons of the Cesari workshop. Giuseppe now needed all the help he could get. The studio was busy: the papal treasurer, Bernardo Olgiati, had commissioned the decoration of an entire chapel in the church of Santa Prassede. Figures of the prophets, sibyls and doctors of the Church were required, as well as a _Resurrection_ and a monumental _Ascension_. There was also a commission to decorate the vault of the Contarelli Chapel, in the church of San Luigi dei Francesi, with small scenes set into an intricate stuccowork design. Six years later Caravaggio would win the commission to paint two large canvases for the walls of the very same chapel \u2013 works that would instantly establish him as the most original religious artist of his time, and forever overshadow the earlier contributions of the Cesari workshop. But in 1593 he was just another apprentice painter from Lombardy with everything to prove.\n\nThe sources say that Caravaggio was employed to paint 'flowers and fruit'. Artists from northern Italy had recently begun to work in the relatively new field of still life painting. It was a genre of secular art \u2013 albeit frequently with undertones of religious meaning \u2013 that had its roots in post-Reformation Flanders and Holland. But its popularity had begun to spread southwards across Europe during the late sixteenth century. The Spanish played a part in disseminating this new taste, buying works of art in their northern territories and taking them to the cities that they controlled in Italy. It is likely that Caravaggio had seen Dutch or Flemish still life paintings during his time in Milan, and perhaps that was why Giuseppe Cesari marked him out for the same line of work. It is likely that he would have contributed the decorative festoons of frescoes by the Cesari workshop, as well as painting canvases for direct sale to private clients. Cesari also bought and sold Dutch and Flemish cabinet pictures, which suggests that he was well aware of the new taste among Roman collectors for the novelties of landscape and still life painting. But the supply of such pictures from the north was inevitably limited. Who better than an artist from Lombardy \u2013 a man from fertile Caravaggio, surrounded by the orchards that supplied Milan \u2013 to create homegrown depictions of flowers, fruit and vegetables?\n\nThere may have been an element of condescension about Cesari's decision to channel Caravaggio's energies towards still life \u2013 a trace of dismissive preconception about painters from the north. It was not unknown for Lombard artists to be caricatured as rustic provincials, country bumpkins of painting, unacquainted with the grand traditions of Renaissance art. Artists were ranked according to a strict hierarchy determined by subject matter. At the top were those who specialized in paintings of the human figure shown in heroic or significant action \u2013 paintings from the Bible or mythology. Lower down the scale came portraits, then paintings of animals. Then came another relatively new genre, the landscape, followed last and least by the humble still life. Such distinctions mattered a lot, especially to a man as touchy and as self-conscious about his own status as Caravaggio.\n\nThere are strong indications that he resented the lowly nature of the work that he was given to do in the Cesari studio. Bellori suggests that he already had the ambition to work in the higher reaches of art, but had to take whatever employment he was offered simply to survive:\n\n> Since models, without which he did not know how to paint, were too expensive, he did not earn enough to pay his expenses. Michele was therefore forced by necessity to work for Cavaliere Giuseppe d'Arpino, who had him paint flowers and fruit, which he imitated so well that from then on they began to attain that greater beauty that we love today. He painted a vase of flowers with the transparencies of the water and glass and the reflections of a window of the room, rendering flowers sprinkled with the freshest dewdrops; and he painted other excellent pictures of similar imitations. But he worked reluctantly at these things and felt deeper regret at not being able to paint figures.\n\nShorthand notes in the manuscript of Mancini's biography yield several tantalizing glimpses of Caravaggio in the Cesari workshop. They are obscure and hard to interpret, but suggest that the painter's relationship with his employers was fraught. At first they rescue him, but then they let him down or betray him in some unspecified way. There is a reference to Caravaggio in poor and ragged clothing. Then Bernardino Cesari takes him into the 'Torretta', which was the name of the building in which the Cesari workshop was housed. He is put up on a straw mattress on a raised platform, presumably some kind of minstrels' gallery in one of the rooms. He boards there, in all, for eight months. But at a certain point something bad happens, although Mancini's notes do not say what that something was. Giuseppe Cesari is a witness: 'Giuseppe sees and is petrified and in order to distract him makes him retreat and flee so he does not appear.' Following this nameless act and its enigmatic aftermath, the Cesari brothers seem to feel that Caravaggio's presence in their workshop has to be concealed. Mention is made of 'C. G.', short for Giuseppe Cesari, painting a picture of St Joseph on which Caravaggio perhaps collaborates; but wherever this takes place, Cesari is very keen that Caravaggio should not be seen. Then Caravaggio gets kicked by a horse so badly that his leg swells alarmingly, but a surgeon is not called because he still must not be seen by anyone. A Sicilian friend who owns or runs a shop \u2013 more likely to be Lorenzo Siciliano than Mario Minniti \u2013 takes him to the hospital of the Consolazione. The Cesari brothers never go to visit him and he never goes back to them.\n\nMancini's finished life of Caravaggio is much less circumstantial than his notes, except on the subject of the artist's stay in the hospital of the Consolazione. During his convalescence there, Caravaggio is said to have painted 'many pictures for the prior, who brought them to Seville, his home'. Reversing the chronology suggested by his jottings, Mancini then asserts that it was _after_ his illness that the painter 'stayed with Cavaliere Giuseppe'. But whatever the precise sequence of events, a clear enough picture emerges of Caravaggio during this time of evident hardship. He is proud and touchy. He is growing in ambition, but increasingly disgruntled. He has not lost his knack for getting into trouble. He grudgingly performs his duties as a still life painter.\n\n#### SELF-PORTRAIT AS BACCHUS, BOY WITH A BASKET OF FRUIT\n\nNone of the still lives that Caravaggio painted while he was with the Cavaliere d'Arpino seem to have survived. But there are two early pictures with a provenance that places them in the Cesari workshop. Both contain carefully worked still life elements, although neither is a pure still life painting: _Boy with a Basket of Fruit_ and the so-called _Sick Bacchus_ , or _Self-Portrait as Bacchus_.\n\nThey must have been done for Giuseppe Cesari in 1593\u20134, because both were still in his possession as late as 1607, the year when he unwisely clashed with the covetous papal nephew Scipione Borghese. Borghese was an avid art collector, as well as a great admirer of Caravaggio's work, who had long had his eye on Giuseppe Cesari's considerable backroom stock. He made an insultingly low offer for the pictures, and when Cesari had the temerity to refuse, Borghese used his influence to have the troublesome painter-dealer arrested on trumped-up charges. He then appropriated Cesari's entire collection of 105 paintings. The two pictures by Caravaggio have been in the Borghese collection ever since \u2013 and may still be seen in the Galleria Borghese today.\n\nThey are unusual works, with more than a hint of awkwardness about them, especially the _Self-Portrait as Bacchus_ , which two of Caravaggio's early biographers found sufficiently memorable to single out from the rest of his juvenilia. Mancini refers to 'a beautiful Bacchus who was beardless', while Baglione mentions 'a Bacchus with different bunches of grapes, painted with great care but a bit dry in style'. 'Dry' seems a more appropriate epithet than 'beautiful'.\n\nThe ancient god of wine and mystic revelry holds a bunch of white grapes in his right hand. At the same time he brings up his shadowed left hand to clasp and even crush them, as in a wine-press. The bloom on the grapes, which dusts them with a layer of whiteness and dulls the reflected light caught in their opalescent skins, is echoed by the dry and whitish lips of the god himself. His pallour is an enigma, which the dark pools of his eyes \u2013 mocking and mysterious \u2013 do nothing to dispel. The still life that lies before him has an unsettling pathos. Two ripe, furred peaches lie beside a bunch of purple grapes on a forbiddingly cold and otherwise bare ledge of stone. Vine leaves trail off into darkness.\n\nThe title frequently used in modern times, _Sick Bacchus_ , is a legacy of the Italian art historian Roberto Longhi. Longhi believed that Caravaggio painted it as an allegorical self-portrait just after his discharge from the hospital of the Consolazione. Whether the work alludes to the artist's illness is open to question, but it is certainly a self-portrait. Baglione groups it with a number of other, long-since vanished 'portraits of himself in the mirror'. The distorted right shoulder of the figure, so close to the picture plane as to seem almost touchable, may reflect the painter's use of a faintly convex mirror. The effect is at once intimate and disconcerting. The promise of a close relationship is held out by the figure's proximity, but denied by the cool evasiveness in his eyes. His right leg, so lost in semi-darkness as to have become little more than a blur, is half raised, which suggests that he could be about to get up. Sensual gratification is the half-promised gift that he brings. But he might disappear at any moment, leaving behind just darkness and the taste of ashes, not of wine.\n\nWhy would Caravaggio have painted himself like this? What might he have meant by it? The notion that he intended the work as a record of his own illness is ingenious, but there is a better and simpler explanation for the artist's liverish complexion. The picture is set at night, the time for Bacchic revelry. The light that flares so brightly on the figure's shoulder, giving his face its greenish cast, is simply the light of the moon.\n\nThe significance of this hypnotizing self-portrait is best sought in its symbolism, although that is anything but straightforward. In one sense Bacchus is an apt alter ego for an artist, because according to his legend he is subject to fits of divine inspiration. Caravaggio was not the first painter to associate himself with the god of wine. In Borromean Milan, the city of his upbringing, a group of painters, including the well-known artist and theorist Gian Paolo Lomazzo, had formed a mock-academy dedicated to the cult of Bacchus. The young Caravaggio's appropriation of the same Bacchic symbolism may have been his way of announcing his strong sense of his own capabilities, in which case there may have been an element of personal manifesto involved in the play-acting. It is tempting to imagine that he painted this truculent picture to show Giuseppe Cesari that he could be much more than a hack studio assistant.\n\nWhile Bacchus symbolizes inpiration, he also stands for disorder, anarchy, an unruly surrender to the senses. He is passion, opposed to the reason embodied by Apollo. He is the enemy of civilization, capable of laying waste to an entire society: in Euripides' tragedy _The Bacchae_ he destroys Thebes by luring its people into the mountains to join in his revels. The city's outraged king, Pentheus, is torn limb from limb by the god's intoxicated female followers, the Bacchantes. Pentheus' mother, Agave, is at their forefront, bearing her son's head aloft in triumph. In her ecstasy she sees him as a lion, fit to be slaughtered.\n\nThe madness and the maenadism associated with the myth had been painted most memorably \u2013 and most disconcertingly \u2013 by Titian in his celebrated _Bacchus and Ariadne_ , now in London's National Gallery. As Bacchus leaps down from his chariot to join the mortal woman with whom he has suddenly fallen in love, his rowdy mob continues with its orgy. The god's followers include the fat Silenus, drunk beyond coherence, and a young satyr with glazed eyes who drags behind him, as if it were a toy, the severed head of a sacrificed calf. It had been Titian's achievement to distil the violence and weirdness of the Bacchic cults to a single image. He had conjured up a Renaissance equivalent to the frenzy described in Catullus' famous 64th poem \u2013 which was, almost certainly, one of his principal sources:\n\n> Bacchus was rushing up and down with his dancing band of satyrs... looking for you, Ariadne. Some of them were waving thyrsi with covered points, some were tossing about the limbs of a mangled steer, some were girding themselves with writhing serpents; some were bearing in solemn procession dark mysteries enclosed in caskets, mysteries which the profane desire in vain to hear. Others were beating tambourines with uplifted hands, or were raising sharp ringings from cymbals of rounded bronze...\n\nAll this is relegated to the background of Caravaggio's self-portrait, which, in its dryness, restraint and small scale, is a world away from Titian's seductively orgiastic mythology. But it is there by implication. The violence that impends, the rending of the flesh, the drunkenness, the cannibalism \u2013 these things lurk in the teasing expression on the painter's face. Might he have actually painted the picture behind his master's back? Could it have been an act of truancy from the demeaning drudgery of the pure still life painting to which he had been assigned in the Cesari workshop? It has a sorceror's apprentice feel to it, with its hints of illicit goings on, after dark and away from prying eyes. By the light of the moon, the young painter dares to dress up as a god of misrule.\n\n_Boy with a Basket of Fruit_ is a fresher, brighter painting. But there is maybe more to this work too than at first meets the eye. The viewer is confronted by a blushing, smooth-skinned adolescent, with dark curly hair and an expression of amorous intensity on his face. On the admittedly slender evidence of a later self-portrait by Mario Minniti, it is possible that this was one of the pictures for which Caravaggio persuaded his new Sicilian friend to model. The boy carries a woven basket filled to overflowing with fruit \u2013 a cornucopia by comparison with the mere pair of peaches and the solitary bunch of grapes perched before the figure of Caravaggio-as-Bacchus. The basket contains four bunches of grapes, one red, two black and one green, as well as three apples, a peach and a pair of medlars. A pomegranate, split open to reveal its purple seeds, and four figs, two green and two black \u2013 the latter so ripe that they too have split to disclose the yellow and purple flesh within \u2013 also appear.\n\nThe picture has been interpreted in a number of sharply differing ways. It is plainly a kind of demonstration piece, painted to exhibit the young Caravaggio's skill in depicting not only fruits and foliage, but also the human face and form. Some writers have regarded it as a straightforward genre painting, a portrait of a handsome young fruit-seller plying his trade. Others claim to detect echoes of classical literature \u2013 in particular, the fables of Pliny the Elder, whose _Natural History_ is the principal source of information about the painters of antiquity. Pliny's encyclopedic book contains several stories and parables intended to demonstrate the heights of virtuosity reached by the artists of ancient Greece, as they competed to create an art of perfectly deceptive illusionism:\n\n> The contemporaries and rivals of Zeuxis were Timanthes, Androcydes, Eupompus, Parrhasius. This last, it is recorded, entered into a competition with Zeuxis. Zeuxis produced a picture of grapes so dexterously represented that birds began to fly down to eat from the painted vine. Whereupon Parrhasius designed so lifelike a picture of a curtain that Zeuxis, proud of the verdict of the birds, requested that the curtain should now be drawn back and the picture displayed. When he realised his mistake, with a modesty that did him honour, he yielded up the palm, saying that whereas he had managed to deceive only birds, Parrhasius had deceived an artist.\n\nPliny adds that, as a riposte to Parrhasius, Zeuxis also painted a picture of a child holding grapes. Once more the birds tried to eat the fruit, but this time Zeuxis felt he had failed. He disconsolately pointed out that if his picture had been perfectly lifelike, the birds would have been too frightened by the painted boy to peck at the painted grapes in his hands.\n\nIt was not uncommon for Italian artists of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries to create their own versions of lost paintings from the classical past. So perhaps Caravaggio's choice of subject was intended to evoke that same picture of a child holding grapes by Zeuxis \u2013 and, indeed, to surpass it. No birds would ever dare to pick at the fruit in _this_ basket. The blushing boy, whose tunic has slipped off his shoulder, is tremblingly alive. There is a slight awkwardness in the handling of his anatomy \u2013 an uncertainty in the juncture of his collarbone and right shoulder, which seems as a result unnaturally enlarged \u2013 but he is a compelling presence none the less. While the basket of fruit advertises Caravaggio's ability to capture different tones, textures and colours, the figure of the boy demonstrates a yet rarer gift: the ability to suggest human emotion. Those ardent, intently gazing eyes are filled with longing, even love. This striking intensity of feeling is inconsistent with the notion that the picture is simply a genre painting, a snapshot of daily life. Neither can it be readily explained by reference to the classical past.\n\nHow should we think about this remarkable face? Those who subscribe to the romantic myth of Caravaggio as a social and sexual outsider, boldly expressing the love that dares not speak its name, are obliged to twist the fruit-bearer's expression of amorous yearning into the come-hither eyelash-flutterings of a rent boy. Howard Hibbard's biography of Caravaggio, published in 1983, contains a brief but exemplary statement of this line of argument: 'There is a soliciting aspect to this picture, and since some of Caravaggio's other paintings of the 1590s are apparently homosexual in implication, we may read at least unconscious elements of this kind into the _Boy with a Basket_ , whose fruits have various potentially symbolic meanings.'\n\nAlthough Hibbard's interpretation is, I believe, thoroughly misguided, it contains an element of truth. There _is_ a link between the figure's mood of sensual abandon and the luscious fruits that he bears, many of which \u2013 especially the figs, apples and pomegranate \u2013 had ancient sexual connotations. But the explanation for that lies not in the artist's supposedly devil-may-care determination to flaunt his homosexuality. It lies in the words of an ancient Persian love poem, absorbed long ago into the Judaeo-Christian tradition and known as the Song of Songs or the Song of Solomon, the most flagrantly erotic text in all of the Old Testament. It takes the form of a poetic dialogue between two lovers, the Bride and the Groom, who express their feelings for one another in imagery of a rich and fecund natural world.\n\nThe Groom compares his beloved to a garden: 'A garden inclosed is my sister, my spouse; a spring shut up, a fountain sealed. Thy plants are an orchard of pomegranates, with pleasant fruits...' (4:12\u201313). For her part, the Bride describes the Groom as 'white and ruddy, the chiefest among ten thousand. His head is as the most fine gold, his locks are bushy, and black as a raven... His mouth is most sweet: yea, he is altogether lovely. This is my beloved, and this is my friend, O daughters of Jerusalem' (5:10\u201316). Finally, the Groom describes the fruition of their desires: 'How fair and how pleasant art thou, O love, for delights! This thy stature is like to a palm tree, and thy breasts to clusters of grapes. I said, I will go up to the palm tree, I will take hold of the boughs thereof; now also thy breasts shall be as clusters of the vine, and the smell of thy nose like apples; and the roof of thy mouth like the best wine for my beloved, that goeth down sweetly, causing the lips of those that are asleep to speak' (7:6\u20139).\n\nThe iconography of Caravaggio's painting is extremely close to that of the Song of Songs. The boy's basket is filled with the fruits described in the poem, while the boy himself has all the attributes of the Groom, with his ruddy cheeks, his hair 'as black as a raven'. So tender and languorous is his gaze that he might readily be imagined actually reciting the verses of the Song of Songs to his beloved. His lips are parted, as if to speak or sing.\n\nThe Song of Songs was a controversial religious text among Christians and Jews alike precisely because of its profound eroticism. In the first century AD one of the rabbis to argue most passionately for its inclusion in Jewish scripture, as the 'Holy of Holies', also condemned the secular practice of singing it in banqueting halls, which suggests that sacred interpretation of the text had long been shadowed by suspicion of its sensuality. By the time Caravaggio painted his _Boy witha Basket_, in the late sixteenth century, Christian Church fathers had spent considerably more than a millennium teasing out what they had come to see as the redemptive symbolism of the poem's tale of love. The Groom's passion for the Bride was held to express Jesus Christ's boundless love for his holy mother, Mary. The metaphor of the Bride as an 'inclosed garden' was easily transformed into a symbol of Mary's virginity.\n\nBut, to judge by the remarks of St Teresa of Avila, who wrote her own commentary on the Song of Songs in 1573, such forms of allegorical interpretation were not always easily understood by congregations in the world of the Catholic Counter-Reformation. As she noted, bawdy laughter at the sexual connotations of the poem's language might easily interrupt even the most solemn, sacerdotal reflections on the Song of Songs: 'Indeed, I recall hearing a priest... preach a very admirable sermon, most of which was an explanation of those loving delights with which the bride communed with God. And there was so much laughter, and what he said was so poorly taken, that I was shocked.'\n\nCaravaggio's painting, like that priest's sermon, has also provoked ribald comments and has inevitably been susceptible to erotic interpretation. That ambiguity has perhaps always been part of its meaning. To borrow a phrase applied to Caravaggio's work as a whole by his contemporary Cardinal Ottavio Paravicino, it is a picture that seems poised 'between the sacred and the profane' \u2013 in this case, concealing a devout message within an apparently profane, secular subject. To those who would be blind to its spiritual dimensions, the painting was designed to remain a merely enchanting parade of sensual delights \u2013 a picture of a boy with a puzzlingly languorous expression on his face, carrying a basket of fruit. But to those who knew how to see through the sensual surface, the boy reveals himself as the Groom in the Song of Songs and therefore as the type of the young Jesus Christ, an image at once of love and vulnerability.\n\nHe is bare from the shoulder, not only because he is rapt in symbolic love for his divine mother, but also in anticipation of his crucifixion, the sacrificial gift of love he bears to all humanity. The shadows that flicker on the wall behind him, set against the light that illuminates his face, are shadows of death from which his own image, and with it the promise of eternal life, radiantly emerges. The same Christian message, that eternal life can be salvaged from the jaws of death, lurks in his basket of fruit. Withered, worm-eaten leaves of the vine contrast with ripened bunches of grapes. From death, once more, shall come life. The fading foliage is decay, transience, the passing of all things here on earth. The grapes are wine, the wine of the Eucharist that is the sacrificial blood of Christ. The picture offers not only a gift but a stark contrast of alternatives. What will you have? Death or life? Darkness or light?\n\n#### BOY BITTEN BY A LIZARD\n\nCaravaggio's _Self-Portrait as Bacchus_ and _Boy with a Basket of Fruit_ are subtle and ambitious paintings, not the work of a painter likely to be satisfied with long hours and low pay working as another artist's fruit and flower specialist. They corroborate Bellori's assertion that Caravaggio 'worked reluctantly' at whatever hack work was assigned to him and 'felt deeper regret at not being able to paint figures'.\n\nWith the _Bacchus_ , Caravaggio asks to be taken seriously, to be recognized as a painter not only of inspiration and intelligence but of something more than that. The picture announces Caravaggio's spirit of unruly unpredictability, and shows for the first time the face of a man quite capable of overthrowing the tired artistic conventions of his time. With the _Boy with a Basket_ , he demands to be regarded as better than a mere still life painter, and expresses the hope that one day \u2013 one day soon \u2013 he might be allowed to try his hand at devotional pictures.\n\nEven this early in his career, at a time when so much of his life and personality are obscure, certain things are clear. Caravaggio wants to paint the human figure and he wants to treat what, for his contemporaries, are the deepest and most serious subjects \u2013 the great Christian themes of salvation and damnation. His art is both sensually and intellectually seductive. It is carefully calculated to appeal to the more discerning and well-educated type of Roman patron \u2013 someone likely to be high up in the hierarchy of the Roman Church, keenly attuned to the subtle devotional symbolism of a picture such as the _Boy witha Basket_, or to respond to a secular, mythological painting like the _Self-Portrait as Bacchus_.\n\nSo it is no coincidence that the young Caravaggio should have gravitated towards the company of churchmen. The more he could infiltrate the higher circles of the Roman clergy, the more likely he would be to win meaningful patronage. At first he had stayed with the unsatisfactory Pandolfo Pucci, 'Monsignor Salad'. Around the beginning of 1595, after eight months in the Cesari workshop and a spell in hospital, he lodged once more with a man of the cloth. According to Mancini, the struggling Caravaggio found support from a certain 'Monsignor Fatin Petrigiani, who gave him the comfort of a room in which to live'.\n\nThere were no fond farewells to Giuseppe Cesari. Whether Caravaggio left Cesari's employ before or after the murky events that led to his hospitalization, they parted on bad terms. Whatever the personal reasons for the bad blood between them, professional jealousy also probably played a part. There are hints, in Mancini's manuscript notes, that Cesari deliberately attempted to hold his talented young apprentice back for fear of being outshone. The perennially abrasive Caravaggio was a born innovator who had little time for the art of most of his contemporaries (he would later say as much in one of his several appearances before the Roman magistrates), so likely regarded the fey late Mannerism of Cesari's mature style with naked contempt. Cesari's prestige among the most influential Roman collectors and patrons can only have made Caravaggio's own position all the more galling to him. Being studio assistant was bad enough, but being studio assistant to an overrated mediocrity must have been more than his pride could stand.\n\nAccusations of arrogance echo through the early biographies of Caravaggio. 'Michelangelo Merisi was a satirical and proud man,' writes Baglione; 'at times he would speak badly of the painters of the past, and also of the present, no matter how distinguished they were, because he thought that he alone had surpassed all the other artists in his profession.' Bellori explicitly says that pride drove Caravaggio to leave Cesari and strike out on his own. At this point Bellori introduces another character into the narrative, a well-known painter of amusing bizzareries named Prospero Orsi, who suddenly appears as the rebellious Caravaggio's sidekick, egging him on to rebellion and independence: 'When he met Prospero, a painter of grotesques, he took the opportunity to leave Giuseppe in order to compete with him for the glory of painting. Then he began to paint according to his own inclinations; not only ignoring but even despising the superb statuary of antiquity and the famous paintings of Raphael, he considered nature to be the only subject fit for his brush.'\n\nBellori treats Caravaggio's rejection of Cesari as if it had been the publication of a manifesto. In his eyes, Caravaggio had not just turned away from one man's influence; he had repudiated the entire classical and Renaissance canon and abandoned those principles of selection and idealization on which all truly great and lasting works of art must be founded. He describes it as an act of foolhardy hubris. 'As a result, when he was shown the most famous statues of Phidias and Glykon, in order that he might use them as models, his only answer was to point towards a crowd of people, saying that nature had given him an abundance of masters.'\n\nThe idea that anyone would have taken the time to call the young Caravaggio's attention to the sculptures of classical antiquity is probably fanciful. The neatness of his rejoinder strengthens the suspicion that this is parable, rather than fact (Bellori in effect admits as much when he concedes that 'A similar story is told about the painter Eupompus'). Yet the fiction is revealing because it contains, in a nutshell, the academic artist's innate distrust of Caravaggio's startling naturalism. The painter is cast as gifted but fatally proud, a man bent on dragging art down into the gutter \u2013 leading it towards the mere unthinking replication of reality. The same attitude, softened by time but equally misguided, lies behind more recent attempts to expose the presumed trickery behind Caravaggio's art \u2013 the suggestion that the painter must have used some kind of lens to achieve his effects, or the hypothesis that it was all (literally) done with mirrors. The one grain of truth in Bellori's account may lie in what it has to say about the sheer strength of early audience response, favourable or otherwise, to the seductively lifelike qualities of Caravaggio's paintings.\n\nHaving left the Cesari studio, Caravaggio certainly needed to sell his paintings. His stay with Monsignor Petrigiani may not have lasted long. Baglione says that, soon after leaving Cesari, Caravaggio 'tried to live by himself' and that he painted some self-portraits at this time, lacking the funds to hire a model. 'He also painted a boy bitten by a lizard emerging from flowers and fruits; you could almost hear the boy scream, and it was all done meticulously.'\n\nThere are two extant versions of this subject, one in the Roberto Longhi Foundation in Florence, the other in the National Gallery, London. Technical analysis, as well as its slightly more crude and direct style, suggests that the Longhi picture was created first, probably in late 1594 or at the start of 1595. The handling of the drapery is more assured in the London picture, which also points to a slightly later date. Yet the very existence of this second, slightly more sophisticated variation indicates that Caravaggio had scored enough of a success with his original version to create a market for replicas.\n\nOnce again, Caravaggio paints a single figure in an interior lit by raking light. But this time he animates the figure, having him actively recoil in pain and, as Baglione says, utter an almost audible scream. The painter emphasizes the effects caused by his use of a single light source, pushing the contrast between light and dark to an unprecedented degree.\n\nThe subject is a moment of compressed drama. A young man has been unpleasantly surprised during what should have been a quiet moment of unalloyed pleasure. Reaching out towards the selection of fruit laid out on the table before him \u2013 two bright red cherries, some figs and some grapes are visible \u2013 he finds that he himself is being bitten, by a creature that has been lurking unseen. The animal, a lizard, buries its fangs into the fleshy part of his middle finger. The boy's face, startled and flushed with the sudden consciousness of pain, is strongly illuminated. His bare shoulder and tensed right hand, from which the lizard still dangles, are thrown into sharp relief.\n\nThere is a slightly clumsily painted pink rose behind the boy's ear, while the artist has also included a vase on the table in front of him, which is three quarters full of water and contains another rose and some stalks of flowering jasmine. Light slows and thickens to a texture like that of milk in the depths of the water. Reflections play in the convex surface of the vase, and two drops of condensation trickle down its fatly curved side. This is a piece of painting that evokes Giorgio Vasari's description of a work by the young Leonardo da Vinci, the most famous painter to have worked in Caravaggio's home town of Milan \u2013 a picture of the Virgin 'in which, besides the marvellous vividness, he had imitated the dewdrops so that the picture seemed more real than life'.\n\nThe exquisite still life is a naked demonstration of skill \u2013 a reminder that when Caravaggio painted it he was working for the open market and therefore, in a sense, crying out his wares. He included the detail to impress his mastery of certain virtuoso techniques in oil painting on his prospective Roman audience \u2013 ways of painting the reflection and refraction of light, of capturing the precise wetness and viscosity of a drop of sweat, a drop of water or a drop of blood, which could make the practice of art seem almost like a form of magic. Despite Vasari's encomium to Leonardo, such skills were primarily associated with artists from Flanders. Jan van Eyck had been the first Renaissance master to master them, followed by Rogier van der Weyden, Hans Memlinc and others. Caravaggio's inclusion of such effects in his own work advertised his roots in Lombardy, in northern Italy, where Flemish art was better known than in the rest of the peninsula. His handling of the vase and its reflections indicate that he was familiar with the work of later Flemish masters such as Jan Bruegel.\n\nBut the still life detail _is_ only a detail, a grace note in a picture designed primarily as a vehicle for the depiction of a human being gripped by sudden, strong emotion. Contrary to Bellori's assertion that Caravaggio turned away from all artistic tradition to pursue an art rooted solely in study from life, the figure of the boy is extremely sculptural. He was painted from a model, but he also evokes that very tradition of classical statuary which, according to Bellori, Caravaggio despised. The most obvious precedent for the boy who screams in pain was the celebrated classical statue of _Laoco\u00f6n_ and his sons, wrapped in the coils of snakes, which had been excavated in Rome less than a hundred years earlier. Even the lizard may have been inspired by a classical sculpture, namely the so-called _Apollo Sauroctonus_ , or _Lizard Apollo_ , which is now in the Louvre but was probably in Rome in Caravaggio's time. The reptile climbing up a tree trunk in that sculpture is shown from the same, sharply profiled angle \u2013 seen as if from above \u2013 as Caravaggio's lizard.\n\nThe German art historian, painter and engraver Joachim von Sandrart, who travelled widely in Italy between 1628 and 1635, gave _BoyBitten by a Lizard_ a prominent place in the short account that he wrote of Caravaggio's early years. To judge by its tone, he must have spoken to artists or collectors who still remembered the picture's thrilling impact from some forty years before: 'In the beginning, he painted many faces and half-length figures in a sharp, dry manner. One of these is that of a child with a basket of flowers and fruit, from which a lizard emerges, biting the hand of the child who begins to cry bitterly, so that it is marvellous to look at and it caused his reputation to increase notably throughout Rome.'\n\nSandrart mistakenly refers to the picture's vase of flowers as a basket. Perhaps he confused its still life, in his memory, with that in the earlier _Boy with a Basket_. But his report vividly demonstrates the extent to which the exploits of the young Caravaggio were still remembered, still talked about, in Rome even as late as the 1630s. His informants, whoever they were, also gave him to understand its startling combination of emotional intensity and artistic naturalism as a gauntlet thrown down at the feet of Giuseppe d'Arpino and his followers: 'Because Arpino generally painted large works in fresco, which does not in itself have the same strength of colour or the intrinsic truth of oil colours, and because Caravaggio was very excellent in the latter, he offered Giuseppe and many others a challenge which resulted in endless quarrels. This brought them to swords' points...' Sandrart also tells the story that Caravaggio painted a picture in the Roman church of San Lorenzo in Damaso, next to an altarpiece by Giuseppe d'Arpino, in which 'he represented a nude giant who sticks out his tongue at Giuseppe's work as if he wished to ridicule it.' The tale of the nude giant with the mischievous tongue is certainly apocryphal, nor is there any other evidence to suggest that Caravaggio and Giuseppe Cesari, the Cavaliere d'Arpino, ever came to blows (if they had, Cesari might never have lived to a ripe old age). But there is perhaps a glimmer of fire behind all the smoke. In Sandrart's telling of the story, Caravaggio becomes far more than a disgruntled studio assistant with the nerve to walk out on his boss. He becomes a rival, someone who turns away from his former master's style and subject matter because he has his own ideas.\n\nThe most original aspect of _Boy Bitten by a Lizard_ is the fact that it depicts an ordinary person \u2013 someone distinguished by no particular signs of rank or status \u2013 in the grip of a strong emotion. One of the few known precedents for this lay in late sixteenth-century Bolognese art. Giorgio Vasari tells of a female painter called Sofonisba Anguissola, originally from Cremona, who created a drawing for Tommaso de' Cavalieri \u2013 once a close friend of the great Michelangelo \u2013 in which she depicted 'a little girl laughing at a boy who is weeping because one of the cray-fish out of a basket full of them, which she has placed in front of him, is biting his finger; and there is nothing more graceful to be seen than that drawing, or more true to nature'.\n\nVasari's story about another work of art may shed light on the meaning of Caravaggio's. The introduction of a faintly malevolent laughing girl complicates the story of a boy bitten by surprise. Perhaps Anguissola may have intended some playful allusion to the hazards of adult love that lie in store for every child. This, in turn, may begin to suggest the symbolic intentions that lay behind Caravaggio's own choice of the theme. Is the presence of erotic temptation implied in his _Boy Bitten by a Lizard_? There is reason to think so.\n\nThere is an air of abandonment about the boy, imparted both by his languid state of undress and by the rose in his hair. Roses are traditional emblems of romantic love, but the other blossoms present in the picture add a less innocent note to its symbolism. Jasmine was a traditional symbol of desire (Caravaggio would include the same flower in his later portrait of a well-known Roman courtesan). The boy's clothing, such as it is, a wispy piece of white drapery, might be no more than a twisted bedsheet. He who reaches for cherries and apples has grasped at sexual temptation. Now he is receiving his just reward. A sexual subtext lurks, as the lizard had done, in that pile of luscious fruit. The animal is zoologically inaccurate \u2013 real lizards have no teeth \u2013 but charged with metaphorical potency. A toothless reptile has been transformed into the very image of the _vagina dentata_.\n\nIt would have required no great ingenuity on the part of Caravaggio's contemporaries to unlock his meaning. In the sign language of the Italian street \u2013 symbolism in its most vivid, popular form \u2013 the bitten finger represented the wounded phallus. The English diarist John Evelyn witnessed a quarrel between two boatmen in seventeenth-century Genoa, at the end of which one of them 'put his finger in his mouth and almost bit it off by the joynt, shewing it to his antagonist as an assurance to him of some bloodie revenge'. The threat on that occasion, as Evelyn euphemistically hints, was castration. A different fate can be understood to lie in store for Caravaggio's decadent young man: in Rome, city of courtesans, the reward for promiscuity was venereal disease. 'The French disease', they called it in Italy (although the French themselves preferred to think of it as 'the Pox of Naples').\n\n_Boy Bitten by a Lizard_ is a _vanitas_ painting, a reflection on the pitfalls that await those who give themselves up to the pleasures of the flesh. It is a work of art that functions in a way exactly analagous to the action which it depicts. An apparently innocuous image, full of sweet fruit and lingering sensual detail, hides the sourest of morals. The message of the picture might seem unnecessarily severe, but it should be remembered that Caravaggio's target audience was the higher Roman clergy. They needed the alibi of moral reflection to enjoy \u2013 let alone purchase \u2013 a picture such as this.\n\n#### GYPSIES AND ROGUES AND A CARDINAL SNARED\n\nFor all his ingenuity, Caravaggio did not enjoy immediate success with _Boy Bitten by a Lizard_. According to Mancini, the painter was forced to sell the work for next to nothing. In Baglione's yet bleaker telling of the story, Caravaggio failed to find a buyer for any of the pictures that he painted after leaving the Cesari workshop: 'He was unable to to sell these works, and in a short time he found himself without money and poorly dressed.'\n\nDesperate for money, the artist went to the picture-dealers of Rome. According to Baglione, 'some charitable gentlemen expert in the profession came to his aid, and finally Maestro Valentino, a dealer in paintings at San Luigi dei Francesi, managed to sell a few.' This 'Maestro Valentino' was actually Costantino Spata, who did indeed have a shop in the piazza bordering San Luigi dei Francesi, the so-called 'church of the French'. He befriended Caravaggio and Prospero Orsi. He sold their pictures on commission and was seen drinking with them on several occasions.\n\nCostantino Spata played a vital role in Caravaggio's career. It was through him that the painter came to the attention of one of his most important supporters, his principal patron during his early years in Rome. Baglione tells the story in a few words: 'This was the means by which he met Cardinal del Monte, an art lover, who invited him to his home.' Cardinal del Monte would nurture Caravaggio through the next few crucial years of his life. Not only would he house, clothe and protect him, but he would introduce him to a circle of the most powerful and influential collectors in Rome, and negotiate the difficult waters of higher Church patronage on his behalf.\n\nDel Monte, the 'art lover', whose palace was just around the corner from the Piazza di San Luigi, was one of Spata's clients. Did the dealer and the painter think up a deliberate strategy to get the cardinal's attention? Did Spata even advise Caravaggio on _what_ to paint, helping to bait the hook that would land the big fish? Certainly, the work that Caravaggio created for his new dealer to try to sell was markedly different from anything he had painted before.\n\nThe two pictures with which Caravaggio and Spata successfully tempted del Monte, _The Gypsy Fortune-Teller_ and _The Cardsharps_ , still exist. The first is to be found in the Capitoline Museum in Rome (a later and even finer version of the same composition, painted for a friend of del Monte, is in the Louvre). The second is in the Kimbell Art Museum in Fort Worth, Texas. Between them, they mark a radical new departure for Caravaggio, and indeed they are among the most innovative pictures created anywhere in Europe in the late sixteenth century.\n\nEach painting shows a scene of trickery and deceit, enacted by half-length figures. 'Genre picture' was the less than satisfactory term eventually settled upon by art historians to describe such works. But the genre picture in this vein did not exist until Caravaggio invented it. Although there had been shadowy precedents for such work, in prints and drawings and in marginal details of paintings about other things, _The Gypsy Fortune-Teller_ and _The Cardsharps_ introduced a new concept to art: the low-life drama. Hung together in a single room in del Monte's Roman palace, their influence was soon felt far and wide. The taste for such pictures grew rapidly and spread across all of Europe. Caravaggio's tricksters spawned a whole world of painted rogues, created by a multitude of artists including Bartolomeo Manfredi in Italy, Rembrandt in Holland and Georges de La Tour in France.\n\nThe differing dimensions of the two canvases suggest that they were not painted as a pair, although both are offspring of the same idea. In _The Gypsy Fortune-Teller_ , a sharply dressed young man with a sword at his hip has fallen under the spell of a smiling young Romany traveller. She fixes him with an intense and slightly nervy stare. He returns her hypnotic gaze with a dreamy, half-lost expression of his own. Shadows play on the dun-coloured wall behind the two figures. The precise nature of the action was explained by Mancini: 'I do not think I have seen a more graceful and expressive figure than the Gipsy who foretells good fortune to a young man... he shows the Gipsy's slyness with a false smile as she takes off the ring of the young man, who shows his naivete and the effects of his amorous response to the beauty of the little Gipsy who foretells his fortune and steals his ring.' Under the pretence of reading the young man's palm, the streetwise confidence trickster is actually robbing him.\n\n_The Cardsharps_ plays a variation on the same theme, a gentleman fooled out of his money. The scene is a gambling den, in which we encounter the second of Caravaggio's fresh-faced, rich young men, playing a game of cards. He is dressed in sumptuous black silk over a lace-trimmed shirt \u2013 sleek finery that has drawn the attention of not one but two urban predators. The yellow-and-black stripes of their costumes suggest the image of a pair of wasps buzzing around a honeytrap. Some honey has already been extracted, to judge by the detail of a backgammon board, pushed to the edge of the gaming table. Having failed at one game, the young gentleman is trying to win back his losses at another. His optimism is undimmed, to judge by the half-smile that plays on his lips. But he cannot possibly win. The young cheat sitting opposite him has a choice of extra cards tucked into his belt behind his back. The other peeks over the young gentleman's shoulder and signals in code to his partner in crime, letting him know exactly what will be required to ensure a winning hand.\n\nThe older of the two conmen, with his holed, threadbare glove and black cloak \u2013 perfect for melting into the unlit gloom of Rome's streets by night \u2013 is the spying accomplice described in numerous books and pamphlets of the time. There was a thriving literature devoted to the tricks of the street and, in particular, the devices of the card cheat. A popular Italian treatise on gambling, entitled _The Book on Games of Chance_ ( _Liber de ludo aleae_ ), was written by the mathematicican, astronomer and failed card-player Gerolamo Cardano (1501\u201376). Countless other texts listed the various techniques used by cheats at the gaming table. One of the most widely read, a work first published in England in 1552 under the title _A Manifest Detection of the Most Vile and Detestable Uses of Dice-play, and Other Practices Like the Same_ , contains a more or less exact description of the ruse played out in Caravaggio's _Cardsharps_ : 'Of this fraternity there be that called helpers, which commonly haunt taverns or ale-houses, and cometh in as men not acquainted with none in the company, but spying them at any game will bid them God-speed and God-be-at-their-game, and will so place himself that he will show his fellow by signs and tokens, without speech commonly, but sometime with far-fetched words, what cards he hath in his hand, and how he may play against him. And those between them both getteth money out of the other's purse.'\n\nThere is a narrative and symbolic affinity between the two pictures painted for Cardinal del Monte and the work that immediately preceded them, _Boy Bitten by a Lizard_. All three tell of a man undone by his own vices, of youth suddenly clouded by the prospect of disease, loss or debt \u2013 a pattern that the artist had perhaps experienced during his own youth in Milan. But what made _The Gypsy Fortune-Teller_ and _The Cardsharps_ so startlingly original was their unprecedentedly close focus on the world of the street and the gambling den.\n\nThe subject matter of these paintings was highly topical. Counter-Reformation Rome was a city in which all manner of thieves, rogues and scoundrels thronged. Their presence was a symptom of social crisis. Recurrent plague not only destroyed lives, but ravaged economies in the cities and states where it struck. The number of displaced and unemployed people had grown alarmingly during Caravaggio's lifetime. Sixteenth-century Italy had also been racked by an almost constant state of war, resulting in a large, permanently uprooted population of mercenaries. When they had money such men gambled, drank and whored. If the recruiting officer did not call, they were liable to turn to crime. In Rome, ever a magnet for the poor in need of alms, they often masqueraded as pilgrims.\n\nA vivid picture of this confusing world, where scurrility often dressed itself in the clothes of virtuous indigence, is painted by a set of notarial documents dated February 1595 (probably only a year or so before Cardinal del Monte purchased _The Gypsy Fortune-Teller_ and _The Cardsharps_ ), which record the interrogation of a young man in the prison on the Sistine Bridge, in the centre of Rome. 'I am called Pompeo,' the boy declared. 'I was born in Trevi near Spoleto, I am about 16 years old, I have no occupation, I was arrested by your men in the church of S. Giacomo degli Spagnoli, because I was begging for alms during Mass.' When he was asked if he knew anything about other beggars in the city, and whether they formed a single sect, or many, he gave the following answer: 'Sir, among us poor beggars there are different confraternities [ _compagnie_ , a word normally used to refer to religious confraternities]... the first is called the Confraternity of the Grencetti, those who, while they are begging for alms in the churches in a crowd, cut purses... The second is called the Confraternity of the Sbasiti, and includes those who pretend to be ill and lie on the ground as if they were dying and keep groaning and demanding alms. The third is called the Baroni, who are healthy and upright, and are sturdy beggars who do not want to work.' By the time he had finished, Pompeo had listed no fewer than nineteen groups of fraudulent beggars. They included the Formigotti, who pretended to be discharged soldiers; the Rabrunati, who faked epilepsy by eating soap and then foaming at the mouth; and the Pistolfi, who posed as priests to extract 'donations' from their victims.\n\nThe same set of documents also contains the testimony of another man claiming familiarity with different groups of criminals at work in Rome in the 1590s. His name was Girolamo, and to Pompeo's nineteen categories of villain he added seventeen more, including the Marmotti, who affected to have been struck dumb, and the Spillatori, who \u2013 like Caravaggio's _Cardsharps_ \u2013 sought out the gullible in taverns and inns and cheated them out of their money using marked cards and loaded dice. Girolamo disagreed with Pompeo's (presumably) ironic comparison of such groups of criminal specialists with religious confraternities. 'They are not confraternities [ _compagnie_ ] but crafts [ _arti_ ], like shoemakers, goldsmiths and so on.'\n\nThe exact status of these texts is questionable, and the precision with which they reflect actual criminal activity in Caravaggio's Rome is open to debate. Peter Burke, who translated and republished them, notes that 'these documents cannot now be found in the Roman archives, and are best known though a copy made a few years later, which used to be in the former Imperial Library in Berlin', with 'the rather literary title of the \"delightful examination\" of rogues, \" _Il dilettevole essamine de' guidoni, furfanti o calchi_ \" '.\n\nIt is likely that the documents are altered transcripts of reported speech; and almost certain that they have been liberally 'improved' by the late sixteenth-century writer who gave them their present form. Many of the practices that they record, such as the use of soap to feign epilepsy, were (and still are) used by real fraudsters. They are part of an oral history of fraudulence that certainly has a basis in fact. But other elements seem to have been exaggerated. Analysis of the certain testimonies of known criminals that still _are_ to be found in the Roman archives presents a less well-organized and significantly less colourful picture of criminal activity \u2013 gangs of crooks robbing at random when the opportunity presents itself, fencing stolen goods to the city's Jewish pedlars and immediately eating and drinking away the proceeds.\n\nFor all that, the tales told by 'Pompeo' and 'Girolamo' contain their own kind of truth, halfway between fact and fiction. What these stories reveal above all is a particular set of stereotypes about the seamy side of life in Rome, in which a certain sector of the city's elite wished to believe: that criminals were so well organized as to constitute a dark, mirror-version of normal society, complete with 'fraternities' or 'guilds' of particular ill-doers; that they had, in effect, created a kind of inverted world of their own, a _mondo alla rovescia_ , or 'world upside down' (a phrase of the time which anticipates the modern term 'underworld'); that any apparently needy beggar might easily turn out to be a crook.\n\nThere was something of a craze for the classification of rogues in Caravaggio's Italy. Tommaso Garzoni's _La piazza universale di tutte le professioni del mondo_ ( _Universal Marketplace of the World_ ), a compendium published in 1585, had listed seventeen types of false beggar, including five that appear in the accounts of 'Pompeo' and 'Girolamo'. There is strong evidence that such reports tended to multiply at times of genuine social crisis, especially when the existing structures of poor relief were being put under intense pressure by plague or famine. There were several occasions during the 1580s and 1590s \u2013 the plague of Caravaggio's childhood, in 1576\u20137, being a prime example \u2013 when the sheer number of beggars and indigent people at large threatened to overwhelm the ability of the Italian states to function. Tough measures against itinerant beggars and 'vagabonds' were periodically introduced throughout the late sixteenth century: in Florence in 1576, in Milan the following year, in Genoa in 1582, in Palermo in 1590 and in Rome throughout the 1590s. The stories that circulated about 'fraudulent beggars', the growing literature devoted to their typology and taxonomy, were partly a reflection of reality and partly a reflection of deep anxiety within the governing classes of society. They multiplied in much the same way as stories about supposed illegal immigration or welfare fraud multiply in right-wing newspapers today, at times when the economy or social services come under strain.\n\nThe medieval Christian attitude to the poor had been essentially supportive. Every poor person was to be seen as the living image of the impoverished Christ himself, and helped accordingly. St Francis of Assisi had gone so far as to declare himself married to 'Lady Poverty'. But by the late sixteenth century such attitudes had undergone a sea change. In many states \u2013 including the papal states \u2013 the poor were viewed with increasing distrust and hostility. In some places they were simply driven out by edict. Elsewhere the great _lazzaretti_ , the plague hospitals of the Middle Ages and Renaissance, were converted into poor houses where the indigent were coralled and forced to do menial work.\n\nThe ruling and religious elites of the day were bitterly divided by the issue. The more authoritarian wing of the Catholic Church favoured rigorous means of social control and repression. But there were also those more sympathetic to the ancient medieval view \u2013 orders such as the Franciscans and Jesuits \u2013 who continued to plead for sympathy with the poor. There was, in other words, a form of right-wing \/ left-wing split in Caravaggio's Rome over the treatment of poverty. One way to view the growing literature devoted to 'roguery' \u2013 whether the writings of Garzoni or the 'improved' trial transcripts attributed to 'Pompeo' and 'Girolamo' \u2013 is as propaganda for the right.\n\nAll this helps to clarify the most important questions that need to be asked about these two pivotal works in the painter's career. Can the _Gypsy Fortune-Teller_ and _Cardsharps_ be seen as a plea for sympathy for those afflicted by poverty? Or are they simply a translation into painting of the sinister mechanisms of state control \u2013 a _visual_ means ( _pace_ Burke) 'of legitimating the repressive measures' taken against those living on the margins of society?\n\nCaravaggio's pictures were certainly not painted for political ends. They were created to amuse and entertain an art-loving cardinal. But it may be significant that del Monte, who dared to hang these startlingly novel pictures of low-life characters on the wall of his palace, was a Medici supporter who publicly shared the Medici's known sympathy for the 'pauperist' views \u2013 as they have been termed \u2013 of Filippo Neri and the Oratorians. In other words, he was a man who stood to the left in Rome's divide on the issue of the poor.\n\nCaravaggio was undoubtedly familiar with the overwhelmingly negative picture of the rogue or trickster presented in so much of the moralizing literature of his time. His depiction of the _Cardsharps_ is so close to the accounts of card cheats in texts such as _A Manifest Detection_ , or the seventeenth-century judge Antonio Maria Cospi's book of advice to magistrates, _Il giudice criminalista_ (1643), that he may actually have consulted such works when planning his composition. Cospi's section on the marking of cards is a virtual gloss on the action in _The Cardsharps_ :\n\n> I have seen those who have marked the edge of the corner of the card with ink, who bend with the right hand a suit towards the narrower part, and bend the other suit at the same angle, but on the longer side... Many other observations could be made, not all of which could be foreseen or imagined, but this is enough to awaken the mind of the magistrate, should some suspect cards come into his hands, to observe or discover if there is some other mark on them. This is as much as I can say as regards the eye. There are also those who know the cards by touch, and these make a little hole with a needle that stands out in relief on the underside of the cards. According to the place where they feel this slight relief, they know which card it is that goes to their opponent or that they take from themselves. Others play with thick cards with such thick colours that they have a certain relief. They keep the tip of the middle finger of the right hand well shaven, so that the skin there is very sensitive, and on touching the card with that finger, they sense those colours and know which card is underneath.\n\nThis explains why the cheat's accomplice in Caravaggio's picture has two prominent holes in his glove. The glove has not been worn by use. Its stitching has been unpicked, so that the trained and sensitive middle finger and thumb of the sharper can do their work. But, despite such finely observed details, it would be a mistake to assume that Caravaggio's picture is an overtly moralizing work of art. The artist might have drawn on texts such as Cospi's book for magistrates, but he himself reserved judgement.\n\nDespite Caravaggio's vaunted reputation for realism, he emphatically refused to present his image of cardsharping as a slice of reprehensible reality. This is no snapshot from the scene of a crime. It is a piece of lively, intriguing theatre. The gestures of the crooks \u2013 especially the pantomimic semaphore of the accomplice's hand signal \u2013 plainly come from the world of drama. In an actual gambling den, such overt gesticulation would soon be discovered. But imagine _The Cardsharps_ as a scene from a play, performed for an audience happy to suspend disbelief, to enjoy the sense of superiority that comes from knowing that _they_ can see everything that the gulled cardplayer is blind to \u2013 and the exaggerated body language of the figures makes perfect sense.\n\n_The Cardsharps_ plays on the threat of _il mondo alla rovescia_ , a world turned upside down, where wily guttersnipes win and aristocrats lose. But its message is not morally straightforward. The rich young man will no doubt return to his palace at the end of the game. The scruffy _bravi_ robbing him blind \u2013 who may indeed be out-of-work mercenaries, to judge by the younger cheat's sword \u2013 will no doubt drink their gains away and end up back in the gutter. But for this brief moment they are victorious.\n\nCaravaggio's painting is ambiguous, but contains a hint of where his sympathy \u2013 or, at least, his empathy \u2013 might lie. He paints the young gull with a form of smooth indifference, as a softly generalized figure of aristocratic insouciance. By contrast, the cheats themselves are live, lithe, fascinating. The older man's concentration is absolute, and touched by a sense of desperation. The younger conman, gazing with fixity at his prey, is as tense and alert as a feral cat. Caravaggio paints his desperadoes like a man who feels _with_ them, if not necessarily for them. He understands the deep seriousness of their desire to work their trick, to carry out their strategy without a hitch. When he painted the picture his own predicament was not altogether dissimilar to theirs.\n\nThe trickster in _The Gypsy Fortune-Teller_ belonged to an even more reviled class of 'vagabond' than the cardsharps. For Cospi, gypsies were the lowest of the low because their habits of thievery were innate rather than learned. His entry on them in _Il giudice criminalista_ is an undisguised racist diatribe \u2013 a nearly hysterical expression of burgeoning hatred for a people initially welcomed to Italy, in the early fifteenth century, as refugees and pilgrims:\n\n> They are thieves by nature, descended from Cus son of Ham, cursed son of Noah... They still feel this paternal curse, wandering dispersed around the world without being able to find a homeland or other permanent place... They sell their own sons for food... They come from the region between Egypt and Ethiopia and wander through the world, erecting their tents outside cities in fields and highways. They make deception, changes and prognostication from the lines of the hand, and earn their living by these amusing frauds... Like beasts, they consider marriage to their own sisters legitimate... The women steal chickens, and while they pretend to tell one's fortune by the signs of the hand, rob the peasants and steal the women's purses and handkerchiefs.\n\nEnglish attitudes could be just as virulent. In Thomas Dekker's pamphlet of 1608, _Lanthorne and Candle-light_ , gypsies are described as: 'a people more scattered than the Jewes and more hated: beggarly in apparell, barbarous in condition, beastly in behaviour and bloudy if they meete advantage. A man that sees them would sweare they all had the yellow Jawndis, or that they were Tawny Moores bastardes...'\n\nBut when Caravaggio painted his _Gypsy Fortune-Teller_ he went against the grain of such crude stereotypes. His gypsy is a thief, for sure, but she is a far cry from the subhuman monster of Cospi and Dekker. She is a beautiful enchantress, an exotic swindler who steals her victim's heart as surely as she pilfers the ring from the hand he drowsily surrenders to her. Like Caravaggio's cardsharps, she has stepped into his painting straight from the theatre \u2013 and emphatically not from the pages of judges or journalists seeking to control a perceived social menace.\n\nThree years before Caravaggio painted the picture, Cesare Ripa published an enormously influential guide to the symbolism of the post-Renaissance world, entitled the _Iconologia_. The book is a description, as its title page says, of 'diverse Images of Virtues, Vices, Affections, Human Passions, Arts, Disciplines, Humours, Elements, Celestial Bodies, Provinces of Italy, Rivers and every region of the world'. The gypsy appears twice in Ripa's encyclopedia of imagery, each time as a woman. On the one hand, she is an emblem of poverty, shown 'with a twisted neck' in the act of begging for alms: 'poverty is represented in the guise of a Gipsy,' explains Ripa, 'because a poorer folk than this is not to be found; for they have neither property nor nobility nor taste, nor hope of anything that can give a particle of that happiness that is the aim of political life.' But she is also a symbol of comedy, of light-hearted resilience to the blows of fortune.\n\nUnder this aspect, Ripa notes, 'her dress should be of various colours; in her right hand she should carry the horn which is used as a musical instrument; in her left hand she should have a mask, and she should wear socks on her feet. The diversity of colours signifies the varied and diverse actions dealt with by this sort of poetry, which delight the eye of the mind no less than variety of colours the eye of the body through their expression of the accidents of human life, of virtues, vices and worldly conditions, as found in every quality and kind of people, except those of princely blood.' Here Ripa is distantly following the classical theory of theatrical genres propounded by Aristotle in his _Poetics_. Aristotle's distinction between tragedy and comedy, much parroted by the more prescriptive literary theorists of sixteenth-century Italy, held that tragedy should focus on the actions of the elite \u2013 kings and princes \u2013 while comedy should concern itself with the behaviour of those at the very bottom of the social heap.\n\nCaravaggio's _Gypsy Fortune-Teller_ is smiling poverty personified. But she is no mere emblem. With her turban-like headscarf and long cloak she is, in fact, dressed precisely as a real gypsy in late sixteenth-century Italy. Cesare Vecellio's _Habiti Antichi et Moderni_ , or _Costumes Past and Present_ , published in 1590, contains a description that tallies more or less exactly with Caravaggio's painting. Vecellio notes that gypsy women 'bind a cloak of woollen cloth over the shoulder, passing it under the arm, and it is long enough to reach down to their feet'. The cloak, known in Italian as a _schiavina_ , is defined by the writer as 'a long garment of coarse wool, worn by gypsies and hermits'.\n\nThe ancestry of Caravaggio's beautiful gypsy can be clearly traced \u2013 in accordance with the assumptions behind Ripa's _Iconologia_ \u2013 to the world of comic theatre. The gypsy was a stock figure in the performances of Italian Commedia dell'Arte, the popular acting companies of the sixteenth century \u2013 so much so that the name _zingaresche_ , derived from _zingara_ , or 'gypsy', was given to a whole range of comic theatrical productions. A series of French prints known as the _Recueil Fossard_ documents the performances of an Italian Commedia dell'Arte troupe given in France in the late sixteenth century. One of those prints, depicting the encounter of the brazen whore 'Peronne' with the louche aristocrat 'Julien le Debauche', bears a striking resemblance to Caravaggio's own _Gypsy Fortune-Teller_.\n\nThe connections between Caravaggio's painting and the theatre do not stop there. One of the more celebrated late sixteenth-century performances of a _zingarescha_ can in fact be traced directly to the milieu of Cardinal del Monte. In 1589, when the cardinal's Medici patron, the Grand Duke of Tuscany, married Christine of Lorraine, a theatrical festival was staged to celebrate their union. A play entitled _La Pellegrina_ was performed, together with six extravagant intermedii involving all kinds of elaborate stage machinery and sets representing both a fiery hell and a cloud-capped Mount Olympus. Shortly after this, according to the diary of an eyewitness, the grand duke invited the Comici Gelosi \u2013 one of the leading Commedia dell'Arte troupes \u2013 to 'act a comedy of their own choice'. The two leading ladies, Isabella Andreini and Vittoria Piissimi,\n\n> nearly came to blows, for Vittoria wanted to act _Zingara_ and the other wished to perform her Pazzia, entitled _La Pazzia d'Isabella_ [ _The Madnessof Isabella_] \u2013 given that Vittoria's favourite part is Zingara and Isabel's La Pazzia. However they finally agreed that the first piece to be acted would be _Zingara_ , and that _La Pazzia_ would be given another time. And so they performed the said _Zingara_ with the same _Intermezzi_ as were prepared for the great play; and indeed whoever has not heard Vittoria perform _Zingara_ has neither seen nor heard something marvellous, and certainly all were very satisfied with the play.\n\nCardinal del Monte attended this actual performance, and it is quite conceivable that Caravaggio himself had first-hand experience of the Gelosi on stage. The company, which was the most prestigious in Counter-Reformation Italy, had close links with his home city of Milan, where its first recorded performance took place in 1568, just three years before the painter's birth. During its forty-year existence it often played there and in the other principal towns of northern Italy: Florence, Ferrara, Genoa, Mantua and Venice.\n\nIt is possible that Caravaggio's painting was actually inspired by the memory or repute of Vittoria Piissimi's celebrated performance as the _Zingara_. In Artemio Giancarli's comedy, written in 1545, the gypsy plays the role of kidnapper, temptress and wily thief. But those who saw Piissimi in the role remembered her, above all, as the temptress: 'a beautiful sorceress of love, she entices the hearts of a thousand lovers with her words; a sweet siren, she enchants with smooth incantations the souls of her devout spectators.' Caravaggio's contemporaries praised his own, painted gypsy in strikingly similar language. In Mancini's eyes, she might have been 'false' and 'sly', but above all she was beguilingly beautiful \u2013 the most 'graceful and expressive figure', indeed, that he had ever seen in art. The painter's friend, the poet Gaspare Murtola, went even further. In Murtola's madrigal in praise of Caravaggio's painting, the gypsy is not only an enchantress, she is also the painter's alter ego. Just as she deceives her fresh-faced admirer, so Caravaggio beguiles the world with the freshness and the beauty of his art:\n\n_Non so qual si piu maga_ ,\n\n_O la donna, che fingi_ ,\n\n_O tu che la dipingi_\n\nI don't know who is the greater magician,\n\nThe woman, who deceives,\n\nOr you, who paint her\n\nThe poet rhymes _fingi_ with _dipingi_ , cheating and painting. So Caravaggio is not merely the painter of rogues, crooks and the enchantresses of the street. He is the painter _as_ vagabond. And suddenly all of his subtle counterfeiting has paid off. His illusions have worked their magic, his paintings have been sold \u2013 and he has been invited to live in the house of a cardinal. It is the autumn of 1595 and he is twenty-four years old.\n\n## PART THREE  \nRome, 1595\u20139\n\n#### FRANCESCO MARIA BOURBON DEL MONTE\n\nCaravaggio's patron looks out at posterity from a vivid drawing by the printmaker, painter and master-draughtsman Ottavio Leoni. He has kind but piercing eyes and a fully receded hairline. His thin lips and slightly weak mouth are disguised, not altogether successfully, by a wispy salt-and-pepper beard. Cardinal Francesco Maria Bourbon del Monte was approaching seventy when he sat for the likeness; twenty years had passed since he had taken Caravaggio into his home. But he was still the same inquisitive, thoughtful man whom the painter had known. His epitaph would stress above all that he had always done his best to support 'the good arts'.\n\n_Ars longa, vita brevis_. The picture was done, in a single sitting of perhaps half an hour, in black chalk with white highlights on fine-grained paper the colour of a hazy blue sky. The cardinal seems to endure the ordeal of keeping still with patience and forbearance: unlike many powerful men, he does not frown and fidget his way through a sitting. There is a mixture of worldliness, compassion and curiosity in his gaze. The finishing touch is a tricorn hat, rendered in dense cross-hatching, perched on the smooth dome of his forehead. It makes him look a little bit like a chess piece come to life.\n\nFrancesco Maria del Monte may have been the first father-figure in Caravaggio's life. Giovanni Baglione, terse as ever, described the artist's time with del Monte as a rare idyll in his otherwise troubled existence. 'In these quarters Michelangelo was given room and board, and soon he felt stimulated and confident.' Stimulated and confident: such adjectives were not often applied to Caravaggio by people who actually knew him. This is the only passage in Baglione's biography of Caravaggio where he appears as anything other than mad, bad and dangerous to know. We can sense the painter's genuine relief at having found, at last, a refuge from the storms of his early life.\n\nWhen Caravaggio met him, del Monte was in his late forties, one of the younger and more energetic cardinals. But, unlike most of those elected to the curia, he was neither particularly rich nor especially aristocratic. He owed his position to a combination of solid family connections, considerable charm and \u2013 so jealous contemporaries muttered \u2013 outrageous good fortune. Del Monte had been born in Venice, on the Fondaco dei Turchi, in 1549. It is a measure of his family's importance to the city that the great Venetian painter Titian attended his baptism. So too did the notorious poet, pamphleteer and pornographer Pietro Aretino, a man who might be said to have embodied the deepest contradictions of his age. On the one hand, he encouraged Pope Paul IV to fig-leaf the genitalia in Michelangelo's frescoes for the Sistine Chapel; on the other, he wrote such works as _Tales of Nuns_ , _Wives and Courtesans_ , the opening scene of which involves numerous nuns, their lubricious mother superior and a copious supply of glass dildos. Also present at the ceremony was the less colourful but widely celebrated architect Jacopo Sansovino.\n\nDespite the pomp that attended his baptism, del Monte would not actually be brought up in Venice. Del Monte's father, Renieri, is known to have been in the service of the dukes of Urbino. Ever since the days of the fifteenth-century soldier-intellectual, Federigo da Montefeltro, the rulers of Urbino had hired out their services as battle-hardened mercenaries to the highest bidder. The Duke of Urbino who employed del Monte's father was particularly active on behalf of the Venetians during the years from 1539 to 1552. Since Renieri went by the title of 'colonel', it seems likely that he was a soldier, who had won the respect of the Venetians by fighting their enemies.\n\nDel Monte was decidedly not a military man, but a student of law and humanities. He and his elder brother, Guidobaldo \u2013 later to become a distinguished mathematician and the author of a treatise on perspective \u2013 were educated at the courts of the della Rovere family in Pesaro and Urbino. They also studied at Padua, long established as a centre of humanist learning, which was where Prince Francesco Maria della Rovere himself received his education. Del Monte had been named in honour of Prince Francesco Maria. But he later switched allegiances and eventually travelled to Rome, in 1572, in the service of a Sforza cardinal.\n\nDel Monte switched allegiances again in the early 1570s. He won the patronage of Cardinal Ferdinando de' Medici, younger son of Grand Duke Cosimo I, ruler of Florence and Tuscany. Groomed for the Church from an early age, Ferdinando had been made cardinal when he was just fourteen years old. He was a patron of music as well as a discerning art collector, who adorned the gardens of the Villa Medici with ancient Roman sculptures. Del Monte worked for many years as Ferdinando's secretary and assistant. By the mid 1580s he had become his closest confidant. Then, in 1587, both men's lives were transformed by news of a dramatic series of events in the Medici stronghold of Florence. Ferdinando's elder brother, Grand Duke Francesco I, had died of a mysterious illness. The duke's wife had succumbed to the same ailment. In Florence, with its long and murky political history of plot and counter-plot, foul play was inevitably suspected. With Medici power in the balance, Ferdinando felt compelled to renounce his vows and return to Tuscany. He became grand duke, and del Monte his right-hand man. A contemporary witness described the atmosphere at court in the immediate aftermath of Ferdinando's accession. The new grand duke would dine alone, allowing no one save his trusted adviser to share 'his most secret thoughts'. He considered del Monte a kindred spirit, the source added, because he was 'knowledgeable in literature and other learned subjects'.\n\nFerdinando's resignation from the curia left the ruling family of Florence without a voice in Rome. So in 1588 the new Grand Duke of Florence used his influence with Pope Sixtus V to have del Monte appointed in his place. Del Monte would remain a cardinal for almost forty years, reporting to his Florentine master on the twists and turns of papal politics and promoting the interests of Tuscany whenever he could. His umbilical connection to Florence, and to the court of Ferdinando de' Medici, would have numerous consequences for Caravaggio's career.\n\nThe Medici had strong links with the pauperist wing of Counter-Reformation Catholicism. During his years in Rome, Ferdinando had been close to the charismatic churchman Filippo Neri, the dominant religious personality in the city during the second half of the sixteenth century and founder of an order of secular priests known as the Congregation of the Oratory. His style of teaching was informal and direct, inspired by a desire to return to the simplest and most direct forms of Christian belief. He preferred discussion to sermonizing, improvisation to the set text, and had a knockabout, down-to-earth sense of humour. Despite a profound difference in temperaments, Neri was greatly admired by Carlo Borromeo, who on several occasions in the 1560s and 1570s protected him from accusations of heresy. One of Neri's ideals was pilgrimage, which he interpreted as a model for the Christian life itself, as a journey travelled in prayer. As well as the Oratory, he founded the Archconfraternity of the Most Holy Trinity of the Pilgrims and Convalescents \u2013 the Santissima Trinit\u00e0 dei Pellegrini \u2013 to care for the poor and the sick, and especially the many thousands of destitute pilgrims who travelled to Rome during Jubilee years. The Pellegrini would eventually have their own church, a somewhat severe building constructed between 1587 and 1597 and designed by Martino Longhi the Elder (the father, as it turned out, to one of Caravaggio's most turbulent companions). But much of its energies were devoted simply to health care. For several years Ferdinando de' Medici served honourably as protector of its hospital. Probably as a result of his connections with del Monte and the Medici, Caravaggio would himself develop close links with Neri's Archconfraternity of Pilgrims, and with the Order of the Oratory. Two of his most impressive altarpieces, _The Madonna of Loreto_ and _The Entombment of Christ_ , would result.\n\nThe political alliances of the Medici would also shape the development of Caravaggio's painting. Throughout Cardinal del Monte's long Roman career, but especially during the early years, when he was closest to Caravaggio, the balance of European power was delicately poised between Spain and France. Like other members of the family before him, Ferdinando de' Medici favoured France. He married the Valois princess Christine of Lorraine, the marriage celebrated with great pomp and ceremony in 1589. Just over a decade later the Medici's links with France would become closer still. Ferdinando's niece, Marie de' Medici, would marry Henri IV and become Queen of France. That union could never have taken place without Henri IV's acceptance into the Church of Rome. So throughout the early 1590s del Monte's overriding concern, and the Medici's greatest goal, was to ensure that Henri IV's conversion from Protestantism went ahead as planned. Del Monte's diplomatic style was subtle and self-effacing, but effective. In 1593, when the long-hoped-for event occurred, the Medici cardinal could congratulate himself on having played his part in one of the decisive political events of the age. Clement VIII was deeply grateful for del Monte's help in winning the French king back to the Catholic faith. The cardinal's position within the curia was strengthened as a result.\n\nIt was no coincidence that Caravaggio's first major religious commission, secured for him by del Monte \u2013 'his cardinal', as the jealous Baglione put it \u2013 would be for San Luigi dei Francesi, the church of the French in Rome. The paintings would be completed in 1600, the year of Henri IV's marriage to Marie de' Medici. The first of them, _The Calling of St Matthew_ , showing the saint roused from spiritual slumber by the coming of Christ, probably alluded to the conversion of the French king. When del Monte looked at the picture, he could reflect on his finest hour as a servant of the Medici, and France.\n\nThe cardinal had two official residences in Rome, the Palazzo Firenze, near the old Roman harbour of the Ripetta, and the Palazzo Madama, around the corner from San Luigi dei Francesi. The Palazzo Madama was where he chose to live, and where he gave Caravaggio room and board \u2013 presumably on one of the attic floors of the palace, in the servants' quarters. The painter's new surroundings were visible proof of his sudden change of fortunes, a far cry from his mean lodgings with Monsignor Insalata and a world away from the ramshackle platform on which he had been compelled to sleep in the Cesari workshop. The Palazzo Madama was an imposing building in the heart of Rome, its broad fa\u00e7ade emblazoned with the famous Medici coat of arms, a shield decorated with six round balls \u2013 often, apocryphally, said to symbolize pills, but actually emblematic of bezants, or coins, in allusion to the family's origins as moneylenders. The state rooms of the palace were richly decorated with tapestries and oriental carpets, as well as a small but choice selection of classical sculptures and other hallowed relics of the distant Roman past. These included the most celebrated cameo-glass vessel to have survived from antiquity, the so-called Portland Vase.\n\nDel Monte was forever buying and selling works of art, antiquities, precious stones, sculptures and curiosities. He kept a sharp lookout for anything that might interest his Medici patrons. In 1607 he excitedly reported his acquisition of some fragments of clothing, discovered on the Appian Way, that had once belonged to a Roman consul alive at the time of First Punic War. He was sending them to the grand duke as a gift, he wrote, so that he could study 'the weaving of those times' (as ruler of Florence, a city at the centre of the Italian textile trade, Ferdinando could reasonably be assumed to take an interest in such a find).\n\nThe cardinal was an insatiable accumulator of all kinds of things, but above all he accumulated paintings. His collection included allegories and narrative pictures as well as a number of still lives \u2013 and, of course, Caravaggio's _Cardsharps_ and _Gypsy Fortune-Teller_ , those pioneering experiments in the painting of contemporary rogues and tricksters. Inventories show that at his death del Monte owned around 600 paintings, enough to furnish an entire museum. He possessed copies of celebrated pictures by masters of central Italian painting such as Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo and Raphael. But he was also drawn to the very different traditions of Venetian painting, owning no fewer than five pictures attributed \u2013 possibly with more optimism than accuracy \u2013 to Titian. The names of Palma Vecchio and Jacopo Bassano also figure in the lists, alongside that of Giorgione, an artist to whom Caravaggio was often compared in his youth.\n\nThe Venetian tradition valued _colore_ above _disegno_ , emphasizing the primacy of colour rather than design \u2013 whereas for the great painters of central Italy, the Tuscan\u2013Roman axis of art for which Giorgio Vasari was such a vocal and persuasive spokesman, drawing was the foundation stone of all excellence. Caravaggio seems to have had almost no interest at all in theories of art. But he shared the Venetian preference for working on canvas, rather than in the medium of fresco. In the ages-old debate about the relative merits of _disegno_ and _colore_ he might have sided with the Venetians. Not a single independent drawing survives by Caravaggio's hand. Even X-rays of his finished work have failed to yield anything resembling a conventional underdrawing.\n\nThe nature of the collections in the Palazzo Madama may have reflected the cardinal's roots in Urbino. Like Federigo da Montefeltro, whose _studiolo_ was lined with portraits of famous men, del Monte made a point of collecting images of those whom he admired. By far the greatest part of his collection was made up of portraits, a pantheon of intellectual and spiritual heroes. A late inventory refers to '277 pictures without frames... of various popes, emperors, cardinals and dukes and other illustrious men and some women'. In addition, the collection contained 67 paintings of saints. These too were portraits of a kind \u2013 images of those individuals from sacred history whom the cardinal especially venerated.\n\nThe breadth of del Monte's interests was reflected not only in the various rooms of his palace, which contained a well-stocked library and an extensive collection of scientific instruments, but also in the wide circle of his acquaintances. Del Monte collected remarkable men in real life as well as in art. He knew writers, bibliophiles and collectors of rare manuscripts. He knew musicians and composers. He knew alchemists, astronomers and others working on the ill-defined border between medieval belief and modern enquiry.\n\nInspired by the researches of his own brother, Guidobaldo, del Monte took a lively interest in scientific discovery. He was an early and enthusiastic supporter of Galileo, and played a crucial role in the astronomer's career by helping him to secure the patronage of the Medici. Without the powerful support and protection of Florence's ruling dynasty, some of Galileo's most important work might never have been done. The Palazzo Madama contained a tangible symbol of the scientist's gratitude: the gift of a telescope. Del Monte's views on the controversial hypothesis of a heliocentric universe are unrecorded. But he might have agreed with Cesare Baronio, a prominent member of Filippo Neri's Order of the Oratory, who famously remarked that 'the scriptures teach us how to move to heaven, not how the heavens move.'\n\nDel Monte's interest in science extended to experiment as well as study. He dabbled in alchemy and had a fully equipped laboratory in the Palazzo Madama. Within a year of Caravaggio's arrival in his household, the cardinal acquired a third residence, a country retreat at Porta Pinciana, up in the hills above the western edge of the city, not far from the Villa Borghese. Here del Monte established a pharmaceutical distillery. The distillation of drugs, whether from plants, metals or other substances, was something of a fad in the elite circles of Roman society at the time. In his _Epistolae medicinales_ , the Sicilian physician Pietro Castelli (1590\u20131661) noted that the apothecaries of the day worked not only in their own shops but also in the private households of virtuosi. The efficacy of the resulting cures could be questionable. The German taxonomist and doctor Johannes Faber publicly boasted that the celebrated 'Cardinal Dal [ _sic_ ] Monte' had given him the recipe for a highly effective drug made from the meat of a poisonous snake. But he did not specify whether he had actually put the medicine to the test. Another of del Monte's supposed remedies was rumoured to have killed a man.\n\nFaber's story suggests that the cardinal took an interest in the activities of the Hospital of Santo Spirito, one of Rome's largest and most important institutions for the care of the poor and the sick. Faber was himself a physician of the hospital, which, in his estimate, provided more than 12,000 people with food, shelter and medical care every year. Del Monte was friendly with another doctor working at the Santo Spirito, Giulio Mancini, Caravaggio's future biographer. Mancini, born of humble Sienese parents, had trained in medicine in the city of Padua. He got his job at the hospital in 1595 and probably met the painter in del Monte's house in that same year. That would explain why Mancini knew so much more than the other early biographers about Caravaggio's dark deeds in Milan and his very first years in Rome.\n\nThe Hospital of Santo Spirito was closely connected to the papal court. A post there was often the prelude to a successful career in medicine at the highest level, and so it proved in the case of Mancini, who eventually rose to become physician by appointment to the pope. But Mancini's commitment to the relief of the poor seems to have been genuine, rather than just place seeking. When he died he left his considerable fortune to be distributed among the impoverished students of his native Siena. He was known for his unconventional behaviour and beliefs: a French obituarist wrote that Mancini was an amateur astrologer and _un Grand Ath\u00e9_ , 'a great atheist'. Del Monte probably befriended him because of his reputation as an experimental chemist and connoisseur of art. The two men seem to have shared an essentially philanthropic approach to life.\n\nDel Monte was a philanthropist but he was certainly no firebrand of Counter-Reformation piety. In one of his letters he describes an evening spent gambling at the game of hazard at the Farnese Palace, in the company of the cardinal-nephew Pietro Aldobrandini. Having lost heavily \u2013 'I more than he', del Monte noted ruefully \u2013 both men finished the evening in the company of a pair of courtesans, listening to music. Overall, the pattern of del Monte's friendships and alliances suggests that he was a worldly, benevolent, diplomatic, curious, open-minded and socially adept man, with a rare sensitivity to genius in other people and a strong sense of Christian charity.\n\nBut a considerably more negative picture of him was painted by his contemporary Dirck van Amayden, who composed the principal early biography of del Monte. Amayden's text, which has had a definite influence on the cardinal's posthumous reputation, is so hostile that it amounts to a thinly veiled character assassination. The author's method was a form of devious insinuation. This involved the recounting of various scurrilous tales about the cardinal, followed by half-hearted protestations on the part of the author to the effect that such dreadful things \u2013 surely \u2013 could not have been true.\n\nThe pattern is set by Amayden's discussion of Ferdinando de' Medici's patronage of del Monte. He begins with the phrase 'It is said', eternal refrain of the unreliable reporter. In this case, 'it is said' that del Monte wormed his way into Ferdinando's affection by arranging clandestine trysts between the young Medici buck and the wife of another man, 'the bride of one Cesarino'. The double calumny is followed up instantly by a sly denial of which Shakespeare's Iago would have been proud: 'this nevertheless I would not believe, knowing perfect friendship arises out of virtue, not vice.'\n\nNot only is Amayden's del Monte an accomplice to adultery. He also turns out, at the end of the biography, to be a closet homosexual with a particular fondness for young men. The author's explosion of this bombshell inevitably casts something of a shadow over his earlier, flatly dutiful assertion that del Monte was an intellectually enlightened patron of the arts and sciences who 'was very liberal to painters, chemists and similar'. The scandalized reader is naturally inclined to wonder whether the cardinal might have asked for certain favours, from certain young men, in return for his support. The very last paragraph of Amayden's life of del Monte addresses the question in the author's characteristic style and leaves the matter open:\n\n> He was of unusual sweetness of behaviour, and loved to be familiar with youths, not, however, for a criminal reason, but from natural sociability. This is presumably connected with the fact that he prudently hid it before Urban was elected. When Urban was made pope he threw off all restrictions; in the longed-for reign he indulged his inclination openly, and, though aged and almost blind, more a trunk than a man and therefore incapable of allure, a young man of short stature got a benefice from him.\n\nThe image of del Monte in old age as an absurd and enfeebled pederast is hardly flattering. It is also, in all probability, a fiction. Amayden spent his life in the service of Spain, promoting the cause of the mighty Habsburgs with unwavering constancy and taking every opportunity to blacken the names of their enemies. The pro-French faction at the papal court was anathema to him and he had a professionally ingrained hatred of the Medici. So this was a man with every motive to slander the memory of del Monte, whose curial vote had always been cast in favour of the Medici and their French allies. Amayden's story about del Monte belatedly coming out of the closet in 1623, on the accession of Urban VIII, should also be read as a slander aimed at the pope himself. The subtext is that Urban's reign was so licentious that every sin suddenly dared to show its face. This too fits with the hispanophile Amayden's anti-French agenda, since Urban VIII had shown great favour to Cardinal Richelieu, Governor of France under Louis XIV.\n\nDespite its implausibility, Amayden's text has insidiously shaped the legend of Caravaggio. It has fostered a deeply fanciful view of del Monte's household as a louche pleasure palace, subversively lodged at the heart of Catholic Rome. Through the rooms of this imaginary Palazzo Madama passes a parade of freethinkers and sexual outsiders, mostly exquisite young men. The shadowy figure of del Monte, libertine masquerading in a cardinal's robes, looks on with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Viewed through the lens of this seductive fantasy, many of the pictures that Caravaggio painted during his sojourn with del Monte are correspondingly distorted. They become thrillingly decadent and disappointingly flimsy at one and the same time \u2013 mild exhalations of homoerotic yearning, shot through with an abiding spirit of perversity.\n\nThe best corrective to Amayden's sweet-tongued libel is an eyewitness description of Cardinal del Monte's household as it actually was in the 1590s, published for the first time in 1991. The recipient of the description was Grand Duke Ferdinando de' Medici. Its author was a musician and gentleman called Emilio de' Cavalieri. It presents a thoroughly believable, down-to-earth picture of the milieu in which Caravaggio, in his mid twenties, found himself:\n\n> Del Monte amazes me in regard to spending that he can live on what he has and do it so honourably. It is true that for his clothing he doesn't spend a _giulio_ ; he has had only one livery made; his coach is also the first he has had; he makes the best of what he has; he has bought himself a carriage and with this he keeps himself; the mouths he feeds in all don't amount to fifty; he doesn't keep horses or gentlemen but his servants are treated well and given good meals \u2013 all that is seen through your highness's favour of a beautiful home, [the fitting out and decoration of] which is now finished; as a cardinal of Rome, he formally receives at table in the morning with his silverware; and he is courted by more Romans than cardinals for his great trafficking, which is all honest, with his metalworkers; and his antechamber is always filled with people; there are no high-ranking clergy. The reason for this is that he is not involved in important transactions and those that come do so only to visit... I have made this speech so that you will know the truth...\n\nThis account is just as partisan in its way as that of Amayden (Cavalieri was a close friend of the cardinal and would later name him as one of his executors), but it has the disorderly ring of truth about it. Del Monte was anything but well off by the standards of most Roman cardinals. His residences were Medici property, not his own. His recorded income was approximately 12,000 ducats a year, by no means a great deal of money for a man in his position, so Cavalieri's sympathetic description of the household's thrifty but somewhat threadbare imitation of late Renaissance courtly pomp tallies well with the known facts. The reference to del Monte's 'trafficking... with all his metalworkers' suggests necessary financial dealings conducted on the side. The insistence that 'he is not involved in important transactions' with the pope or his fellow grand clerics may have been meant to reassure the grand duke that del Monte was sticking purely to Medici-approved business.\n\nCavalieri was from an old Roman family associated both with the arts and with artists. The legendary Michelangelo had been close to his father, Tommaso de' Cavalieri, and had given him a highly finished presentation drawing \u2013 possibly _The Rape of Ganymede_ of 1532, now in the Royal Collection at Windsor \u2013 as a token of his affections. Emilio himself was a composer and impresario, principally employed at the Medici court from the late 1580s as master of ceremonies for the elaborate entertainments known as _intermedii_ , dramatizations of myth and legend, set to music.\n\nDel Monte and Emilio de' Cavalieri probably met when the latter was orchestrating the unusually lavish spectacles that marked Grand Duke Ferdinando's marriage to Christine of Lorraine in 1589. By the early 1590s they had become firm friends. Del Monte was in Florence in 1595 to see a production of Cavalieri's _Gioco della Cieca_ , an early experiment in musical drama inspired by antiquity. Over the next ten years the composer often visited the cardinal in Rome. Cavalieri's letters back to Florence are a valuable source of information about del Monte's deep immersion in the musical culture of his time, illuminating his tastes and responses to the music that moved him. They also shed some oblique shafts of light on the very first picture that Caravaggio painted for his new benefactor: a compellingly ambiguous depiction of a group of musical performers, about to give a concert.\n\n#### 'IF MUSIC BE THE FOOD OF LOVE'\n\nPainted around the end of 1595, _The Musicians_ is one of the artist's most puzzlingly unorthodox creations. Four young men wearing classical drapery have been crowded into an airless interior. The central figure meets the spectator's gaze with a languorous, distracted look, absent-mindedly fingering the strings of the lute that he cradles in the crook of his right arm. Behind him, a dark-haired boy holding a barely visible cornetto \u2013 a hybrid instrument of the Renaissance, with a trumpet-like mouthpiece and the fingerholes of a recorder \u2013 looks up in a way that suggests the troupe has been disturbed while rehearsing.\n\nA third young man, pressed so close to the foreground that he might almost be on the point of falling out of the picture, studies a sheaf of music. He is presumably the singer, and therefore the star attraction. But he looks as though he is still learning his song and his back is conspicuously turned to the viewer. He wears his costume carelessly, as if he knows that nothing much is going to happen for a little while yet. The folds of white cloth in which he is draped have fallen off his shoulder and become ruched up under the purple silk bow meant to hold them in place, leaving him almost naked from the waist up. The somewhat ragged group is completed by a curly-haired boy, sitting to the lutenist's right, who has a pair of Cupid's wings strapped to his back and a quiver full of arrows hanging at his right shoulder. But firing darts of love is plainly the last thing on his mind. He looks down and helps himself to some grapes, as much out of boredom as hunger.\n\nThe picture is not in good condition, having suffered considerable damage during the two hundred years that it spent in obscurity after disappearing into a series of unknown collections in the early eighteenth century. The violin and the page of music in the foreground have been largely reconstructed by modern restorers; the lute has lost its strings. But the work's fundamental originality and oddity remain undimmed, despite considerable areas of paint loss.\n\n_The Musicians_ was clearly one of Caravaggio's better known early pictures, because both Bellori and Baglione mention it specifically. Baglione says that 'For Cardinal del Monte he painted a Concert of Youths from nature, very well.' Bellori describes it in the same terms: 'the Concert of Youths portrayed from life in half figures'. The young man with the cornetto, at the back, resembles Caravaggio himself, while the lutenist may be his friend Mario Minniti. But the composition as a whole radiates an air of contrivance. It resembles a frieze or bas-relief, rendered in paint. The four boys are so similar in aspect and demeanour that they might be clones of each other. The suspicion lingers that they were all based on the same figure, depicted from different angles and then collaged together to form a single composition. Perhaps when Baglione and Bellori talked of Caravaggio portraying from life and painting from nature they were not talking about the artist's processes \u2013 the use of models, and so on \u2013 but trying to capture the distinctive _mood_ of his picture. For all its artifice, it does have a certain clumsy lifelikeness. And that is precisely what made it so different from most earlier paintings of similar subjects.\n\nBy the late sixteenth century there was a long-established tradition of so-called 'concert' pictures. The genre had originated in Venice, and in its early form it is exemplified by the so-called _Le Concert Champ\u00eatre_ of around 1510, now in the Louvre. Once thought to have been painted by Giorgione but now generally attributed to Titian, it is a tender and lyrical fantasy. A young man in fine clothes strums at his lute while conversing with a shepherd. Two naked women are present alongside them, one filling a glass jug with water, the other breaking off from playing on her recorder to listen to the two men's conversation. The action takes place outside, in a golden, idealized landscape based loosely on that of the Veneto itself. The precise meaning of the _Concert Champ\u00eatre_ (if it has one) is open to debate, but the allegorical thrust of Titian's dreamlike vision is clear enough. It has its roots in the ancient, classical fantasy of pastoral retreat. The city sophisticate retreats to nature and finds there a world as pure as the clearest spring water, and a harmony as sweet as that of the most beautiful music. In Arcadia, he retunes the strings of his very being.\n\nAlongside this idealizing tradition of musical picture, there was another and more prosaic sort of painting that showed singers and musicians in mid performance. Sometimes such works were enlivened by touches of bawdy humour. In Callisto Piazza's _Concert_ of circa 1525, a group of performers is crowded into a shallow space, together with a single, male member of their audience. The most prominent of the musicians, a woman playing a lute, wears a low-cut bodice and has a coquettish expression on her face. Her admirer, who has evidently been enjoying the performance in more ways than one, wheels to face the viewer of the painting with a knowing look in his eye. The artist has furnished him with a phallic prop in the form of a sheathed dagger, fastened at his hip, which points towards the girl at an angle carefully calculated to indicate just what he has in mind.\n\nCaravaggio's _Musicians_ cannot easily be squeezed into the existing tradition of sixteenth-century musical paintings. It is certainly not a pastoral in the Venetian mode. Nor does it depict an actual performance, showing instead the preparations for one. There was no precedent for this. The presence of the boy with wings has prompted speculation that the picture might have been intended as an allegory of Music and Love. But that offers no real explanation for Caravaggio's most obvious departure from convention. Why should he have chosen to depict this rather ramshackle scene of musicians rehearsing?\n\nSolutions to the enigma may be found in the unusually broad and experimental musical tastes of his patron. Cardinal del Monte was actively involved in music at the papal court throughout the 1590s. Clement VIII put him in charge of a far-reaching reform of liturgical music, and he served as Protector of the Sistine Choir. Music was also an essential part of life at his various residences. In one of his letters back to Florence, Emilio de' Cavalieri gives a richly evocative description of an impromptu concert that took place one day in 1602 at del Monte's country house at Porta Pinciana. The admired soprano Vittoria Archilei was the surprise guest at an afternoon party, together with her husband and accompanist. Also present were cardinals Paravicino and Acquaviva, who had ostensibly come to see a vineyard in the grounds of del Monte's estate. Archilei was prevailed on to sing. She stunned her small audience with the naked emotion of her performance \u2013 so much so that even Cavalieri, who had helped to train her famously expressive voice, was surprised. He reported that because she was 'in a wild mood and singing in a vaulted room, I have never heard her in more beautiful voice. She gave so much satisfaction that Acquaviva said to me: \"I for shame did not weep.\" Paravicino said he never thought such refinement was possible. They are both musicians.'\n\nSuch expressions of dumbfounded pleasure go beyond the courtly formulas of polite approval. Archilei had clearly given an unusually affecting performance, but that is not the only explanation for the strength of response she received. Its surprise lay essentially in the fact that she sang on her own, in public, to the simplest of instrumental accompaniments. By the early 1600s, medieval polyphony \u2013 many voices singing different lines of music simultaneously \u2013 had been the overwhelmingly dominant mode of music for centuries. Monody, in which a single melodic line is carried by a solitary singer, was still relatively uncommon in concert performance. The solo voice accompanied by the solo instrument was unfamiliar, arresting. As the rapturous response to Archilei's singing shows, its potential was only just being developed.\n\nThe polyphonic and monodic modes are at opposite ends of music's emotional spectrum. Polyphony subsumes the individual voice within a choral harmony, reflecting the desire to conjure up an essentially otherworldly sound, such as the singing of the angelic host. Words are hard to distinguish in the layers of polyphonic singing. Syntax dissolves and sense is sacrificed for an effect of transcendence. By contrast, monody puts precise meaning and specific human emotions at the heart of music. The single melodic line, the solo voice, is easily understood. To follow its meanderings is to follow the contours of feeling expressed by words and music together (the theme of Vittoria Archilei's song would, almost certainly, have been unrequited love). It might be said that while polyphony aspires to heaven, monody expresses man.\n\n'The solo voice contains all the purity of music, and style and melody are studied and appreciated more carefully when one's ears are not distracted by more than one voice.' Baldassare Castiglione's _Book of the Courtier_ of 1528 shows that the fashion for the solo voice had roots in an earlier period of the Renaissance. Further proof of this lies in the fact that the Flemish composer Adrian Willaert, choirmaster at St Mark's Basilica in Venice in the 1530s, had rearranged a number of polyphonic madrigals so that they could be sung for the solo voice. What seems to have been most strikingly new in the more experimental singing of Caravaggio's time, seventy years later, was its strong emphasis on vocal expression. This was characterized by the development of the _stile rappresentativo_ , a style of monodic singing that followed the natural accents and rhythms of spoken language. It was an innovation that transformed the performance of choral music, and the style in which Vittoria Archilei would have sung.\n\nEmilio de' Cavalieri was himself a composer at the forefront of this shift in musical sensibilities. He understood exactly what was going on in del Monte's house that afternoon in 1602. What he describes, very precisely, is the shock experienced by the listeners as they encounter raw feeling through the medium of music. On this particular occasion, the already unfamiliar experience is amplified by the wildness of the singer's own mood and the cavernous acoustic of a high-ceilinged room. The audience of cardinals Acquaviva and Paravicino is genuinely astonished, and Cavalieri's parting shot \u2013 'they are both musicians' \u2013 is meant to underscore the sheer novelty of the performance. These men are experienced listeners and practitioners; they know music very well; but they have never heard music quite like _this_.\n\nThe origins of the musical transformation epitomized by Archileo's performance were (and still are) debated. A group of Florentine musicians active in the 1570s and 1580s had built a whole philosophy around the doctrine of a return to monody. For them, this was an extension of the Renaissance ideal of reviving the modes of classical antiquity. Their spokesman had been the humanist author Vincenzo Galilei \u2013 father of the scientist and astronomer \u2013 who was partly inspired by the mistaken belief that the drama of ancient Greece had been sung rather than spoken. Galilei argued in favour of the perceived simplicity and emotional directness of ancient monody, conjuring the romantic vision of a world in which singers might reclaim the fabled powers attributed to Orpheus. He urged that song and drama should be reunited once more, to tell the stories of ancient legend and move the hearts of men. The ideas expressed in Galilei's _Dialogue on Ancient and Modern Music_ , of 1581, would have profound implications for music in Italy and beyond. New and ever more nakedly emotional songs for the solo voice would be written and performed. The _stile rappresentativo_ would triumph and the abstract patterns and harmonies of medieval polyphony fall out of fashion. In the music of court entertainment, individual performers separated from the chorus to sing passionate songs of love and death. Such songs would become known as arias, as the old genre of _intermedii_ metamorphosed into a new, startlingly dramatic art form that became known, simply, as 'opera'.\n\nMany different musicians and composers claimed a hand in these changes. Cardinal del Monte's friend Emilio de' Cavalieri was prominent among them. Cavalieri was thoroughly disgusted when his rival, the singer and composer Giulio Caccini, took credit for inventing the _stile rappresentativo_. 'Everyone knows _I_ am the inventor of this style,' Cavalieri angrily countered in a letter of 1600. Posterity has sided with Caccini in that particular argument, partly because of his especially close association with the circle of Vincenzo Galilei. But Cavalieri's other big claim, to have written the very first opera, has been more widely accepted. The work in question, a musical drama in three acts entitled _La Rappresentazione di Anima e di Corpo_ , was composed in 1600 \u2013 at the height of his friendship with Caravaggio's cardinal, and just two years before his sudden death from an unknown illness.\n\nCardinal del Monte was, then, rather more than a mere amateur of music: through his various musical activities and associations he had assisted at the birth of momentous changes in both composition and performance. By supporting a pioneer like Cavalieri, by hosting events like Vittoria Archilei's remarkable concert, by reordering the priorities of liturgical music at the papal court and by subtly altering the style of the Sistine Chapel Choir itself to favour the expressive qualities of the human voice brought out by the _stile rappresantativo_ \u2013 by doing so much, del Monte had placed himself at the forefront of musical experimentation at the turn of the seventeenth century.\n\nDel Monte was also friendly with the nobleman and banker Vincenzo Giustiniani, whose palace was directly opposite the Palazzo Madama. Giustiniani was a fellow musical enthusiast, who in 1628 would write _A Discourse on Music_ describing the so-called musical _camerino_ \u2013 a purpose-built private chamber, 'nobly decorated with paintings made for the sole purpose' of setting the right mood and tone for intimate musical performances. One of del Monte's first acts on moving to the Palazzo Madama had been (in his own words) to 'reserve a room for Harpsichords, Guitars, a Chitarrone and other instruments'. By the late 1620s such rooms were a familiar sight in the palaces of the Roman aristocracy. But in the early 1590s, when del Monte had created his own _camerino_ at the Palazzo Madama, he had been setting a new trend. To judge by the inventory made after his death, it must have been a headily atmospheric space \u2013 a cross between a private concert chamber and a miniature museum on the theme of music. Del Monte's _camerino_ contained no fewer than thirty-seven musical instruments, not including the 'chest where the viols are'. On its walls hung four pictures, all of which were listed, simply, as _una musica_ , 'a scene of music'. One of these was Caravaggio's _Musicians_.\n\nSo why did the painter depart from all the known conventions of the so-called 'concert picture' and depict his musicians as an ensemble of the blatantly unready? Further clues lie in Emilio de' Cavalieri's letters, which show (among much else) that Cardinal del Monte was extremely interested in the technical aspects of singing and performing. One of the most promising singers in his household was a Spanish castrato named Pedro Montoya, to whom Cavalieri gave six singing lessons, some of which del Monte himself must have attended: 'The Cardinal del Monte was amazed because he [Montoya] can already sing to the same standard as Onofrio [probably Onofrio Gualfreducci, a gifted castrato attached to the household of Cardinal Montalto] and if he does not cause trouble, within a month he will surpass Onofrio.'\n\nCaravaggio's painting moodily evokes the milieu of del Monte's household \u2013 a laboratory of musical experiment and innovation, where performers rehearsed under the tutelage of the cardinal and his friends, and where the expressive, classically inspired _stile rappresantativo_ was taken to new extremes. The space into which Caravaggio's four boys have been crammed evokes the cluttered intimacy of the _camerino_ itself. Dressed in their makeshift _all'antica_ costumes, they are preparing to take part in a piece of musical theatre of just the kind favoured and supported by del Monte. A single voice will be accompanied by only two instruments, in emulation of that imagined golden age when the songs of Orpheus were heard. The theme of the piece is the intoxicating effect of music on those who are in love. The song studied by the boy with his back to the viewer is no longer decipherable, but it probably expressed some variant of the sentiments voiced by Shakespeare's Count Orsino in _Twelfth Night_ : 'If music be the food of love, play on.'\n\nBy painting a rehearsal rather than a performance, Caravaggio went behind the scenes of the traditional concert picture. He showed the long hours of preparation and the artifice that made possible the final, polished performance. In doing so, he paid subtle tribute to the active role del Monte himself played in the musical culture of his time. Once hung in the room that the cardinal had consecrated to music, the picture conjures up a scene in which his own, animating presence is forever awaited. It is the picture of a process that depends on the energies of the patron himself. Only when the cardinal arrives can the final preparations be completed, and the concert begin.\n\n#### _THE LUTE PLAYER_ AND THE _BASKET OF FRUIT_\n\nThe second of Caravaggio's musical paintings, _The Lute Player_ , was commissioned by del Monte's friend Vincenzo Giustiniani and probably painted around 1596. An effeminate young man plucks at the strings of a lute while gazing out at the viewer with an expression of such soulfulness that his eyes seem to be brimming with tears. Two musical part-books and a violin lie on the table before him beside some scattered fruit and a glass carafe full of flowers. The scene is lit by a bright, diagonal shaft of light that casts strong shadows.\n\nThe wistful singer has sometimes been taken for a girl. Bellori, for example, described the figure as 'a woman in a blouse playing a lute with the sheet music in front of her'. But the 1638 inventory of Giustiniani's collection unambiguously listed the work as 'a half-length figure of a youth who plays the lute, with diverse flowers and fruits and music books... from the hand of Michelangelo da Caravaggio'. There would seem little reason to doubt its accuracy. The singer's face is androgynous but the shirt, open almost to the waist, reveals no sign of a cleavage.\n\nIt is possible that Caravaggio's _Lute Player_ is an idealized portrait of del Monte's promising but potentially troublesome castrato, Pedro Montoya. Montoya joined the Sistine Chapel Choir in 1592 and left in 1600, so he was almost certainly in del Monte's household when the picture was painted. The soft, hairless skin and slightly swollen face of Caravaggio's lutenist are consistent with the hormonal side-effects of castration. There may be a glancing allusion to the pitch of the boy's voice in the part-books that lie on the table before him. The five-staved sheets of an open part-book reveal a number of madrigals. Beneath lies another part-book, prominently marked 'Bassus'. It is closed, perhaps the painter's way of indicating that this particular singer never would be capable of hitting the low notes.\n\nCastrati were much in favour in Rome in the years around 1600. Their rise coincided with that of the professional female singer, and both reflected the new taste for piercingly emotional music arranged for the single voice. In his _Discourse on Music_ , Vincenzo Giustiniani noted that 'the famous Vittoria Archilei' had established 'the true method of singing of women', adding that it applied equally well to sopranos singing in falsetto and the castrati of the Sistine Chapel choir. The castrato voice was valued for its sweetness and sensuality, as well as for its clarity of enunciation.\n\nCastrati were encouraged to learn musical instruments so that they might accompany themselves. Such tuition is likely to have been part of the regime in del Monte's household. The cardinal himself played the Spanish guitar, and it is possible that Caravaggio learned the same instrument while living there. A deposition lodged against him by his landlady in 1605 includes the complaint that he came to her house late at night with a group of friends, playing the selfsame instrument and singing lewd songs, and a later inventory of his possessions lists one.\n\nThe singer in the _Lute Player_ is anything but raucous. He opens his mouth 'not more than is necessary to converse with friends', as a contemporary singing manual advised those performing chamber music of this kind. The picture is in such good condition that the sheet music open on the table is still legible: four madrigals by the Flemish composer Jacques Arcadelt ( _c_. 1505\u201368): ' _Chi potra dir_ ', ' _Se la dura durezza_ ', ' _Voi sapete_ ' and ' _Vostra fui_ '. Their texts are a compendium of the conventions of the courtly love tradition, shot through with plaintive simile and metaphor \u2013 beauty that blinds like the sun, ardent fires of passion, cold unyielding marble of a proud woman's heart. ' _Chi potra dir_ ' is representative:\n\nWho can express what sweetness I taste\n\nIn gazing on that proud light of my lady\n\nThat shames the celestial sphere?\n\nNot I, who am unable to find within myself\n\nThe proper words,\n\nSo that, looking on her beautiful face and mien,\n\nSo as not to see less well\n\nI would deign to lose together both life and light.\n\nThe amorous mood of the song is conveyed by the singer's passionate, voluptuous expression. The beam of light that rakes the room, illuminating the boy's face with its flash of radiance, may be Caravaggio's own metaphor for 'that proud light of my lady'. The melancholy poetry of a song has been translated into the texture of painting.\n\nThe prominent still life may have been intended to enhance the bittersweet mood. Faded flowers traditionally symbolized the transience of life and love. Baglione singled them out for particular praise, focusing on 'the carafe of flowers filled with water, in which we see clearly the reflection of a window and other objects in the room, while on the petals of the flowers there are dewdrops imitated most exquisitely'. The flowers have indeed been depicted with meticulous care, each one sharply individuated. But they pose a puzzle because neither they, nor the fruit, can possibly have been painted by Caravaggio himself. The handling is very different in this part of the painting, much harder in the outlines, with a pernicketiness in the finish that is quite alien to his style. The vase of flowers strikes an especially discordant note. The enamelled blooms are piled high in a merely decorative profusion. They have none of the weight, none of the mute and insistent singularity, of things seen and painted by Caravaggio. It is conceivable that the fruit and flowers were added by the Netherlandish painter Jan Bruegel (1568\u20131625), who was in Rome in the mid 1590s. The second son of Pieter Bruegel the Elder, Jan Bruegel was a favourite of Carlo Borromeo's cousin Cardinal Federico Borromeo, a friend of del Monte who lived close to the Palazzo Madama from 1597 to 1601. With Borromeo's encouragement, Bruegel would later become a specialist painter of flowers in vases. Given that he was certainly in Caravaggio's circle and in Rome at the right time, he is a plausible candidate for authorship of _The Lute Player_ 's mysterious bouquet.\n\nJan Bruegel's patron, Federico Borromeo, was one of the first collectors of still life painting. It was for him that Caravaggio painted his only pure example of the genre, the _Basket of Fruit_ , now in the Ambrosiana Library in Milan. Created some time in the later 1590s, it is among the very first autonomous still life pictures, a muffled explosion of morbidity and metaphysical aspiration, and another testament to Caravaggio's extreme originality.\n\nThe _Basket of Fruit_ was elaborated from the earlier _Boy with a Basket of Fruit_. What it shows, essentially, is the basket without the boy. The weight of the painter's attention on his apparently straightforward theme is palpable. The basket on this occasion contains a considerably reduced ration of produce. There are figs, an apple, a quince, a peach, a pear and four bunches of bloom-clouded grapes. These are the fruits of late summer, ripe to succulence, but also on the turn. There is a dark wormhole in the red-streaked cheek of the apple. Two of the grapes at the apex of the uppermost bunch have shrivelled to raisins. There are black spots as well as bright pearls of dew on some of the foliage. A parched vine leaf has turned thinner than paper, while the peach leaves have curled and dried to dark, perforated twists. The basket of woven straw has been placed on the most minimally suggested of ledges. It overhangs the edge a little, a fact that the painter indicates with the smallest crescent of black shadow. The transience of nature is linked to precariousness. Entropy and the fear of falling are connected in Caravaggio's mind.\n\nThe background of the painting is a golden void, reminiscent of a cream-coloured wall in the sun. An early inventory of Federico Borromeo's collection shows that it was kept unframed. This may have been deliberate: it may have been hung high on a wall the same colour as the ground, to emphasize its _trompe-l'\u00e6il_ effect and make it yet more of a tantalus. In any case, the blank background had been a characteristic peculiarity of Caravaggio's work from the very start of his career. It is the hallmark of an artist utterly uninterested in extraneous detail. For Caravaggio, making images is a way of focusing the mind. To paint something is to isolate it for the purposes of contemplation.\n\nThe total isolation of forms in the _Basket of Fruit_ might have lent the image a quality of objectivity, akin to that of the contemporary specimen studies in the albums compiled for Cassiano dal Pozzo collectively known as 'The Paper Museum'. But in Caravaggio's hands it has the opposite effect. The objects of his concern have been removed from the world of the merely mundane. The possibility of transfiguration seems to linger in the stillness that surrounds them. The picture implicitly contrasts death with hope. From withered grapes comes wine, just as from the dead body of Christ flowed the blood of salvation. The fruits and leaves are haloed by the golden light, which seems to emanate from several sources. The light gives modelling to some and reduces others to sharp and ragged silhouettes. There is a measure and a rhythm to the arrangement of objects and shapes, which creates the sense that there must be more going on than meets the eye. Leaves droop and curl with an exquisite sense of placement, fastidiously arranged in such a way as to hang clear in the golden air.\n\nCaravaggio exhausted the genre of still life \u2013 for himself, at least \u2013 in the act of painting his only example of it. Roberto Longhi, searching for words to express the uniqueness of the painting, called it 'a humble biological drama'. It is precisely the picture's dramatic quality that makes it so unusual, and so powerful. The _vanitas_ connotations of bruised fruit and the eucharistic implications of grapes come together in the painted basket. But the accumulation of symbols is not enough for Caravaggio, who prefers to express his meaning dynamically. His idea of still life painting is not an assemblage of objects but a theatre of forms. The huddled windfall fruit have a corporeal solidity. The grapes overspill. The foliage is uncannily anthropomorphized. The most daring detail is the single tendril of vine that reaches into the picture from an unexplained point of origin outside its right-hand edge. The blackened silhouettes of leaves hanging from that single, knubbled stalk might almost be hands stretching. They are figures of death or desperation reaching towards the light and life. The work is, in the end, only a still life painting, but it is filled with the same energies, the same sense of agony and paroxysm, as Caravaggio's greatest religious pictures.\n\nThe origins of the _Basket of Fruit_ remain obscure. It might have been commissioned directly by Federico Borromeo when he lived in Rome, between April 1597 and May 1601. Or it might have been a gift from Cardinal del Monte. In a letter to Borromeo of 1596, del Monte thanks him for certain presents received and expresses his intention to reciprocate with a gift of 'paintings and clocks'. He says he is sorry for the delay, caused by the fact that 'I am dealing with persons with whom I have to arm myself with patience' \u2013 which sounds like a reference to the temperamental Caravaggio.\n\nOpinion is also divided on the question of what Borromeo thought of the painting. He singled it out in an intriguing passage in his _Musaeum_ , part of a tract entitled ' _De Pictura Sacra'_ , 'Of Sacred Painting', written in 1618: 'Of not little value is a basket containing flowers in lively tints. It was made by Michelangelo da Caravaggio who acquired a great name in Rome. I would have liked to place another similar basket nearby, but no other having attained the incomparable beauty and excellence of this, it remained alone.' Borromeo's reference to flowers instead of fruit has called into question the sincerity of his admiration for the painting. If he had truly loved it, surely he would never have made such an elementary mistake. But it was not uncommon for a churchman to refer to the mystic grapes of Christian belief as _flores vineae_ , the 'flowers of the vine' \u2013 a phrase inspired by the Song of Songs. Rather than indicating Borromeo's indifference to the picture, the passage may actually reveal his awareness of its deeper connotations.\n\n#### PAINTINGS FOR PRAYER AND DEVOTION\n\nFederico Borromeo's ownership of the _Basket of Fruit_ suggests that with del Monte's support Caravaggio's circle of patrons and collectors soon widened. As well as painting secular subjects, such as _The Musicians_ and _The Lute Player_ for del Monte himself, the artist created a number of private devotional works \u2013 images of the saints, and the Holy Family, intended as aids to prayer and meditation. These too were subtle and original works that did much to enhance his steadily growing reputation for independence of thought and style.\n\nTwo of these religious pictures, _The Penitent Magdalen_ and _The Rest on the Flight to Egypt_ , have been together in the Pamphili Collection in Rome ever since they were first recorded there in an inventory of 1652. Their earlier history is not known for certain but it is likely that their first owner was Donna Olimpia Aldobrandini, whose heir married Prince Camillo Pamphili in 1647, taking all the family pictures with her. Olimpia Aldobrandini was the niece of Cardinal Pietro Aldobrandini, with whom Cardinal del Monte played hazard and frequented the company of courtesans, so she would have been well placed to buy works from Caravaggio in the later 1590s; these two pictures appear to have been part of the unsold stock that the painter brought with him when he moved to the Palazzo Madama. Mancini, the most reliable source of information about the early years, says that both were painted at around the same time as _The Gypsy Fortune-Teller_ , when Caravaggio was living in the house of Monsignor Fatin Petrigiani. That would place them in 1595\u20136, a date consistent with their lightness of palette and slightly soft style.\n\nBellori thought _The Penitent Magdalen_ was a shockingly unorthodox work of art and described it as one of the most extreme examples of Caravaggio's obsession with reproducing raw and unmediated reality:\n\n> Since Caravaggio aspired only to the glory of colour, so that complexion, skin, blood and natural surfaces might appear real, he directed his eye and work solely to that end, leaving aside all the other aspects of art. Therefore, in order to find figure types and to compose them, when he came upon someone in town who pleased him he made no attempt to improve on the creations of Nature. He painted a girl drying her hair, seated on a little chair with her hands in her lap. He portrayed her in a room, adding a small ointment jar, jewels and gems on the floor, pretending that she is the Magdalen. She holds her head a little to one side, and her cheek, neck and breast are rendered in pure, simple, and true colours, enhanced by the simplicity of the whole figure, with her arms covered by a blouse and her yellow gown drawn up to her knees over a white underskirt of flowered damask. We have described this figure in detail in order to show his naturalistic style and the way in which he imitates truthful colouring by using only a few hues.\n\nNeither for the first nor the last time in his life of Caravaggio, Bellori's criticism was mitigated by grudging admiration. Compelled by his own academic dogma to dismiss the work, he none the less responded instinctively to its vivid style and unusual composition.\n\nMary Magdalen was one of the most popular saints of the Counter-Reformation Catholic Church, which placed a heavy emphasis on the moral responsibilities of each and every believer. She was held up as a shining example of penance and conversion, a beacon for all those languishing in darkness and sin. According to the most prominent part of her legend, she was a prostitute who repented, and 'the woman whom Jesus loved'. The biblical Mary Magdalen was the woman from whose mouth 'seven devils' were exorcised in the gospel of St Luke. But tradition also identified her with Mary, the sister of Martha and Lazarus of Bethany, and with the unnamed repentant sinner blessed by Christ for washing his feet with her tears, drying them with her hair and anointing them with oil (Luke 7:37\u201350). In the Eastern Church these figures were regarded as separate individuals, but in the West all three were merged into Mary Magdalen. Her fable was further embroidered during the Middle Ages, when she was said to have travelled from the holy land to the South of France, where she 'went into the desert and dwelt there thirty years without knowing of any man or woman'.\n\nIn the mid fifteenth century the Florentine sculptor Donatello had carved a harrowingly ascetic sculpture of Mary Magdalen in the wilderness, portraying her as a gap-toothed hermit with withered flesh, wasting away in a hair shirt. But by Caravaggio's time, Donatello's raw immediacy of imagining had fallen out of fashion. The image of Mary Magdalen, epitome of the repentant prostitute, had become fossilized by convention into two basic types: either she appeared as a beautiful nude in a landscape, decorously draped by tresses of her own luxuriant hair, praying before a crucifix and skull; or she appeared as a demure aristocrat reading a book indoors.\n\nCaravaggio rejected both of those stereotypes to create his own, highly distinctive image of Mary Magdalen. The hands of the figure are boneless and the anatomy of her chest and neck unconvincing, but the painter's conception of the subject is impressively original and characteristically dramatic. Caravaggio placed the girl who modelled for the painting on a chair so low that her knees must have been only inches off the ground. As a result, she is seen from above, almost as in a compressed version of a bird's-eye view, so that at first sight it is not quite clear whether she is sitting or lying outflung on the ground. It may have been this extremely unusual perspective, so alien to the pictorial conventions of the time, that led Bellori to think of the work as a perverse exercise in purely optical painting. But it has a poetic point to it. By seating Mary Magdalen so low, Caravaggio emphasizes her humility \u2013 the etymology of which, derived from the Latin _humus_ , or 'ground', itself expresses the idea of abasement.\n\nCaravaggio's Magdalen is no emblem, but a person in turmoil. She sits in darkness, but above her an abstract wedge of light intrudes, as if to dramatize the light of Christ entering her soul. The painter depicts her in the immediate aftermath of her conversion \u2013 the moment just after Christ says, 'Thy faith has saved thee; go in peace.' A single tear trickles down the side of her nose. She has torn off her gold and her jewels and scattered them on the ground. The glass jar beside her, three quarters full, contains the same unguent with which she anointed Christ's feet. It is echoed by the shape of a vase in the damask of her dress, a visual pun that may have its own significance. She is herself like a vessel that has been filled with the spirit of the Lord. Her closed eyes suggest the idea that she is looking within, perhaps even experiencing the transports of mystic vision. She looks as though she is cradling an imaginary child. Perhaps she is thinking about her namesake, the Virgin Mary, and reflecting on the mystery of the mother whose divine child is foredoomed to die.\n\nWhen Caravaggio reimagined the Magdalen in this way, when he thought about the heart of her story and asked himself how to bring that story to life, he was doing just what Carlo Borromeo had urged the preachers of post-Tridentine Milan to do. The true precedent for his painting lay in images formed from words, rather than paint or stone. There is nothing like his _Penitent Magdalen_ in the visual art of late sixteenth-century Italy, but turn to the sermons of the time and close parallels can be found. The following, for example, is a description of Mary Magdalen in the passionate transports of her conversion given in a sermon by Francesco Panigarola, a preacher closely associated with Borromeo: 'now she retraces her steps, her legs stagger, now she starts to take off all her vain ornaments, now to utter cruel invectives against indecent womankind, now to disparage the beauty of the eyes, now to groan, exclaiming, \"Oh roof, why don't you fall down and crush me?\" Casting down her necklaces and jewels, shaking her tresses, violently wringing her hands, she trembled...' Caravaggio's picture is like a still image pulled from the flow of such thoughts. It would always be his practice as a religious painter to rethink sacred story as living drama. Perhaps, when he did so, he often began by remembering the images conjured up in the sermons of his childhood.\n\n_The Rest on the Flight to Egypt_ , always closely associated with _The Penitent Magdalen_ , must have been painted at around the same time. Caravaggio employed the same young model, a redhead, in both cases. In the second picture she has metamorphosed from distraught courtesan to exhausted Madonna. She sits cross-legged on the ground, cradling the infant Christ in her lap. The baby sleeps peacefully but the mother's rest is more fitful; Mary's head lolls, her cheek resting on the crown of the infant Christ's head. Her brow is furrowed. There is some hesitancy in Caravaggio's painting here. He has trouble articulating the junctures of chin and neck, neck and shoulder, and her limp hands are only a little more convincing than those of the _Penitent Magdalen_. But there is great tenderness, none the less, in the artist's idea of mother and child. The heavy-headed Mary is a refugee huddled with her baby, snatching a moment of rest while she can. Bellori, that keen if reluctant admirer of Caravaggio's humanity, noted the poignancy of 'the Madonna who, with her head inclined, sleeps with her baby at her breast'.\n\nOn the other side of the painting sits a wizened, greybeard St Joseph. Wrapped in folds of heavy brown cloth, he has the weather-worn face of a working man. He rubs one of his bare feet with the other in a way that suggests he is feeling the cold. His head is placed almost disconcertingly close to that of the ass, which stands patiently behind him. The objects beside him, a bundle wrapped in green striped cloth and a flagon of wine sealed with a twist of paper, speak of the family's hurried displacement. Caravaggio's Holy Family is very much in hiding. They nestle close together, within a bower sheltered by undergrowth. Like illegal immigrants seeking to avoid detection, they have made themselves small and unobtrusive.\n\nThe painter's biblical source was the Book of Matthew, 2:12\u201315, which recounts the events immediately preceding Herod's massacre of the innocents: 'the angel of the Lord appeareth to Joseph in a dream, saying, Arise, and take the young child and his mother, and flee into Egypt, and be thou there until I bring thee word: for Herod will seek the young child to destroy him.' Between Mary cradling the Christ child and the figure of Joseph, Caravaggio has included the angel of the Lord \u2013 a smooth-skinned adolescent boy, scantily draped, seen from behind, face in half-profile. The only upright form in the painting, the figure resembles a pillar of divine light against the dark clouds that hover over the landscape in the background. The angel plays a violin while Joseph obligingly holds up a musical part-book.\n\nThe music being played has been identified. It is the four-voiced _Quam pulchra es et quam decora_ , composed by Noel Bauldewyn ( _c_. 1480\u20131520) to a medieval text drawn in patchwork fashion from the verses of the Song of Songs. The angelic music solemnizes the spiritual union of Caravaggio's sleepy mother and child, so they are to be understood as the true husband and wife in the scene. Joseph earnestly contemplates the angel, as if straining to understand the mystical significance of the heavenly vision. But, like the slow and faithful ass with which he has been paired, he does not fully grasp the elusive meaning of the notes that fill the air.\n\nHis incomprehension might well have been echoed by many of Caravaggio's contemporaries. Because the painter rendered the notes in the musical part-book without the actual words from the Song of Songs, a vital part of the iconography of his painting was encrypted from the outset. _The Rest on the Flight to Egypt_ has an air of secrecy about it. In many respects it is a touchingly direct dramatization of a biblical story. But it is also occluded, a painting of different levels and layers designed to speak fully only to those who have been initiated into its mysteries.\n\nThe standing angel is one of the young Caravaggio's most haunting inventions. There was nothing in the Bible or any of the Christian apocrypha to suggest the playing of heavenly music during the Holy Family's flight to Egypt. A music-making guardian angel did appear in medieval miracle plays telling the story. The painter may have seen dramas of this kind, which were traditionally staged at Christmas, and perhaps he intended to evoke popular sacred theatre. But Caravaggio's precise visual source for the angel was far removed from the world of medieval piety. He lifted the figure directly from _The Judgement of Hercules_ , a mythological picture of 1596 painted for one of the ceilings of the Palazzo Farnese by Annibale Carracci. That painting, now in the Museo di Capodimonte, Naples, shows the mythical character Hercules choosing between two female figures personifying Vice and Virtue. It was the scantily clad figure of Vice that Caravaggio daringly chose to transform into his own half-naked angel. Caravaggio's career would be marked by bitter rivalry with a number of other painters, including Annibale Carracci. So it seems likely that he was deliberately courting comparisons between his own work and Carracci's _Judgement of Hercules_ , which was painted only a few months earlier.\n\nAppropriation is Caravaggio's pretext for a virtuoso display of his own powers. The thief turns out to be a magician. Annibale's figure is a heavy, sculpturally draped figment of the late Renaissance, a being abstracted from reality into the realm of art. Caravaggio's angelic boy is a type of ideal beauty, but he has been brought down to earth. His feet touch the dark soil, his slender legs shift to transfer his weight to his left side, his curly hair is tousled by the wind. Even his wings, evidently modelled on those of a pigeon, announce Caravaggio's distinctive attachment to actuality. An unnecessary curl of surplus string coils from one of the pegs of the angel's violin, a final grace note of captivating realism. All this serves to emphasize the gulf between Carracci's disembodied spirit of sensuality and Caravaggio's fully realized angel. But the most daring trope of inversion is the transformation of the figure's essential meaning. An embodiment of temptation has been recast as an angel. Vice has been sanctified. The profane is invested with sacred meaning, just as it is in the Songs of Songs. Like the half-concealed text at its heart, _The Rest on the Flight to Egypt_ is charged with erotic feeling. The alluring and mysterious angel, sensuality and divinity intertwined, splits the picture like a bolt of lightning.\n\nShortly after painting _The Penitent Magdalen_ and _The Rest on the Flight to Egypt_ , Caravaggio created perhaps the most daring of all his early devotional pictures. _St Francis of Assisi in Ecstasy_ is now in the Wadsworth Atheneum, Connecticut. The painting is a nocturne, set in a landscape of gloomy indistinctness lit by the first distant gleams of dawn. The painter directs a focusing beam of divine light on to the form of the ecstatic saint, as he swoons into the arms of his guardian angel.\n\nScholars disagree about who commissioned the picture from Caravaggio. The two candidates are Ottavio Costa, a rich banker, and del Monte himself. There is a case to be made for either, and even for both. A picture of St Francis by Caravaggio is recorded in Costa's will of 1605, while 'A _St Francis in Ecstasy_ by Michel Agnolo [ _sic_ ] da Caravaggio with an adorned gold frame of four palmi' was sold by del Monte's heir in 1627. It is not known if these were one and the same picture, or two versions of the same composition. Cardinal del Monte's Christian name was Francesco, and as we have seen he had a particular fondness for images of the saints. So, though the complications of its early history may never be fully unpicked, the picture now in Connecticut may well have hung at one time in the Palazzo Madama \u2013 perhaps not far from Caravaggio's earlier painting of a musical rehearsal. There is a striking resemblance between the boy with Cupid's wings in _The Musicians_ and the angel cradling the ecstatic saint in the later picture. The same model probably posed for both figures.\n\n_St Francis of Assisi in Ecstasy_ is a crucial painting in Caravaggio's early development. It announces the stark tenebrism that would become the hallmark of the painter's revolutionary style \u2013 that 'boldly dark and black colouring,' in Bellori's words, 'which he used abundantly to give relief to the forms'. It also displays for the first time Caravaggio's lifelong fascination for the strongest and most intense strains of Counter-Reformation Catholic spirituality. It expresses the idea of a transfiguring love of Christ, a love so deep that it becomes a form of mystic self-annihilation.\n\nIn Italy during the later years of the sixteenth century, the thirteenth-century Francis was regarded as the saint to emulate above all others. The Counter-Reformation Church looked back to the Middle Ages as a time of powerfully simple piety, uncomplicated by divisive theological speculation. Francis had practised an emotive, theatrical form of preaching, which spoke to the feelings rather than the intellect. He encouraged his followers to venerate nature as God's blessed creation, and held that the only way to follow Christ's message was to live it out in daily life. In prayer, he sought to visualize the events of the New Testament. In public, he would act them out, turning his own body into the living image of Jesus Christ. In sackcloth and ashes, haltered like a beast, he would re-enact the humiliations of the journey on the road to Calvary. The central event of Francis's life was itself a miracle of empathetic identification. One day the saint focused his prayers so strongly on the image of Christ that the wounds of Crucifixion were miraculously branded on his own body. The idea of the stigmata was in turn burned into the Christian folk memory, becoming the ultimate symbol of the power of prayer and visualization to lead the believer towards God. This is the theme of Caravaggio's picture, and it became a guiding principle of his art. All his religious paintings would be re-enactments or reimaginings, closely akin to the vivid theatricality of Franciscan devotion.\n\nThe miracle of the stigmata is most fully described in St Bonaventure's mid thirteenth-century _Life of St Francis._ Bonaventure relates that the saint went up to Mount La Verna, an isolated mountain at the centre of the Apennines, with one of his followers, Brother Leo, to pray and fast. While he was absorbed in devotion to Christ, a seraph with six flaming wings appeared to him in the sky. As the seraph came nearer, Francis saw the figure of a man crucified between its wings:\n\n> He marvelled exceedingly at the appearance of a vision so unfathomable, knowing that the infirmity of the Passion doth in no wise accord with the immortality of a Seraphic spirit. At length he understood therefrom, the Lord revealing it unto him, that this vision had been thus presented unto his gaze by the divine providence, that the friend of Christ might have foreknowledge that he was to be wholly transformed into the likeness of Christ crucified, not by martyrdom of body, but by enkindling of heart. Accordingly, as the vision disappeared, it left in his heart a wondrous glow, but on his flesh also it imprinted a no less wondrous likeness of its tokens. For forthwith there began to appear in his hands and feet the marks of the nails, even as he had just beheld them in that Figure of the Crucified... The right side, moreover, was \u2013 as if it had been pierced by a lance.\n\nSt Bonaventure makes a minute distinction here. The Lord makes it known to Francis that he will be transformed into 'the likeness of Christ crucified' not by the mortification of his flesh but by the inner burning of love in his heart \u2013 'not by martyrdom of body, but by enkindling of heart'. It is love, not pain, that transfigures the human being in search of God. Once Francis understands this, the seraph disappears. A wound appears in Francis's heart at that very moment; immediately afterwards the marks of the stigmata appear on the saint's hands and feet.\n\nCaravaggio's composition indicates not only that he had read St Bonaventure's _Life of St Francis_ , but that he intended to dramatize the crucial moment in the story \u2013 the moment when, as the seraph disappears, the wound appears in the saint's heart. As Caravaggio's saint swoons backwards, he reaches involuntarily with his right hand towards a rent in his habit where a wound in his side has already started bleeding. There are no signs of stigmata in his hands or his feet, and there is no seraph in the sky. There was no precedent, in depictions of St Francis, for including the wound in his side and omitting the others. There was no precedent, either, for the compassionate kneeling angel who cradles the saint in his arms. Caravaggio was also the first artist to depict the saint lying down at the moment of his stigmatization.\n\nIn every sense \u2013 style, iconography, drama \u2013 the painting broke new ground. It certainly gives the lie to the slander that Caravaggio was an untutored Lombard realist, bent solely on dazzling with the mimetic brilliance of his art. _St Francis of Assisi in Ecstasy_ is a picture full of subtle, poetic reflections on the deeper meaning of Francis's transfiguring moment of communion with Christ. Barely visible in the gloom behind the angel and the saint, a little group of shepherds is gathered round a campfire, one of them pointing excitedly to the heavens. Here, Caravaggio consciously echoes the traditional imagery of Christ's Nativity \u2013 which had itself often been painted as a nocturne \u2013 as if to imply that at the moment of his swooning ecstasy Francis really has been reborn in the image of Christ himself. Implicit in this brief moment of death-in-life is, therefore, a second birth for Francis, marking out his destiny to live only in and for Christ \u2013 to live as _alter Christus_ , or 'another Christ', as his legend had it.\n\nThe group of saint and angel echoes another tradition of Christian art, recalling images of the dead Christ cradled in the arms of his mother, the Virgin Mary. Caravaggio's angel is taller than the figure of St Francis, which has sometimes been put down to the painter's youthful clumsiness, but this too is actually a poetic device, enhancing the pathos of the saint's helpless body: in many images of the Virgin mourning Christ's death, including Michelangelo's celebrated marble _Piet\u00e0_ in St Peter's, the mother's supporting body is much larger than that of her lifeless son. This echo of Christ's death and lamentation may also have been meant to express the idea that it was through the act of meditating on Christ's passion that Francis brought the miracle of his own transfiguration upon himself. By thinking about the dead Christ, he achieved the state of electrifying empathy that summoned forth the blessed vision of the seraph.\n\nFrancis was a figure from the relatively recent past. His legend was treasured by Catholics, not least because it seemed such a tangible demonstration of the continuing presence of a miracle-working God in the real and actual world. Protestants disapproved of the veneration of saints and their relics, arguing that too much worship had been displaced from its proper focus on God alone. The destruction of shrines and the suppression of pilgrimage in countries of the Protestant north was, in part, an attempt to stem this perceived haemorrhaging of holiness from the divine centre to the apocryphal margin. But in Catholic Italy, it was feared that such theological purism might rob the world altogether of its Christian magic. To abandon the images and relics of the saints, together with the rituals associated with their veneration, might create the sense of a terminally disenchanted present, cut adrift from the sacred past.\n\nMany of the religious initiatives of the Counter-Reformation addressed this nexus of fear, desire and belief. One of the challenges that the Catholic Church set itself in Caravaggio's time was that of demonstrating that the old and the modern Christian worlds were not distinct and separate eras but formed, instead, a single unbroken continuum. The very fabric of Rome, where so many of the dramas of Christian history had been played out, was itself interrogated for evidence of this. The discovery of the catacombs, burial places of the earliest generations of Roman Christians, led to a boom in the field of what might be called sacred archaeology. The seventeenth-century Bishop of Vaison, Joseph Maria Suarez, examined the mosaics of ancient Rome from a Christian perspective. Antonio Bosio's study of the city's buried architectural bones, _Roma Sotterranea_ , was posthumously published in 1632. Another scholar, Antonio Gallonio, spent years studying the instruments and reconstructing the methods of early Christian martyrdom, publishing the results in 1591 as _The Tortures and Torments of the Christian Martyrs_. Gallonio gave the different chapters of his book gorily circumstantial titles \u2013 'Of the Wheel, the Pulley and the Press as Instruments of Torture', or 'Of Instruments Wherewith the Heathen Were Used to Tear the Flesh of Christ's Faithful Servants, to wit Iron Claws, Hooks and Currycombs' \u2013 and his text proved immensely popular. The more lavishly illustrated editions bear vivid witness to the author's underlying ambition, that of making the holy deaths of venerable memory seem as gruesomely fresh as yesterday's executions.\n\nThe past was not to be thought of as the past. The age of miracles and martyrdoms was not another time, dead and buried, the passing of which was to be mourned; it was part of the present. To go on pilgrimage, as Catholics were encouraged to do, was to reaffirm precisely that belief, because to travel to a holy site was to move through time as well as through space \u2013 journeying back through the centuries, in mind and spirit, to relive the events of sacred history as if they were taking place in the here and now. Ascanio Donguidi, Augustinian Canon Regular of San Giovanni in Laterano, one of the principal pilgrimage churches of Rome, published a guidebook for prospective pilgrims in 1600. On approaching St Peter's, he advised,\n\n> You will greatly enjoy thinking about your visit to all the Saints whose relics are kept in that Church. Imagine yourself having found the saints present and alive... O with how much great devotion and fervour and joy of heart you would go into Saint Peter's, if you truly believed to find him... sitting in his Pontifical Throne, or how you would hurry, even run, if you imagined being able to find present [and alive] in said Church where they are buried, all the Holy Martyrs, Popes, Confessors and Holy Virgins. And [it is not only a figment of your imagination] because it is true that you are going to visit them, and it is very true that they are living a life of glory. And they will listen to your petitions, prayers and supplications and will present them to God.\n\nNot only were the old saints to be venerated, to be conversed with as if they were still alive. It was to be known that their miracles were being actively repeated in the contemporary world, in the lives of new saints elect. Ecstasies of empathetic love akin to those of Francis loomed large in the lives of sixteenth-century penitents, priests and charismatic nuns. St Teresa of Avila's memoirs, published in 1588, famously told of an angel coming to her when she was deep in prayer and piercing her breast with an arrow of divine love: 'It is not bodily pain, but spiritual, though the body has a share in it \u2013 indeed, a great share, so sweet are the colloquies of love which pass between the soul and God that if anyone thinks I am lying I beseech God, in his goodness, to give him the same experience.'\n\nCaravaggio's painting was intended to prompt reflections on more than the stigmatization of Francis alone. _St Francis of Assisi in Ecstasy_ embodied an ideal of transfiguring Christian love, exemplified not only by St Francis, and by St Teresa, but also \u2013 still closer to Roman hearts \u2013 by St Filippo Neri, founder of the Oratory. Like Teresa, Neri had been fascinated both by the legends of a saint such as Francis of Assisi, and by the power and authority of the primitive Church. In early life he prayed continually in the catacombs of Rome's most ancient saints of all; and it was in the Catacomb of San Sebastiano that he experienced his own ecstasy and his own divine wound of love:\n\n> In 1544, just before the feast of Pentecost, Philip, while still a layman, was praying to the Holy Ghost in the Catacomb of San Sebastiano, when he seemed to see a globe of fire which entered his mouth and sank down into his heart. At the same time he felt a fire of love which seemed to be a positive physical heat, so that he had to throw himself on the ground and bare his breast to cool it. When he rose he was seized with a violent trembling, accompanied by an extraordinary sense of joy, and putting his hand to his heart, felt there a swelling as big as a man's fist... At the same time there began that palpitation of the heart which lasted throughout his life, and made itself felt particularly when he was praying, hearing confession, saying Mass, or giving communion, or when he was speaking on some subject which stirred his emotions. So violent was this palpitation that it was described by those who knew him best as being like the blows of a hammer, while the trembling it caused was such as to shake his chair, his bed, or sometimes the whole room. Yet, when he pressed his penitents to his heart they felt an extraordinary consolation...\n\nSuch modern stories of saintly ecstasy were well known to those who commissioned and paid for Caravaggio's early devotional pictures. Neri had confided the tale of his blissful ordeal by divine fire to none other than Cardinal Federico Borromeo, owner of Caravaggio's _Basket of Fruit_. Near the end of his life, Cardinal del Monte delivered a _laudatio_ of St Teresa, on the occasion of her canonization.\n\nCaravaggio's strong and unusual emphasis on the love that burned within Francis's heart expressly evoked the parallels between his legend and those of the modern saints. The sacred past is projected into the present. The holy light that shone on Francis might still shine on anyone with eyes to see. _St Francis of Assisi in Ecstasy_ is more than an illustration of an episode in the life of a saint. The picture offers a consoling dream of transfiguration, a condition of oneness with Christ to which anyone might aspire. That is the significance of its most striking detail, the creased and eyes-closed face of the ecstatic saint. Caravaggio painted St Francis as a real, flesh-and-blood human being, a man with sharply defined features, someone who might be easily recognized, even on the dark streets of Rome by night. Not only that \u2013 he gave the saint his own face. It is an extraordinary statement of self-identification, but one that would be more than justified by Caravaggio's subsequent religious works. No other painter of his time would do more to revive and proclaim the solemn, ascetic sense of humility at the heart of the Franciscan ideal.\n\n#### BETWEEN SACRED AND PROFANE\n\nThe sacred and the profane are inextricably intertwined in Caravaggio's early work. Pictures of apparently mundane subjects are depth-charged with spiritual yearning, while flashes of intoxicating eroticism dart from pictures of the saints or the Holy Family. The painter dreams of angelic beauty, but can only embody it as one beautiful boy after another. The sensual and sexual appeal of such youthful, smooth-skinned figures as the coquettish, music-playing angel in _The Rest on the Flight_ , or the angelic ministrant to St Francis, has been taken as evidence of the painter's homosexuality. The truth is not straightforward. Caravaggio was capable of being aroused by the physical presence of other men. He could not have painted such figures in the way that he did if that were not so. But he was equally attracted to women, as certain other paintings from the late 1590s, such as the transfixing _St Catherine of Alexandria_ , plainly demonstrate. Insofar as the art reveals the man, Caravaggio's painting suggests an ambiguous sexual personality. On the evidence of his paintings he was neither heterosexual nor homosexual, terms that are in any case anachronistic when applied to his world. He was omnisexual.\n\nThe devouring way in which Caravaggio looked at the world made it all but impossible for him to paint idealized forms. There is a quality of seemingly involuntary vividness in many of the details of his paintings \u2013 a quality that, increasingly, he learned to control and to manipulate. This both intrigued and fascinated his contemporaries, and brought a dangerous unpredictability to his pictures. Something base and ordinary might suddenly seem touched by a miracle; a holy mystery could shade into figments snatched from an erotic daydream. Caravaggio's early work is beguiling, in part, because it is so ambiguous and metamorphic. It expresses the truancies of the painter's imagination and allows space for the unregulated responses of the viewer's wandering eye. It speaks of piety but makes concessions to the impious mind, guiltily mingling the pleasures of the world with a genuine sense of devotion.\n\nCaravaggio's more sophisticated patrons were attuned to such subtle ambiguities. The best evidence for this is an intriguing correspondence between a cleric from Vicenza named Paolo Gualdo and Cardinal Ottavio Paravicino. Paravicino, who had been present at Vittoria Archileo's concert, was a friend of del Monte and one of three Roman cardinals certainly linked with Filippo Neri's Oratory. Gualdo was a scholarly cleric with strong connections to the humanist culture of the Veneto in general and Vicenza in particular. He was a friend of the poet Tasso and wrote a biography of the architect Palladio. He was also a lover of painting, who had tried and failed to obtain a picture by Caravaggio.\n\nIn one of his letters to Paravicino, Gualdo harks back to that disappointment. Referring to himself in the third person, and writing in a spirit of knowingly ironical self-deprecation, he casts himself in the role of a simple impecunious man of the cloth, motivated by philanthropy as well as the love of art, whose overtures to Caravaggio have been unfairly rebuffed: 'the good priest has a certain discernment when it comes to painting, but not very many jewels to fund his fancy, so this seemed a good occasion to help a _galant'huomo_ of the art of painting, and in the process obtain some graceful little picture.'\n\nThe allusion to Caravaggio as a _galant'huomo_ suggests not only his pre-eminence as a painter but also a degree of social pretension. The term, which was used interchangeably with _valent'huomo_ , signified a virtuoso or a man of especial expertise in his chosen field. But it also carried associations of worth and, by extension, honour. Gualdo's letter was written in 1603, but, given that he refers to a small picture, and elsewhere mentions the name of Cardinal del Monte, it seems reasonable to believe that he had the painter's work of the mid to late 1590s in mind.\n\nA yet more interesting letter about Caravaggio was written by Paravicino to Gualdo in August 1603. It is a teasing text, composed in courtly riddles and insinuations, which takes the form of an imaginary encounter between the phantom of Caravaggio and a caricatured version of Paravicino's friend, Gualdo himself, the cleric from Vicenza:\n\n> Michelangelo da Caravaggio, excellent Painter, says that he came as a shade or spirit to Vicenza, and met a _galant'huomo_ who loves paintings and who asked him wondrous many questions. He describes, but does not paint with his brush, a priest with the air of a solemnly reformed cleric, a man who, if he did not speak, would appear to be a Theatine. [The Theatines were a Counter-Reformation order of clerics noted for their asceticism and moral severity.] But when he does open his mouth he touches on every topic, and does so in a spirit of gallantry. It seems to me that he has a tincture of all the sciences, says Caravaggio, but since I lack the necessary expertise myself I cannot touch the marrow of his actual knowledge. He describes himself as extremely keen to have something painted, one minute speaking of various churches, the next of having some beautiful work painted for his lordship the Bishop of Padua. But Caravaggio would have made for him some painting that would have been in that middle area, between the sacred, and the profane \u2013 a kind of picture that he would not have wanted to see from a distance...\n\nThe aim of the letter is to tease Gualdo and to puncture, with the lightest of touches, his holier-than-thou pretensions \u2013 which had themselves been expressed in a spirit of ironic self-parody. Caravaggio and his art are merely the tools employed to that ludic end. But, for all its cryptic circumlocutions, Paravicino's letter reveals much about the risky pleasures enjoyed by keen-eyed connoisseurs of Caravaggio's painting.\n\nThe whole passage turns on the play between appearance and reality. The figure of Gualdo seems at first to be a severe and utterly correct Counter-Reformation cleric, but he then discourses with gallantry on every subject under the sun, showing that he has a more restless mind than first appearances had suggested. He is not necessarily irreligious, although he thinks about more than religion alone. But even this second Gualdo, _galant'huomo_ himself of art and all the sciences, may not be everything that he seems, since the fictional Caravaggio of the letter confesses that he himself lacks the wherewithal to judge the true extent of his knowledge.\n\nA similar contrast between seeming and being is drawn in the second part of Paravicino's tale, about the imaginary commissioning of a picture. Gualdo says that he is thinking of a painting to be given to a church, or to his superior, the Bishop of Padua. But Caravaggio sees through the smokescreen of Gualdo's request and understands what would _really_ please him. He decides not to paint an altarpiece, a monumental and unimpeachably pious type of painting. That is because a public work of art, designed to be seen and read from a distance, would not suit a man of Gualdo's personality. Instead, Caravaggio will paint for him something very different \u2013 a work that might appear devout but will also appeal to a taste for profane pleasures. It will be a picture for private contemplation, 'not one that he would have wanted to see from a distance', because it would yield its secrets and pleasures only when viewed at close quarters. Such a picture, it is archly implied, would be the exact complement to Gualdo, because it would be just as slippery as the man himself. For the priest who is not entirely priestly, for the man who is not all he seems, Paravicino has found the perfect gift: a work by Caravaggio.\n\n#### _BACCHUS_ AND _HEAD OF THE MEDUSA_\n\nNone of the artist's pictures are more teasingly poised between the sacred and the profane than the _Bacchus_ that he painted sometime in 1597 or 1598 for his patron Cardinal del Monte. This later Bacchus is very different from the _Self-Portrait as Bacchus \u2013_ the malingering reveller, impersonated by the artist himself, painted during his apprentice days of discontent. The model, this time, seems to have been Caravaggio's Sicilian friend Mario Minniti. He is a swarthy, ruddy-cheeked, well-fed god of wine, crowned with a wreath of grapes and vine leaves. An air of Dionysian mystery still clings to him, but he is very much the Greek god in his Roman incarnation. Wearing a toga, he lounges on a _triclinium_ , as the ancient Romans did when feasting.\n\nThere is a decanter on the table in front of him, two thirds full of a wine so darkly crimson that it looks almost black. There are bubbles at its surface and its level is askew, a minute touch of realism that makes the moment captured in the painting seem ever more fleeting. The wine is still swinging in the heavy bowl of the decanter. The boy-god has just set it down, after pouring a glassful of the liquid into the fine-stemmed Venetian goblet that he holds, delicately, in his left hand. He offers the wine to the viewer of the painting. His expression is gently quizzical, his half-raised eyebrow both invitation and challenge: unriddle me if you can.\n\nThe _Bacchus_ is a sophisticated, courtly work of art, calculated to catch the eye and then hold it. It is an enigma embodied as a rich store of captivating details. Viewed from a certain perspective, the picture seems ripe with sensuality, bordering on outright lubricity. The barely draped boy might be no more than an elaborately wrapped sexual gift. Does he himself not hint at that possibility, with the suggestive play of his right hand in the knot of black ribbon that binds his clothes?\n\nThat would be the profane approach to the picture. But there is space for a devout approach too. There is another way of undoing that knot. Bacchus is the god of wine and of autumnal fruitfulness, and in keeping with that Caravaggio has given him another of his overflowing baskets of fruit. The black grapes have never seemed so lustrous, the figs so ripe. But the foliage once more is withered, the apple worm-eaten, the quince and the plum bruised. The pomegranate has split and collapsed, disgorging its fleshy seeds. Once more, a sense of eucharistic implication hovers in the still air. Summer has become autumn and the sere leaves at the basket's edge are the presage of death to come. But there is hope here too: the transcendent promise of eternal life is contained in the glass of wine held so carefully by the boy-god \u2013 and with such precise metaphorical intent \u2013 directly above the basket of decaying fruit.\n\nAccording to the Neoplatonic thought of the Renaissance, classical myth was alive with shadowy anticipations of Christian truth. The legend of Dionysus, who died to be reborn, was regarded as a pagan prophecy of the coming of Christ. So it was that the figure of Dionysus\/Bacchus became associated with the Saviour himself. Caravaggio's Bacchus has sad, solemn eyes. Those aware of his Christian aspect might also have noted how the toga that drapes him so loosely also resembles a winding sheet. The wine that he offers is the wine of his blood, an allusion lightly pointed by the heart-shaped shadow, angled towards the figure's heart, cast by the decanter. The apparent promise of physical delight has been transfigured, changed to a metaphysical gift.\n\nThe picture plays on the deceptive nature of appearances, yet also flaunts the very deceptions that brought it into being. As he had done in _The Musicians_ , Caravaggio allows the viewer to peer behind the scene of his own artifice. The model's face and hands are sunburned, to indicate that he is someone who has to go out into the world and earn a living under the harsh noonday sun. There are crescents of black dirt under the fingernails of his left hand. His Roman bed of repose has been created by the expedient of draping white sheets over a somewhat grubby cushion decorated with blue ticking, part of which shows through. This is not _really_ Bacchus, but a young man playing his part.\n\nThe _Bacchus_ soon found its way into the collections of the Medici in Florence. It is likely that del Monte specifically commissioned it as a gift for the grand duke. But the present does not seem to have gone down well. The god with dirty fingernails and sunburned skin may have struck the Medici as a joke in poor taste, or perhaps they were scandalized by the picture's close focus on the sensual body of a half-naked boy. Either way, the picture disappeared from view as soon as it entered the Medici collections. When it finally resurfaced, some four hundred years later, in a basement storeroom of the Uffizi Galleries, not only had it never been catalogued, it had never even been framed.\n\nIn 1598 del Monte gave another painting by Caravaggio to his Medici protector. Baglione writes that the artist created 'a head of a terrifying Medusa with vipers for hair placed on a shield, which the Cardinal sent as a gift to Ferdinando, Grand Duke of Tuscany'. Unlike the Bacchus, the _Medusa_ was enthusiastically received and prominently displayed in the Medici collections. It is one of Caravaggio's most startling inventions. Painted on to a circular piece of canvas stretched over a convex shield of poplar wood, the picture conjures up the legendary monster at the instant when she breathes her last. In Greek myth, the serpent-haired Medusa turned all who gazed upon her to stone, until the hero Perseus, looking only at her reflection in his brightly polished shield, cut off her head. In Caravaggio's painting, thick jets of blood spurt from the horrible creature's neck, which has been neatly severed just below the jaw. Her eyes stare and her mouth opens in a soundless scream. The snakes of her hair coil convulsively, each writhing in its own separate corkscrew agony of death.\n\nThe dying monster with arrestingly masculine features is yet another of the artist's self-portraits. ' _Item_ : a convex mirror', reads one of the entries in an inventory of Caravaggio's possessions. The distortions of the painter's face as it appears in the _Medusa_ indicate that he used a convex mirror to paint it. As in a convex reflection, the cheeks and forehead have been slightly broadened and elongated. Caravaggio deepens the game further by making his own convex reflection, painted on to a convex shield, look as though it is actually _concave_. The shadow cast by the Medusa's head creates the illusion of a curved circular surface scalloped away from the viewer, like a shallow bowl.\n\nCaravaggio treated the commission as a pretext for the display of his own special skills and techniques \u2013 so much so that the picture might almost be regarded as his own emblem, or _impresa_. Just as the face is the painter's own, studied from life, the snakes too were painted from actual, wriggling specimens. It is a mark of Caravaggio's pragmatism that the snakes are not vipers, but watersnakes of a type commonly found in the Tiber. He must have asked a fisherman to net some for him.\n\nJust as Perseus had slain the snake-haired Gorgon, Caravaggio set out to vanquish every other artist to have attempted the subject. The _Medusa_ is a work of such flourish and bravado that it has the look of a painting submitted for a prize. Giorgio Vasari had argued that without the intense spirit of competition between Florentine artists there could have been no Italian Renaissance. His _Lives of the Artists_ is full of accounts of such rivalry, and tales of actual contests that had taken place between artists in earlier times \u2013 for example, the story of Ghiberti and Brunelleschi competing for the commission to create a set of bronze doors for the Baptistry in Florence, or that of Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci working, side by side, on two enormous battle paintings for the council chamber of the city's town hall. By commissioning the _Medusa_ , Cardinal del Monte was consciously arranging another such competition. He was pitting Caravaggio against the celebrated Leonardo himself: not only was Leonardo's _Medusa_ one of his most famously idiosyncratic creations, it also happened to be in Florence, in the collection of the Medici. The work is lost now, surviving only in the form of a vivid account in Vasari's life of Leonardo. The story begins with Leonardo's father asking him to paint something on a shield of fig wood:\n\n> And afterwards, having given it a coat of gesso, and having prepared it in his own way, he began to think about what he could paint upon it, that might be able to terrify all who should come upon it, producing the same effect as once did the head of the Medusa. For this purpose, then, Leonardo carried to a room of his own into which no one entered save himself alone, lizards great and small, crickets, serpents, butterflies, grasshoppers, bats, and other strange kinds of suchlike animals, out of the number of which, variously put together, he formed a great ugly creature, most horrible and terrifying, which emitted a poisonous breath and turned the air to flame; and he made it come out of a dark and jagged rock, belching forth venom from its open throat, fire from its eyes, and smoke from its nostrils, in so strange a fashion that it appeared altogether a monstrous and horrible thing; and so long did he labour over making it, that the stench of the dead animals in that room was past bearing, but Leonardo did not notice it, so great was the love that he bore towards art.\n\nCaravaggio also studied live animals in the process of creating his own monster, but otherwise his _Medusa_ could hardly have been more different to that described by Vasari. Leonardo's painting sounds complicated and full of circumstantial detail, conjuring up rocks and crags, a theatrical entrance on the part of the monster, and even the air itself thick with fire and smoke, just the sort of picture that mirrored his restless mind. By contrast, the brilliance of Caravaggio's _Medusa_ reflects the painter's remorseless pursuit of a realist conceit. Leonardo had painted a picture of the Medusa that seemed wittily appropriate as the decoration of a shield. Caravaggio did something bolder and conceptually far more pure. He created a painting that sought to transcend painting and become the very thing that it depicts. His _Medusa_ is not a painting _of_ a shield, or at least it pretends not to be. It pretends to _be_ the shield itself, held in Perseus's hand at the very instant when he has killed the Medusa. It is a painting meant to be admired at close quarters, passed round from hand to hand. To look at the picture thus would be to _become_ the conquering hero himself \u2013 to gaze, through his eyes, at the reflection of the Medusa, as she in turn watches herself die, in her own reflection, in the shield's mirror.\n\nThe best way to grasp the true nature of Caravaggio's illusion \u2013 to complete the circle of gazes demanded by the painter's conceit \u2013 would indeed be actually to hold it. Did Ferdinando de' Medici do just that, and smile at the ingenuity of Caravaggio's idea? Certainly, the sense that this was not a picture like other pictures, a picture simply to be hung on a wall, persisted among later generations of the Medici. An inventory of the family's armoury from 1631 reveals that it was displayed as part of a suit of armour arranged to look like a standing knight at arms. It was brandished by the figure, in fact, just like a real shield.\n\nCaravaggio's _Medusa_ was designed to transform its owner into Perseus himself. To give such a picture to a Medici was to pay him a comfortingly familiar compliment. The Perseus myth had been assimilated into the mythology of Medici power in the middle years of the sixteenth century, when the family had assumed absolute control over what had once been the Florentine republic. Benvenuto Cellini's chillingly persuasive, larger-than-life bronze of _Perseus_ , brandishing a scimitar and holding up the Medusa's head, was a public symbol of Medici might \u2013 a vivid demonstration of exactly what would happen to anyone with the temerity to resist Medici rule. Caravaggio's _Medusa_ , reviving those old associations with the lightest of touches, is a clever piece of praise as well as a virtuoso work of art.\n\nBut its biggest compliment of all is paid implicitly to the painter himself. He it is who personifies the Medusa, the monster who might be defeated but whose magical powers, none the less, loom larger than anything else in her legend. With eyes wide open and mouth agape, the painter takes on her role and in doing so claims for himself her dark powers of enchantment. Whomsoever the Medusa looks at, she freezes, preserving them forever in a single, charged instant of being. From the flux of life she takes a moment and makes it last for all time. That is what Caravaggio does too. Her magic is his magic, a petrifying art.\n\n#### IN THE LABORATORY OF THE ALCHEMIST\n\nSometime around 1599 del Monte invited Caravaggio to his villa near the Porta Pinciana and commissioned him to decorate the ceiling of the Tesoretto, a narrow, rectangular room next to the distillery where the cardinal conducted his alchemical experiments. A hidden, private space, it is reminiscent of the _studiolo_ of Francesco de' Medici in the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence, a chamber like a jewellery box, which had been richly decorated in the Mannerist style by Giorgio Vasari and his assistants in the late 1560s. Francesco de' Medici himself appears in one of those paintings, in the character of an alchemist. Although Caravaggio did not actually paint Cardinal del Monte surrounded by his phials and retorts, he did create a kind of portrait of the alchemically inclined mind. _Jupiter, Neptune and Pluto_ is a wall painting but it was executed in the unusual and fugitive medium of oil on plaster, which strengthens the suspicion that Caravaggio had never learned to paint in fresco, despite his supposed apprenticeship to Peterzano. The picture, which is still _in situ_ and in surprisingly good condition, was first described by Bellori:\n\n> In Rome in the Ludovisi Gardens near the Porta Pinciana, they attribute to Caravaggio the _Jupiter, Neptune and Pluto_ in the casino of Cardinal del Monte, who was interested in chemical medicines and adorned the small room of his laboratory, associating those gods with the elements and with the globe of the world placed in their midst. It has been said that Caravaggio, reproached for not understanding either planes or perspective, placed the figures in such a position that they appear to be seen from sharply below, so as to vie with the most difficult foreshortenings...\n\nFor the first and last time Caravaggio flirted with out-and-out Mannerism. The picture's primary function might almost be, as Bellori insinuates, to demonstrate difficulties triumphantly overcome. The plunging perspective is of a type known as _di sotto in s\u00f9_ , literally meaning 'of above, from below', executed here with light-hearted bravado. Jupiter, mounted on an eagle, reaches a hand into the translucent celestial sphere at the centre of the ceiling's painted sky. The frowning figure of Neptune, mounted on a rearing seahorse, is yet another of Caravaggio's self-portraits. The most dramatically foreshortened figure is that of Pluto, whose carefully painted penis is uncircumcised and surrounded by a dark bush of pubic hair. The Mannerist painter Giulio Romano had painted a similarly vivid _di sotto in s\u00f9_ depiction of male genitalia \u2013 the undercarriage of a flying charioteer \u2013 in his mid sixteenth-century decorations of the Palazzo del Te in Mantua. Caravaggio's bawdy fantasy of airborne larking about belongs squarely in the same tradition.\n\nThere is an allegorical alibi for the emphatic phallus. The overarching theme of the painting is the procreative role of the three elements. From their seminal confluence, everything in the known universe depends. The picture reflects a particular twist in sixteenth-century alchemical theory. During the middle years of the century, the cardplaying astronomer Gerolamo Cardano had proposed a revision of the ancient Aristotelian belief in the four elements of Fire, Air, Water and Earth. Cardano argued that fire should not properly be regarded as an element, thereby reducing their number to three. Caravaggio followed this refinement, presumably advised by del Monte.\n\nMichelangelo had made dramatic use of _di sotto in s\u00f9_ perspective for his depictions of _God Separating Light and Darkness, God Creating the Sun and Moon_ and _God Calling Forth Life from the Waters_ on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. The subject of Caravaggio's painting for del Monte is, in essence, a profane version of the same story, told at the start of the Book of Genesis. Caravaggio's use of the same device may have been his way of mischievously pointing up the parallel between the most famous cycle of religious frescoes in all of Rome and his own, rather more playful ceiling decoration.\n\nCaravaggio was always highly responsive to circumstance and milieu. Throughout his life, his art would be deeply coloured by the different social, political and religious environments that he encountered. Entering the circle of Cardinal del Monte, living in his palace, absorbing his ideas, listening to his musicians, looking at his art collections \u2013 those experiences are all clearly reflected in Caravaggio's paintings of the late 1590s. His work becomes more sophisticated, and more intellectually rarefied. Certain details, such as the exquisite wine glass held up by Bacchus, with its delicately blown stem and the whirlpool patterning of its shallow bowl, express his palpable delight in a previously unknown world of beauty and luxury.\n\nThe work of this period is also marked by a spirit of experiment. The artist is trying out new ideas and striving to impress, so much so that he occasionally paints against the grain of his own dark and intense personality. The mythical Mannerist comedy of _Jupiter, Neptune and Pluto_ would not be repeated. But the fact that Caravaggio was prepared to undertake a commission so alien to his own sensibility demonstrates his determination to succeed.\n\nAway from his painting room, and away from the company of Cardinal del Monte, Caravaggio was still the same turbulent young man who had committed nameless misdeeds in Milan. Those who knew him at this time thought of him as a person split asunder, a man who contrived to live two opposing lives. Karel van Mander, a Dutch painter in Rome, described him as a piece of living chiaroscuro:\n\n> There is... a certain Michelangelo of Caravaggio who is doing remarkable things in Rome... he... has risen from poverty through his industry and by tackling and accepting everything with farsightedness and courage, as some people do who refuse to be held down through timidity or through lack of courage but who advance themselves candidly and fearlessly and who boldly pursue gain \u2013 a procedure which, if it is taken in honesty, in a proper manner, and with discretion, deserves no censure. For Fortuna will offer herself by no means frequently of her own accord; at times we must try her, prod her, and urge her...\n> \n> But again there is beside the grain the chaff, to wit that he does not pursue his studies steadfastly so that after a fortnight's work he will swagger about for a month or two with his sword at his side and with a servant following him, from one ball-court to the next, ever ready to engage in a fight or argument, with the result that it is impossible to get along with him. All of which is wholly incompatible with our Art. For certainly Mars and Minerva have never been the best of friends. Yet as regards his painting, it is such that it is very pleasing in an exceedingly handsome manner, an example for our young artists to follow...\n\nCaravaggio lived his life as if there were only Carnival and Lent, with nothing in between. His pictures are the legacy of his lenten days. To encounter his carnivalesque alter ego it is necessary to consult the records preserved in the labyrinthine vaults of Rome's Archivio di Stato: a paper city within the city of stone, made up of witness statements and accusations. Through smokescreens of rumour, denial and furtive insinuation, this other figure comes clearly into view, accompanied by his friends, his lovers and his enemies.\n\n#### PAINTERS, SWORDSMEN AND WHORES\n\nOn 11 and 12 July 1597 three men were summoned to appear before the Tribunal of the Governor of Rome and interrogated in connection with a case of assault. It was literally a cloak-and-dagger affair. A young man called Pietropaolo, apprentice to a barber-surgeon, had been hurt in a fight on the Via della Scrofa. Following the incident, he had been detained in prison because he refused to reveal the identity of his attacker. Violent crime was on the increase in Rome and steps were being taken to limit the unlicensed bearing of arms. Pietropaolo's silence irked the authorities. They were also interested in the discovery of a black cloak near the scene of the crime. Someone had handed it into the barber's shop where the apprentice worked. Who was that person? Might he be able to shed light on the matter?\n\nThe investigators would soon discover that the man who found the cloak was Michelangelo da Caravaggio, artist in the service of Cardinal del Monte. Because he had friends in high places, they decided not to call him until their preliminary enquiries were complete. Instead, they called two of the friends with whom he had been seen on the evening of the fracas, namely Prospero Orsi, the painter of grotesques, and the picture-dealer Costantino Spata. In the event, Caravaggio himself never would be asked to testify in connection with the case. But the words of those who were summoned give us vivid glimpses of the life that he led, at night, in the streets of Rome.\n\nIt is with the testimony of Pietropaolo's employer, a barber-surgeon called Luca, that the case records begin. 'I am a barber, and I practise the profession of barber here by the church of Sant'Agostino,' Luca told the court. What did he know about the article of clothing that had been handed into his shop? Luca answered that a _ferraiuolo_ \u2013 a black cloak, fastened with iron hooks \u2013 had been given to his apprentice, Pietropaolo, on the night in question. Luca himself was busy having dinner with his father and some others, but later Pietropaolo showed him the cloak and told him that a certain painter had brought it. 'He told me his name, but I can't remember it.' When pressed to say if he knew the painter in question, Luca said that certainly he did: 'One time he came into my shop to be spruced up, and another time he came to have a wound dressed... he had been in an argument with one of the grooms of the Giustiniani or Pinello families.'\n\nWhen the case investigator expressed scepticism that Luca could not remember the man's name, he protested that it was the truth: 'Really, sir, I do not recall it.' Then, as if ashamed of his own memory lapse, he gave a startlingly precise physical description of the painter whose injuries he had treated, and whose beard he had trimmed. All is carefully transcribed in the spidery handwriting of a court notary. Suddenly here is Caravaggio, caught in the flashbulb glare of a barber's memory: 'This painter is a stocky young man, about twenty or twenty-five years old, with a thin black beard, thick eyebrows and black eyes, who goes dressed all in black, in a rather disorderly fashion, wearing black hose that is a little bit threadbare, and who has a thick head of hair, long over his forehead.'\n\nReturning to the matter of the lost-and-found cloak, Luca remembered Pietropaolo telling him that another man had been present when it was handed in \u2013 'a certain Costantino, who buys and sells paintings and whose shop is attached to the Madonella next to San Luigi dei Francesi'. All this happened shortly after Pietropaolo had been assaulted, and the fact that he was looking after the shop suggests that he cannot have been very badly injured. Luca made no mention of his apprentice's wounds. Instead, he stressed that the cloak had never belonged to his apprentice in the first place. He probably hoped the whole investigation would come to nothing, so that normal business could be resumed.\n\nCostantino Spata was the next witness called by the court. 'I am a seller of old paintings and I have a shop at San Luigi,' he declared. He had been there for four years, since 1593, always on the same premises. He lived over the shop with his wife, Caterina Gori, and their four children, two adolescent girls and two little boys. The boys went to school, to the ' _Letteratura_ '. Costantino had no assistant and he did not employ members of his family in the business, so when he went out the shop was closed.\n\nHaving established these particulars, the investigator asked him to recall the events of the previous Tuesday evening, the night of the fracas. Costantino said that, having been in his shop all day, he closed up at sunset, when the _Ave Maria_ sounded. Just as he did so, two painters whom he knew walked by.\n\n> One of them was Monsignor Michelangelo from Caravaggio who is the painter of Cardinal del Monte, and lives in the house of the said cardinal, and the other was a painter called Prospero, who comes from I know not where but lives near Monsignor Barberini over a boarding house... he is of small stature, with a little black beard, and is around twenty-five to twenty-eight years old. They asked me if I had eaten and I said yes but they said they hadn't eaten and wanted to go to dinner at the Tavern of the Wolf [' _all'hostaria della Lupa_ '], where we all went together, and I stopped there with them while they ate.\n\nAfter dinner the three companions left the tavern. Moments later, the trouble erupted. 'We all heard someone coming towards us from the Piazza San Luigi, yelling out and saying \"ahi, ahi\".' Caravaggio and Prospero headed off in the direction of Sant'Agostino, while Costantino hurried homewards. As he was walking, a running man passed him. For the rest of his testimony, Costantino stonewalled the investigators. He never really saw the man who was in such a hurry. He could not judge his height or make out how he was dressed. He could not even tell if he had a cloak, or if he was wearing a hat on his head. He did not see if either of the painters had picked up a cloak. He did not have his glasses with him, and without his glasses he could not see very well. Besides, it was dark.\n\nProspero Orsi, the last witness to be called, corroborated Costantino's story. He also went into more detail about Caravaggio's decidedly marginal involvement in the evening's events. Half an hour before the sounding of the _Ave Maria_ , Prospero recalled, Caravaggio had come round to his place. They had gone out to eat. After dinner, they were walking along the Via della Scrofa when they heard shouts coming from the Piazza San Luigi \u2013 'screams and laments, someone saying \"ohime, ohime\" and other words'. But because they were still some way off, because it was getting dark and there was very little street lighting, Prospero could not really see what was going on. Moments later a man sprinted past him. What did he look like, this man? 'Sir, I cannot say who that man was. I didn't see his face, I didn't see his clothes, because he passed like a shadow.'\n\nAfter the man ran past them, Prospero and Caravaggio carried on walking in the direction of the Pantheon. They came across a black cloak lying on the ground. Prospero didn't touch the cloak, so he could not say of what material it was made. Caravaggio picked it up and said he would give it to a neighbour. With those words, he turned around and went back to the corner of Sant'Agostino and gave the cloak to a young man at the barber's shop there. 'I don't know the young man's name because I don't go to that barber's shop,' Prospero added. The two artists wandered back towards San Luigi dei Francesi, where they bumped into Costantino again. He was closing his shop for the night. Prospero parted with Caravaggio at the Palazzo Madama and went home. The investigator enquired whether any of the parties involved had been bearing arms. 'Costantino and I were not carrying weapons of any kind,' Prospero said. But Caravaggio was wearing a sword. 'He is the only one to carry a sword, because he is in the service of Cardinal del Monte. Before he used to carry it by day. Now he only carries it sometimes when he goes out at night.'\n\nCaravaggio's remark that he would give the cloak to 'a neighbour', and his immediate decision to hand it in at Luca's shop, indicate that he (unlike his conveniently short-sighted and confused friends) had immediately recognized the running man. Caravaggio knew that it was Pietropaolo, because he himself went to the barber-surgeon's shop on the corner of Sant'Agostino. He assumed the cloak was his and took it straight to the apprentice's place of work \u2013 only to find that Pietropaolo had run so fast that he was there to receive it himself.\n\nThe enquiry was dropped and the case was closed, unsolved. It was a trivial matter. But the testimonies of those involved, fragmented and confused, reveal much about Caravaggio and the milieu in which he moved. He might have gone up in the world, but he had not forgotten his old friends. He still kept company with Prospero Orsi, who had pushed him to leave the Cesari workshop, and with Costantino Spata, the hard-pressed picture-seller with many mouths to feed. Taking advantage of his newfound status as member of a cardinal's household, Caravaggio was now carrying a sword openly in the streets of the city. He was not afraid to use it. He had been to the barber-surgeon's at least once, to have his wounds dressed, following a fight with a groom attached to another noble Roman household. History does not relate whether the groom's injuries were worse than his.\n\nThe barber-surgeon's account of Caravaggio's physical appearance closely matches descriptions of the painter in other early sources. Bellori, echoing Vasari's idea that artists resemble their own work, wrote that 'Caravaggio's style corresponded to his physiognomy and appearance; he had a dark complexion and dark eyes, and his eyebrows and hair were black; this colouring was naturally reflected in his paintings... driven by his own nature, he retreated to the dark style that is connected to his disturbed and contentious temperament.' Bellori's Caravaggio is the epitome of the melancholy artist, born under the sign of Saturn: dark looks, dark temperament, dark art. But the evidence of the criminal archive suggests a more literal explanation for Caravaggio's sartorial style. People who went dressed in dark colours did so to avoid detection, especially at night. To describe a man as someone who wore black when the _Ave Maria_ sounded was to mark him out as a trouble-maker. Like the dark cloak that may or may not have belonged to Pietropaolo, Caravaggio's black clothes were a form of urban camouflage, designed to enable him to disappear into the poorly lit streets of the city at night. He pursued the same strategy on the streets as he did in the studio. In life as in art he hid what he wanted to hide in the shadows.\n\nBellori also confirmed Luca's description of the 'disorderly' and 'threadbare' state of Caravaggio's clothing. But he added an interesting twist to it. 'We cannot fail to mention his behaviour and his choice of clothes, since he wore only the finest materials and princely velvets; but once he put on a suit of clothes he changed only when it had fallen to rags.' Caravaggio was one of those who liked to play the gentleman, to put on airs and graces and set himself above the people at large \u2013 even though his actual status remained highly ambiguous.\n\nSo the dark, threadbare Caravaggio was wearing a sword by night in 1597. He was evidently still doing so in spring of the following year: on 4 May 1598 he was arrested for bearing arms in a public place at eleven o'clock at night. A certain lieutenant Bartolomeo, attached to the Bargello of Rome, reported that 'I encountered Michelangelo da Caravaggio between the Piazza Navona and the Piazza Madama, carrying a sword, without a licence, and also a pair of compasses, so I took him and put him in prison at the Tor di Nona.' The following day, after a night in jail, Caravaggio was in court. Asked to account for his actions, he replied with righteous indignation. 'I was arrested last night... because I was carrying a sword. I carry the sword by right because I am Painter to Cardinal del Monte. I am in his service and live in his house. I am entered on his household payroll.' Unusually, the notary transcribing the day's evidence capitalized the word 'painter', perhaps in an attempt to capture the self-important stress that Caravaggio had placed on the word. Because he had such powerful contacts, the magistrate had no choice but to release him. The case was dismissed.\n\nJoachim von Sandrart, a German etcher and art historian, wrote a brief account of Caravaggio's life that contains a short but telling paragraph about the painter's years in Rome. According to Sandrart, Caravaggio liked to go about 'in the company of his young friends, mostly brash, swaggering fellows \u2013 painters and swordsmen \u2013 who lived by the motto _nec spec_ , _nec metu_ , \"without hope, without fear\".' A number of those friends can be identified from contemporary sources. Prospero Orsi and Costantino Spata seem to have been among his more peaceable companions. Caravaggio's Sicilian friend, the painter and occasional model Mario Minniti, must also be included. He was no stranger to violence but he lacked Caravaggio's positive relish for it. According to his biographer, Francesco Susinno, Minniti was close to Caravaggio during his early years in Rome but eventually abandoned him; 'he settled down and got married, because he found the turbulent adventures of his friend too much to stomach.'\n\nOrazio Gentileschi was among the more volatile 'painters and swordsmen' with whom Caravaggio kept company. Orazio was a gifted artist in his own right, but a difficult man with a short temper, whose reputation was under a cloud. In 1615 Grand Duke Cosimo II of Tuscany \u2013 son and heir to Cardinal del Monte's patron, Ferdinando de' Medici \u2013 considered bringing Orazio to Florence as an artist and asked his agent in Rome, Piero Guicciardini, to file a report on the painter's character. The resulting reference was less than favourable: 'he is a person of such strange manners and way of life and such temper that one can neither get on nor deal with him.'\n\nSome ascribed the fiery temperament of painters to the toxic qualities of the materials that they used. Lead white and vermilion were particularly poisonous. The mere touch or smell of either might cause a variety of symptoms including depression, anxiety and increased aggressiveness. Those suffering from 'Painter's Colic', as it was called, also tended to drink heavily. While wine alleviated some symptoms, it exacerbated others, and was itself the catalyst for innumerable brawls and scraps in the artist's quarter. Most of the people around Caravaggio were involved in some kind of violent incident at one time or another. Orazio Gentileschi's own daughter, Artemisia, herself a painter, was raped by another artist. His name was Agostino Tassi. The enraged Orazio subsequently accused Tassi of 'repeatedly deflowering' his daughter. Artemisia's matter-of-fact testimony, given at Tassi's trial on 9 May 1611, gives a very clear view of the real violence that stalked the lives of so many of Caravaggio's contemporaries.\n\nArtemisia told the court that she was with her sister, Tuzia, when the attack took place:\n\n> After midday dinner the weather was wet and I was painting a portrait of one of Tuzia's children for my own pleasure, when Agostino came by. He was able to get inside because there were masons in the house and they had left the door open. When he found me painting he said, 'Not so much painting, not so much painting,' and he took the palette and brushes out of my hand and threw them around, saying to Tuzia, 'Get out of here.' When I said to Tuzia to stay and not leave me with him as I had motioned to her before, she said, 'I don't want to stay and argue, I want to be off.' Before she left Agostino put his head on my breast and after she had gone he took me by the hand and said, 'Let us walk about a bit because I hate to be sitting down.' As we walked up and down the room some two or three times I told him that I felt unwell and that I thought I had the fever, and he answered, 'I have more fever than you,' and after walking up and down two or three times, each time going past my bedroom door, when we came to the door of the bedroom he pushed me inside and locked it.\n> \n> Once it was locked, he pushed me on to the edge of the bed with one hand on my breast, and he put one of his knees between my thighs so that I could not close them, and he lifted my clothes, doing so with much difficulty. He placed one of his hands with a handkerchief over my throat and my mouth so that I could not scream... and with his member pointed at my vagina he began to push it into me, having first put both his knees between my legs. I felt a terrible burning and it hurt me very much, but because of the gag on my mouth I could not cry out, though I tried as best as I was able to scream and call Tuzia. And I scratched his face and pulled his hair and before he could put it inside me again I grabbed his member so tightly that I even removed a piece of flesh. But none of this deterred him and he continued what he was intent upon, staying on top of me for a long time and keeping his member inside my vagina. And after he had finished his business he got off me.\n> \n> Seeing myself free I went to the table drawer and took out a knife and moved towards Agostino saying, 'I want to kill you with this knife because you have dishonoured me.' And he opened his tunic saying, 'Here I am,' and I threw the knife at him; he shielded himself otherwise I would have hurt him and might easily have killed him. The outcome was that I wounded him slightly on the chest and he bled little because I had scarcely pierced him with the point of the knife. Then the said Agostino fastened his tunic and I was weeping and lamenting the wrong he had done me and to pacify me he said, 'Give me your hand and I promise to marry you as soon as I am out of the mess I am in.' He also said to me, 'I warn you that when I take you as a wife I want no foolishness,' and I answered him: 'I think you can see whether there is foolishness.'\n\nOne of the most persistent trouble-makers in Caravaggio's own immediate circle was the architect Onorio Longhi. He was just two years older than the painter and they had much in common. Onorio was from Viggi\u00f9, near Varese in Lombardy, close to where Caravaggio himself had been brought up. Longhi's family had links with the Colonna dynasty. Onorio's father, Martino, also an architect, had been called to Rome to work for the Colonna family. After Martino's death in 1591, Onorio took on the family architectural practice, overseeing the completion of the church of Santa Maria in Vallicella in Rome, among other significant commissions. In between, he found plenty of time to get into trouble with the law. He was constantly in court, charged with disturbing the peace and a variety of other offences. G. P. Caffarelli, whose four-volume _The Families of Rome_ was written between 1603 and 1615, described Onorio as 'a little lawless leader for the youth' (' _e un poco scapo scelerato per la gioventu_ '). He certainly seems to have been the ringleader of the group or gang that included Caravaggio. The architect and the painter were often seen together. Longhi was brash and talkative and generally took the lead, while Caravaggio tended to be more taciturn and veiled.\n\n'I am a gentleman... and I don't care about anything, I just go to eat and drink.' That was how Onorio defiantly introduced himself in a witness statement given in court on 4 May 1595. Like Caravaggio, he was all the more dangerous because he had connections with a powerful household. As a _servitore_ of the Colonna family, he too could defy the general ban on carrying weapons issued by Pope Clement VIII. 'I don't carry a sword by day or by night,' Longhi declared in a witness statement of 1595. 'Instead my servant, who accompanies me, carries it.' Two years earlier, in 1593, a prostitute named Margarita Fanella had testified that Onorio was armed at least part of the time \u2013 'sometimes yes and sometimes no I have seen him carry it [his sword] in the street when he goes around with other gentlemen.' Also according to Margarita, 'he has a little blonde beard, that he grows quite thick... he goes dressed in rich dark velvet.' It comes as no surprise to learn that he too was one of those who dressed in black after the sounding of the _Ave Maria_.\n\nOne cause for his many court appearances was a festering dispute with his brother Stefano, which broke out into actual violence on more than one occasion. Onorio had been away when their father had died, and he believed that Stefano had failed to pay over his full share of the inheritance. In 1599 Onorio succeeded in having Stefano imprisoned for four or five months for non-payment of the debt. In the autumn of 1600 Stefano issued a counter-suit, in which he claimed that on 7 July 1598 Onorio had come to his lodgings with three armed companions, possibly including Caravaggio, and had tried to break down the door, shouting, 'You cuckolded thief, I want you to die by these hands!'\n\nThat was by no means the only accusation levelled against Onorio. The investigators who looked into Stefano's counter-suit of 1600 also examined evidence linking him to a number of other unsavoury incidents. They were particularly interested in a long-standing grievance between Onorio and a certain widow called Felice Sillano. Under questioning, Onorio told them that he knew her and that she was a respectable woman. But he denied that he had once tried to beat her door down while shouting, 'You whore, you slut, you coward!' That interrogation itself went back to an older, unresolved case. Another set of transcripts, from 1599, reveal that Felicita Silano ( _sic_ ) had already sued Onorio \u2013 together with 'Claudio, the stone-cutter' \u2013 for threatening behaviour:\n\n> It is now two nights ago that the said Onorio came to my doors saying: 'Open, you baggage and slag.' Having left, he came back and wanted to kick down the door, threatening me with further insults. He said that if I spoke he would beat me over the head with his sword. This same Claudio came and did the same thing five or six months ago, inciting others, and particularly Onorio, to cause trouble at my door. I am not a woman to put up with such treatment, and therefore I am now bringing the matter before the court.\n\nThe record of the outcome does not survive; probably, the case petered out.\n\nOne of Longhi's biographers said of him that 'he was naturally bizarre and had a head that smoked.' The quarrel with his brother and the dispute with Felice Sillano were a fraction of his misdemeanours, which ranged from the extremely serious to the utterly trivial. He would be present when Caravaggio committed murder. But he was just as likely to be found getting into fights with passers-by who made the mistake of bumping into him in the street, or shouting insults at tradesmen for showing him insufficient respect. Case transcripts for 1595 record a scuffle in a cake-maker's shop, after he had gone in to buy 'a certain type of soft white meringue'.\n\nThe violent words and deeds of Caravaggio and his contemporaries may now seem random and chaotic. In fact, the behaviour recorded in Rome's criminal archive conformed to a particular set of codes. To attack a woman's house, to threaten to break down her doors, was also to insult her honour, because, according to the mores of the time, people's dwellings represented the occupants themselves. A common way to cast aspersions on someone's name was to commit the crime of _deturpatio_ : daubing paint \u2013 or sometimes excrement \u2013 on to the doors or windows of their home. In such cases the front of the house metaphorically represented the face. But the locked home also represented the human body, secure in virtue, hence Artemisia's emphasis, in her account of being raped, on the carelessness of the masons who had been working on her house. By insisting that it was they, not she, who had left the door open, she was emphasizing that Agostino's violation of her home and her body was none of her doing.\n\nEven an act as apparently gratuitous as Longhi's attack on a maker of meringues had its own significance. It was Longhi's way of asserting that he was a _valent'huomo_ , a cut above the common herd. Deportment books of the time encouraged gentlemen and aristocrats to cultivate a deliberate air of insolence towards the lower orders. In 1616 Giovanni Bonifacio published a manual on deportment entitled _L'arte de' cenni_ , in which he argued that gesture and facial expression themselves amounted to a language as complex as that of human speech. Bonifacio devoted fifty-eight sections to the eyes alone, itemizing different types of wink and squint, differentiating between the promise of a raised eyebrow and the threat of a frown. He also went into some detail about the significance of the out-thrust elbow. To walk with arms akimbo gave the impression of strength, he noted, it being the demeanour of someone prepared to thrust through the mass of ordinary people, to 'push their way through crowds'. Anthony Van Dyck captured this modishly insouciant arrogance in his portraits of swaggering English aristocrats at the court of Charles I. Van Dyck's portraits were painted in London in the 1630s and 1640s, but they evoke an aggressive air of sharp-edged hauteur that had been fashionable among 'gentlemen' throughout Europe for decades \u2013 the same style of threatening superiority that was being aped by men such as Onorio Longhi, and indeed Caravaggio himself, in Rome at the turn of the seventeenth century. They too were men who walked around with their elbows \u2013 and often their swords \u2013 out-thrust.\n\nIt would however be a mistake to regard Longhi as a simple thug. He was a man of learning, a poet as well as an architect, who used his literary skill to curry favour with the great and the good. When Ferdinando de' Medici's first son was born, Onorio marked the occasion with a witty poem full of satirical jibes against the Spanish. He associated with writers and musicians, as well as the likes of Caravaggio. Men working in the liberal professions, who could dream of rising through the social hierarchy, were attracted to the mock-chivalric ethos of his circle. Some of his companions were genuinely high-born, the sons of Rome's leading families. Others were simply out-of-work soldiers. Most lived around the Campidoglio, between the Piazza dei Sant'Apostoli and the Piazza Montanara.\n\nBut Longhi was also undoubtedly dangerous. Perhaps the most telling detail in descriptions of him in the archive is the fact that he often went around the streets of Rome on horseback, as if he were a knight and his servant were his page. Onorio and Caravaggio and those who ran with them \u2013 or against them \u2013 did not just copy the clothes and the manners of the aristocracy. They behaved like modern, debased versions of the 'veray parfit gentil knights' of the old romance tradition. Instead of wandering through the forests of Arthurian legend, doing battle with monsters and saving damsels in distress, they frequented the streets and taverns of Rome, picking fights with pimps and vying for the favours of whores.\n\nThis topsy-turvy translation of courtly manners and codes of honour, from high-flown literature to the most ordinary milieux of modern life, was by no means restricted to Italy. It became a _leitmotif_ of seventeenth-century prose, poetry and drama across Europe. The misapplication of chivalric codes of honour to the circumstances of modern life is the great theme \u2013 the essential running joke \u2013 around which the whole of Cervantes's picaresque novel _Don Quixote_ revolves. The Don might be aged, Sancho Panza fat and ridiculous, and they might inhabit a gentler and more absurd world than the Rome of Pope Clement VIII; but their escapades are none the less close parodies of the scrapes and adventures in which Caravaggio, Onorio Longhi and their companions were habitually embroiled. A man with a barber-surgeon's basin on his head is mistaken for a rival knight, and beaten by Don Quixote until he bleeds. The action takes place on a dusty road in provincial Spain \u2013 but events very much like it took place every day in Caravaggio's Rome.\n\nTommaso Garzoni's _Piazza universale_ of 1585 includes a vivid characterization of Rome's ragged army of self-appointed knights errant, marauding through the city:\n\n> Every day, every hour, every moment, they talk of nothing but killing, cutting off legs, breaking arms, smashing somebody's spine... For study, they have nothing other than the thought of killing this or that person; for purpose, nothing more than to avenge the wrongs that they have taken to heart; for favour, nothing more than serving their friends by butchering enemies...\n\nThe author goes on to describe a day in the lives of such 'dregs-of-knaves... scum-of-scoundrels'. Armed with an improbably extensive arsenal of weaponry, they sally forth into the city to do their worst. Despite, perhaps, some element of caricature, Garzoni paints a convincing picture of Caravaggio's life, as it must have been, during his Carnival months, when he would 'swagger about... with his sword at his side... ever ready to engage in a fight or argument'.\n\nThe day begins in the piazza and ends, more often than not, in the whorehouse:\n\n> In the morning they get out of bed and straightaway pull on their hose, put jacket and breastplate on their back, hats on their heads, gauntlets or hunting gloves on their hands, sword and dagger at their side, arquebus in a bag and its iron balls in their breeches. And thus, armed like St George, they swagger out of the house, make a circuit of the piazza and, with four companions, make themselves master of the field...\n> \n> Then they go in a group to walk about the district, bullying everyone they meet, demanding the right of way, and with their plumes, whether black or white, they flutter fearlessly about, so that they will be taken for the boldest swordsmen on earth. Then they stop on a street corner and here, drawn up in a circle, they make fun of whoever passes, and mockingly salute whomever they like with their hats, deride the farmers, poke fun at the masters, and stop their servants by force... They also make it their custom to go out in the piazza and, as ruffians, stop to look at the peasant-girls and the countrywomen, whom they harass... Then they go to where the whores and procuresses are found: there they play a bit with Laura, strut about with Betta, and mess around with Rosa. With Cieca they have an argument, pinching a pair of clogs and taking away her shoes, or giving her some slaps on the head, pinching her buttocks, biting her breasts, and making her howl like a wretched bitch. On the way home they meet some other _bravi_ , by whom they are punished as they deserve...\n\nThere is no written evidence to place Caravaggio in the company of any particular Laura or Betta, any Rosa or Cieca, but he was certainly friendly with a number of prostitutes, some of whom modelled for him. His favourite was a dark-eyed girl destined to become one of Rome's most famous courtesans. Caravaggio painted her portrait, perhaps in exchange for favours received, which she would bequeath to her richest lover and patron, a Florentine nobleman named Giulio Strozzi. It later passed into the collection of Cardinal del Monte's friend Vincenzo Giustiniani, in whose collection it was catalogued as 'a courtesan called Fillide', and eventually the work entered the collections of the Kaiser-Friedrich Museum in Berlin. It was destroyed during the Second World War, but black-and-white photographs survive. They show a smouldering beauty, in understated finery, with a look of wary self-possession about her. She could be a sister to Edouard Manet's hard-faced nineteenth-century whore _Olympia_. She clutches a posy of jasmine blossoms, symbol of erotic love, to her breast.\n\n'Fillide' was Fillide Melandroni. The literary land of Arcadia was peopled with pure and innocent shepherdesses named Fillide (or Phyllida, as the name is often anglicized), but this was her real name. Someone, once, had dreamed of a bright future for her \u2013 her father perhaps, whose own name, Enea, conjured up the epic deeds of Aeneas recounted by the Roman poet Virgil.\n\nFillide was born in Siena, but in early adolescence she was uprooted to Rome. Her father had died when she was still young, so money was scarce. Her aunt Pietra was already waiting on tables in a taverna in the city; perhaps it was she who encouraged the family to move there in search of better prospects. Fillide made the journey with her mother, Cinzia, and her brother, Silvio. They arrived on a rainy day in February 1593, less than a year after the young Caravaggio had first come to the city. They shared their coach with the Bianchini family. Sibilla Bianchini had a son called Matteo and two daughters, Alessandra and Anna. Anna was the same age as Fillide.\n\nThe two families lodged together in the same house on Via dell'Armata. Close by was the church of Santa Caterina, patron saint of their home town, Siena. Not long after arriving in Rome, the two mothers, Cinzia and Sibilla, put their daughters to work as prostitutes. In April 1594 the two girls were arrested together for being out after curfew, on suspicion of soliciting. The investigating magistrates called them 'Donna Anna' and 'Donna Fillide', which made them sound more grown-up than they really were. They were fourteen and thirteen years old, respectively.\n\nCaravaggio painted his portrait of Fillide around 1598, by which time she was seventeen or eighteen, and when she and Anna Bianchini were still going around together. According to a witness statement made in that same year, Anna was 'smaller rather than bigger' and had 'long red hair'. There is an outside possibility that she was the girl who modelled for _The Penitent Magdalen_ and the sleeping Virgin Mary in _The Rest on the Flight to Egypt_.\n\nFillide first appears in a devotional painting of about 1598, _Martha and Mary Magdalen_ , now in the collection of the Detroit Institute of Arts. The picture is badly damaged and of questionable quality: the brightly illuminated Magdalen is puffy and distorted and clumsily portrayed, giving her a pop-eyed appearance, but it is certainly by Caravaggio.\n\nThe painter shows the moment when the Magdalen, urged on by her sister Martha, forswears her life of harlotry. The shadowy Martha, viewed in half-profile, is another figure who may possibly have been modelled by Fillide's friend, Anna Bianchini. Like preachers of the time, Martha counts on her fingers the reasons to repent. But her sister has already decided to devote herself to God. Fillide as Mary Magdalen once again holds a flower to the bodice of her scarlet silk dress. This time it is not perfumed jasmine but orange blossom, symbol of purity. A gap-toothed ivory comb and a precariously propped-up convex mirror \u2013 probably the same convex mirror in which Caravaggio studied his own distorted features to paint the screaming _Medusa_ \u2013 here symbolize worldly vanities renounced. The mirror also evokes the prophecy of St Paul: 'Now we see through a glass darkly, but then we shall see face to face' (1 Corinthians 13:12). Her mind has turned away from the things of this world, and towards the next.\n\nThe ring on the wedding finger of her left hand symbolizes her decision to embrace chastity and become a bride of Christ. The finger sticks out at an angle, as though dislocated or nerve-damaged. Another figure by Caravaggio for which Fillide modelled, that of the slightly later _St Catherine_ , suffers from the same slight deformity of the same finger: Fillide must have had a damaged hand.\n\nThe painter could easily have disguised or corrected the flaw, but he chose to preserve it on both canvases. Why? The most likely explanation is that he intended it as an advertisement of his militant naturalism. To animate the old stories of Christianity, to make them seem as though taking place in the present day, he had developed his own unique method: he would systematically restage the sacred dramas, using real, flesh-and blood people, and paint the results. The crooked finger was there to call attention to the most distinctive aspect of his practices: his reliance on the study of actual models carefully posed in the stage setting of the studio.\n\n_Martha and Mary Magdalen_ was probably painted for Olimpia Aldobrandini. The picture's subject may have reflected Olimpia's own charitable activities. Gregory Martin, an English Catholic priest who was in Rome in the 1580s, observed that a group of noblewomen had formed an association for the reform of whores. Regardless of their own safety, they would go into the Ortaccio di Ripetta, the 'evil garden', and plead with prostitutes to mend their evil ways: 'honest and wise matronnes of Rome... match them selves with the famous or rather infamous and notorious sinful wemen of the citie, such as sometime Marie Magdalen was, and so by their wordes and behaviour and promises and liberality towards them, they winne them to honest life, and by Gods merciful hand working with exceeding charity they plucke them out of the deepe pitte of dayly fornication, as it were raysing dead stinking carcasses out of their graves.' Perhaps Olimpia Aldobrandini was one of these modern-day Marthas. The reformed prostitutes were known as _convertite_ , or convertites. 'These be therefore so called,' noted Martin, 'bycause they are converted from their naughty life, and of common whores and harlots made good Christian wemen...'\n\n#### 'I'LL GET YOU NEXT TIME'\n\nThe young Fillide Melandroni could pose as the Magdalen, but actually it seems that repentance was the last thing on her mind. During the years when Caravaggio knew and painted her, she was often in trouble with the authorities, and not solely for prostitution. On 4 December 1600 a Roman court investigated an accusation of assault made against her and another courtesan, Tella Brunora. The litigant was a third prostitute, Prudenza Zacchia, who lived directly 'behind the monastery for the Convertites of the city'. All three of the women involved worked for the same pimp, a man called Ranuccio Tomassoni from Terni. Caffarelli, in _The Families of Rome_ , described Ranuccio as 'a good young man, and good in his conduct', but others disagreed. Caravaggio, for one, would become his deadly enemy.\n\nRanuccio belonged to a family of soldiers and mercenaries with long-established links to the Farnese dynasty. One of Ranuccio's brothers, Giovan Francesco, had served with honour under the general of the pontifical army, Giovan Francesco Aldobrandini. Another brother, Alessandro, had fought in Flanders. Ranuccio himself never saw military service, although he often carried a sword in the evenings. His excuse was that he was in the service of Cardinal Cinzio Passeri Aldobrandini. But his real job was running an unruly gang of prostitutes. If any of his girls' clients turned nasty, it was as well to be armed. As well as taking a cut of their earnings, he took payment in kind from those he favoured. This sometimes caused trouble, as an investigation of December 1600 revealed.\n\nPrudenza Zacchia was called first by the court. She had recently been charged with throwing a brick at an agent of the Governor of Rome, but this time she was the injured party. She claimed that Fillide and Tella had been conducting a vendetta against her:\n\n> Your Honour should know that yesterday evening, at about the first hour of the night, the two accused came to look for me, and not finding me, they gave my mother several kicks, and went out. Nothing else happened yesterday evening. This morning I was in the house of Ranuccio, who lives at the Rotonda [i.e. next to the Pantheon]. The said Fillide, the accused, came to this said house and attacked me with a knife, which she had in her hand, and was restrained by Ranuccio. She came at me in every way, and gave me many blows, and tore off a lot of my hair. Then she left...\n> \n> Later I was in a downstairs room in my own house, when both of the accused arrived and entered the house by force. In coming in they gave my mother, who was at the door, a shove. The said Fillide came at me with a knife to disfigure me, and she hauled me up by the mouth to give me a scar. I defended myself with my hand, which she cut on the wrist and wounded me, as your Honour can see... and as soon as they saw that I was bleeding, they went with God. Later they went out again to have a go at me, and if they hadn't been restrained by certain gentlemen... they would have gone at me again. Then the said Fillide came up to the window, and started to taunt me, saying that she wanted to scar me all over. I am making a complaint about this...\n\nOther testimony fleshed out the story. Geronimo Mattei told the court that he had been warming himself by the fire downstairs in Ranuccio's house earlier that morning. 'Ranuccio was in bed together with a woman called Prudenza Zacchia... and a woman called Fillide came into the house and ran upstairs to the said Ranuccio and Prudenza, and as soon as she saw the said Prudenza she began saying, \"Ah, you slag, you baggage, there you are!\" and at the same time she ran to the table and took a knife and went to the said Prudenza, saying, \"Whore, I'm going to scar you everywhere.\" '\n\nGeronimo intervened and took the knife from Fillide, but he could not prevent her from attacking Prudenza again. This time, 'she tore lots of hair from her head.' Later on, he told the court, 'I was passing by the said Prudenza's house, just behind the monastery of the Convertites, when Prudenza called out to me and showed me a wound in her hand, saying that Fillide and Tella had attacked her in her house, and that Fillide had taken a knife to scar her, and had wounded her in the hand...' It is not hard to imagine how Fillide might have acquired the bent and damaged finger of her own left hand.\n\nThere was one more witness, a man called Cesare Pontoni. He was a close friend of Ranuccio and Giovan Francesco Tomassoni, and often testified in cases where they were involved. He had witnessed only the last incident in this serial fracas. Cesare told the court that he was walking down the street when he saw Fillide shouting at Prudenza. Fillide was at the window of Tella's house, which was opposite where Prudenza lived. Prudenza was standing in her own doorway. 'You dirty whore!' Fillide screamed. 'I hurt your hand, when I wanted to stab you in the mouth, but I'll get you next time!' Moments later Fillide advanced on Prudenza with a stone in her hand, yelling, 'You dirty whore! I want to cut you! I want to cut you!'\n\nThe interpretation of the case is clear enough. Prudenza and Fillide were vying for Ranuccio Tomassoni's affections. Amongst the elaborate rituals of insult and injury, the crucial terms in the court documents are _sfregio_ and the related verb _sfregiare_. Literally, a _sfregio_ was a facial scar, but in the honour code of the time it also carried the figurative meaning of a serious affront to a person's reputation. When Fillide said, repeatedly, that she wanted to cut Prudenza in the face, she was expressing a desire to dishonour and shame her. She uttered her threats publicly because she wanted her intentions to be known in the public arena of the street \u2013 the theatre in which reputation was made and harmed. Prudenza repeated those threats in court for the same reason. To accuse someone of the intention to inflict a _sfregio_ was to alert the law to a potentially serious offence.\n\nIn the event, the many threats of wounds to Prudenza's face seem not to have actually been carried out, perhaps because Fillide's main aim was to frighten her rival. If she had actually cut her in the mouth, or sliced off her nose \u2013 a not unheard-of tactic in the more extreme revenge assaults \u2013 Prudenza would have become damaged goods. That would not have pleased Ranuccio. The impression that emerges from the testimony is that, for all her apparent wildness, Fillide knew what she was doing and remained in control throughout. Probably because nobody was seriously hurt, the case seems to have come to nothing.\n\nCaravaggio's name does not appear in the trial transcripts involving Fillide, Tella, Prudenza and Ranuccio, so these documents shed little direct light on the painter's future quarrels with the pimp. But they shed a good deal on the murky world in which both men moved. Ranuccio's contacts and alliances may also be significant. His family's patrons, the Farnese, were supporters of Spain against France, so the Tomassoni clan was closely connected with Rome's pro-Spanish faction. This was true of Ranuccio's friends too. Politics could have been one cause of bad blood between him and Caravaggio. But the artist's relationship with Fillide may have been another: a mere painter was hardly a desirable client for Ranuccio's most beautiful courtesan.\n\n#### PAINTING FILLIDE\n\nFillide had been miscast as the virtuous heroine of _Martha and Mary Magdalen_ , which is perhaps why that picture seems less than completely convincing. On two other occasions Caravaggio painted her more as the historical record suggests she truly was \u2013 tough, passionate, with a capacity for violence. Even though she only appears in devotional pictures, her presence in them tips the balance of his art from sacred to profane.\n\nIn 1598 or 1599 Caravaggio painted a startlingly sado-erotic _Judith and Holofernes_ , with Fillide in the leading role. Like that of David and Goliath, the biblical story of Judith was a parable of underdog virtue triumphing over tyrannical might: the Jewish heroine of the tale seduces the ruthless Assyrian general and then slays him, with his own sword, in his tent. It was a subject that had been treated by many celebrated artists. Michelangelo had depicted Judith and her maidservant elegantly bearing aloft the tyrant's severed head, as his corpse writhed in darkness, in one of the four paintings at the corners of the Sistine Chapel ceiling. The great Florentine Renaissance sculptor Donatello had created a famous bronze _Judith_ in which the heroine hacks implacably at the neck of her victim. But even Donatello's stark and visceral image pales by comparison with Caravaggio's clinically violent conception of the subject.\n\nOnce again, the painter brought a scene from the biblical past into the world of his own time, but never before had he done so with such brutal, shocking immediacy. Sanctified execution in an Assyrian tent has become murder in a Roman whorehouse. The bearded Holofernes, lying naked on the crumpled sheets of a prostitute's bed, is a client who has made a terrible mistake. He wakes up to realize that he is about to die. Fillide pulls on his hair with her left hand, not only to expose his neck but to stretch the flesh taut so that it will part more easily under the blade. In her right hand, she holds the oriental scimitar \u2013 Caravaggio's one concession to historical accuracy \u2013 with which she has just managed to sever her victim's jugular. She frowns with grim concentration, as he screams his last, and as the blood begins to spray from the mortal wound in bright red jets. A theatrical swag of dark red drapery hovers directly above the act of murder.\n\nCaravaggio has imagined the whole scene as a fantastically extreme version of the kind of violent incidents in which he and his companions were often embroiled. 'I want to cut you! I want to cut you!' Fillide would yell at her rival Prudenza. Here, the threat is fully carried out. The heroine's grizzled maidservant, readying herself to bag up the bloody trophy of a severed head, reinforces the impression that the action is indeed taking place in a darkened brothel somewhere in Rome. She is the stock figure of the procuress, the whore's wizened partner in corruption. Caravaggio adds a sexual frisson to the thrill of bloody violence: beneath the diaphanous fabric of her tight-fitting bodice, Fillide's nipples are visibly erect. It is the sort of detail that Cardinal Paravicino may have had in mind when he made his remark about pictures that he 'would not have wanted to see from a distance'.\n\n_Judith and Holofernes_ divided Caravaggio's contemporaries. Annibale Carracci's succinct condemnation of the work encapsulated the reservations of all those who found Caravaggio's realism rude and indecorous. 'When pressed to speak his opinion on a _Judith_ by Caravaggio, he replied \"I don't know what to say except that it is too natural.\" ' Artemisia Gentileschi, by contrast, was fascinated by it. During the second decade of the seventeenth century, she made a name for herself by painting numerous versions of the same subject in a darkly tenebristic style directly modelled on Caravaggio's own. She gave an idiosyncratic twist to the theme by using it to take public revenge on the man who had raped her, painting herself as the sword-wielding heroine and Agostino Tassi as her victim.\n\nIn 1599 Fillide Melandroni appears once more in Caravaggio's art, as _St Catherine of Alexandria_. The masterpiece of his early career, it is another picture that simmers with violent sexuality. Less shocking than the _Judith and Holofernes_ , but equally striking, it encapsulates the intense and powerfully inverted eroticism with which the Counter-Reformation Church infused the idea of martyrdom. The haloed saint is isolated in a bare, featureless, dark room illuminated by a single light source coming from the left. She kneels on a red damasked cushion and wears splendid robes of purple, to indicate her royal birth. The mood is intimate, suspenseful. She holds the viewer's gaze.\n\nThe saint is alone with the attributes decreed by her legend. A martyr's palm lies crosswise on the floor at her feet. Beside her is the spiked wheel on which the Roman emperor Maxentius had intended to break her body, painted from an ordinary Roman cartwheel of coarse-grained oak. (A section of it is broken, because God sent a thunderbolt to shatter it before it could be used on the saint.) The actual instrument of her death was a sword. Caravaggio, with the expertise of a swordsman, has furnished Fillide with a weapon appropriate to her sex \u2013 a light, thin, perfectly deadly rapier. He did not have such a sword himself, so he borrowed one. The hilt is so intricate that it must have been painted from a real example.\n\nThe picture's subject is a yearning for death so strong that it resembles sexual desire. The saint leans towards the wheel and its vicious spikes of grey steel as if leaning towards a lover. A fold of extraneous drapery has wrapped itself around the longest and darkest of the wheel's spikes. She caresses the pommel of the sword and runs a finger lovingly along its blood-groove. Death by the sword is her consummation. To be penetrated by its steel is to be married, forever, to Christ. Her face is flushed, her eyes excited.\n\nThe composition is austere, the forms monumental, the paint handled with a subtle brilliance. The soft-focus depiction of the muted drapery around the wheel-spike anticipates the work of Vel\u00e0zquez, and in fact Caravaggio would rarely repeat such levels of virtuosity. But it is not hard to see why some of the artist's contemporaries might have been troubled by such a picture. Was it really a picture of St Catherine, rapt in the joyful embrace of death? Or was it just a picture of a sexy modern girl, with some studio props, alone in a room? In truth, it was both. Caravaggio's technique opened his art to ambiguity because it exposed the painter himself directly to reality. His responses inevitably coloured every image that he created, whatever its mythical construction might be. Caravaggio could turn Fillide into Mary Magdalen, into Judith, into St Catherine, but the transformation could never be absolute. After all, it was Fillide that he saw in the room, Fillide with her damaged hand, breathing softly and looking back at him, with her wide appraising eyes, as she tried to hold the pose.\n\nBy the end of the 1590s Caravaggio had invented a new style and a new approach to painting, and in the three pictures for which Fillide posed he arrived at something like a fixed, settled method. In some early works he had used a light ground, like other painters from Lombardy. But in these later paintings he used a dark ground and worked from dark to light, a technique that he may have seen for the first time in the art of Tintoretto. It suited him in a number of ways. A dark ground enabled him to focus only on the essentials of a scene, as he imagined it. Dark paint creates an illusion of deep shadow around the principal forms and therefore also does away with the need to paint background detail: Bellori, in his biography of the painter, noted that Caravaggio 'left the ground visible in the half-tones', meaning that in places he could model form simply by leaving the canvas in the unpainted state in which it had been prepared. (The technique is visible, for example, in the frame of the mirror in _Martha and Mary Magdalen_.) Caravaggio was fond of short-cuts and liked to work quickly, which suggests another reason behind his extreme tenebrism: quite apart from their expressive effect, pools of darkness, like visible ground, simply mean that there is less to paint.\n\nCaravaggio's habitual impatience is manifest too in his frequent practice of working wet-in-wet rather than waiting for each layer of oil paint to dry. He was unique among the painters of his time in making no preparatory drawings for his pictures, preferring to block out his compositions directly on the primed canvas. Having posed his models, he often marked the exact positions of heads and other contours by making light incisions in the base layer of paint, presumably so that he could reset the models' positions after every break in the work. No other artist of his time used such incisions. Caravaggio's exceptional working procedure argues strongly for the hypothesis that he learned little from his master, Peterzano, and was largely self-taught.\n\nCaravaggio did not draw because his method of composition was essentially theatrical \u2013 proto-cinematic, it might be said, because lighting was also involved. He composed by staging scenes, or fragments of scenes, that he knitted together, collage-like, on his canvas, using shadow to mask the joins. The scenes involved objects, models, props. Fillide knelt on a real purple cushion, leaned against a real wheel and held a real sword while Caravaggio painted her. Sometimes, not surprisingly, the absence of preparatory drawing led him to make a mistake in posing his models: halfway through _Judith and Holofernes_ , he realized that a head half severed would look more detached from the neck and trunk of the body than the head of his very alive model. X-rays show that he painted over the first head of Holofernes, reposed the man and painted him again to achieve the necessary degree of grisly separation.\n\nCaravaggio's method also involved setting lights, or at least controlling illumination in some way. Joachim von Sandrart gave a short description of his technique, saying that 'as he wished to effect a more perfect roundness and natural relief, he regularly made use of gloomy vaults or other dark rooms which had one small source of light from above; so that the darkness, by means of strong shadows, might leave power to the light falling upon the model, and thus produce an effect of high relief.' There is evidence of it in _Martha and Mary Magdalen_. The brilliant square of light reflected in the surface of the convex mirror is Caravaggio's 'source of light from above' made visible on the canvas. Bellori noted that Caravaggio began to work in this way at around the time that he painted the _St Catherine_ and other pictures close to it in date, in 1598\u20139. His pictures from these final years of the sixteenth century 'have a darker colour', he observed, 'as Michele [ _sic_ ] had already begun to darken the darks'.\n\nBellori went on to give his own account of how Caravaggio achieved his famously extreme contrasts of light and dark:\n\n> the colouring he was introducing was not as sweet and delicate as before, but became boldly dark and black, which he used abundantly to give relief to the forms. He went so far in this style that he never showed any of his figures in open daylight, but instead found a way to place them in the darkness of a closed room, placing a lamp high so that the light would fall straight down, revealing the principal part of the body and leaving the rest in shadow so as to produce a powerful contrast of light and dark. The painters then in Rome were greatly taken by this novelty, and the young ones particularly gathered around him, praised him as the unique imitator of nature, and looked on his work as miracles.\n\n#### A BROTHERLESS MAN\n\nMany of Caravaggio's pictures of the later 1590s look like demonstration pieces. Each new work shows a new difficulty overcome. But with the _St Catherine_ of 1599 Caravaggio had reached a higher level of mastery and assurance. He painted the picture for del Monte, who had a special devotion to the martyr, probably because she was the patron saint of scholars. Perhaps this was the work that persuaded the cardinal that his proteg\u00e9 was ready for bigger commissions.\n\nIt was at this otherwise propitious time, for reasons unknown, that Caravaggio finally severed all links with his family. In 1594 his sister Caterina had married a 'maestro Bartolommeo Vinizzoni' \u2013 'maestro' indicating that he was an artisan of some kind. Caravaggio had not attended the wedding. He had also been avoiding his brother, Giovan Battista, the priest, who was in Rome studying moral theology with the Jesuits from the autumn of 1596 to the winter of 1599. Before Giovan Battista went back to Lombardy, to be ordained as a subdeacon in the province of Bergamo, he decided to call on Caravaggio. Giulio Mancini tells the strange story of what happened when the two brothers met:\n\n> Caravaggio had an only brother, a priest, a man of letters and of high morals who, when he heard of his brother's fame, wanted to see him and, filled with brotherly love, arrived in Rome. He knew that his brother was staying with Cardinal del Monte, and being aware of his brother's eccentricities, he thought it best to speak first to the Cardinal, and to explain everything to him, which he did. He was well received by the Cardinal, who told him to return in three days. He did so. In the meantime, the Cardinal called Michelangelo and asked him if he had any relatives; he answered that he did not. Unwilling to believe that the priest would tell him a lie about a matter that could not be checked, and that would do him no good, he asked among Caravaggio's compatriots whether he had any brothers, and who they were, and so discovered it was Caravaggio who had lied. After three days the priest returned and was received by the Cardinal, who sent for Michelangelo. At the sight of his brother he declared that he did not know him and that he was not his brother. So, in the presence of the Cardinal, the poor priest said tenderly: 'Brother, I have come from far away to see you, and thus I have fulfilled my desire; as you know, in my situation, thank God, I do not need you for myself or for my children, but rather for your own children if God will do you good as I will pray to His Divine Majesty during my services, as will be done by your sister in her chaste and virginal prayers.' But Michelangelo was not moved by his brother's ardent and stimulating words of love, and so the good priest left without even a goodbye.\n\nMancini neither comments on the story nor explains it in any way. But the structure of his telling, which is like a fable, may contain clues about what he believed was going on. Three times Caravaggio is asked to recognize his brother, the priest, and three times he refuses him. Like St Peter denying Christ three times 'before the cock crows twice' (Mark 14:66\u20138), Caravaggio denies his brother, himself Christ's servant on earth. The implication is that religion, somehow, lay at the heart of the matter. Was Caravaggio ashamed to look his pious brother in the eye? Mancini may have thought so.\n\nOttavio Leoni drew a portrait of Caravaggio at around this time. He has the dark, dishevelled hair and bushy eyebrows described by Luca, the barber-surgeon. But it is his expression that seems most striking. His mouth is set and sullen. There is determination and truculence in his eyes, but there is sadness there too \u2013 a look of profound loneliness, and abandonment.\n\n## PART FOUR  \nRome, 1599\u20131606\n\n#### THE ST MATTHEW CHAPEL\n\nFor the priests at San Luigi dei Francesi, the Contarelli Chapel had been nothing but trouble. For years the chapel \u2013 the fifth one along on the left, in the national church of the French \u2013 had been little better than a building site. Not only did it make the church look bad, the priests complained, it was giving Rome's French community a bad name.\n\nThe saga had begun in 1565, when a French cardinal named Mathieu Cointrel (or Matteo Contarelli, as his name was Italianized) had paid a considerable sum to acquire the chapel, where he intended to be buried. Contarelli had already given generously during the construction of San Luigi dei Francesi, footing the bill for its fine marble fa\u00e7ade, designed by Giacomo della Porta. But despite his best efforts his own chapel was still all but bare of decoration when he died in 1585.\n\nThe cardinal himself had contracted Girolamo Muziano, a competent but unexceptional painter, to paint frescoes on its two lateral walls and decorate its vault. Muziano had prevaricated for years, only to renege on the commission with almost nothing painted. In 1587 the executor of Contarelli's will, Virgilio Crescenzi, had commissioned a marble altarpiece from a Flemish sculptor, Jacques Cobaert. Crescenzi had also persuaded Giuseppe Cesari to fresco the walls and ceiling. Cesari had completed the frescoes on the vault by 1593, when Caravaggio was part of his studio, but he never got round to the rest because he was deluged by other assignments, including several from the pope himself. Meanwhile the sculptor, Cobaert, was said to be working away, although there was nothing to show for it. Thrilled by the importance of the commission, but paralysed by self-doubt, he toiled for years on what he hoped would be his _magnum opus_. His contract was renewed in 1596, yet as the end of the sixteenth century approached there was still no sign that he would ever actually deliver the work. Those close to him remarked that Cobaert was becoming ever more paranoid and secretive.\n\nIn 1597 the patience of the long-suffering priests had finally snapped. With the Jubilee year of 1600 fast approaching, they had sent a petition to the pope:\n\n> Most Blessed Father, the French community of the Church of San Luigi in Rome... humbly represents that the chapel... founded in this church by the late Cardinal... and provided by him with one hundred gold scudi per annum for two chaplains, has been closed for more than twenty-five years and is at present still closed. And if Your Holiness does not bring His authority to bear in the matter, there is a danger that the chapel will never be completed, because Signor Abbate Giacomo Crescenzi, the executor of the will of the above-named Cardinal since the retirement of his father Virgilio Crescenzi... has not finished it and excuses himself on the grounds of difficulties with the sculptor, the painter and other things. Thus the soul of the deceased has been cheated of its masses and the church of San Luigi similarly cheated of the endowment which was destined for the chapel. All of this is a discredit to the divine service and a shame for the community, and it leads people to believe that the neglect is the fault of the community when they see the chapel continually boarded-up and closed while various other churches in Rome are constructed from their foundations up... the heirs and sons of the Crescenzi, accumulating [revenues] year after year and day after day, have bought many and various offices in the Cancelleria, real estate and other things without doing anything which relates to the will of the testator and without even having anniversary services said for the soul of the deceased...\n\nAs a result of this tirade, Clement VIII ordered the Crescenzi to surrender Contarelli's legacy and entrusted responsibility for the chapel to the governing body of the Fabbrica di San Pietro \u2013 the works office of St Peter's. Giuseppe Cesari was approached again and asked to finish what he had begun, but he pleaded overwork. Del Monte, whose palace was directly opposite the church, followed these developments carefully. Del Monte was friendly with the Crescenzi family. He busied himself behind the scenes, pulled the right strings and somehow won the commission for Caravaggio, an artist as yet untried in the public arena of large-scale religious painting. 'With the support of his Cardinal he got the commission for the Contarelli chapel in San Luigi dei Francesi,' Baglione noted, with a touch of bitterness. On 23 July 1599 Caravaggio signed a contract with the two rectors of the church in which he undertook to complete the side panels for the chapel by the end of the year for a fee of 400 scudi.\n\nIt was a daunting challenge for a young and relatively inexperienced artist. So far Caravaggio had never painted a picture with more than four figures in it. None of his previous canvases had been more than four or five feet across. Suddenly, he would have to produce two monumental paintings, each more than ten feet in width and almost the same in height. He had, it is true, painted a number of devotional pictures, but he was known principally as a painter of genre scenes with a talent for still life. Now he was being invited to create complex religious narrative paintings. It was a chance to compete with the greatest artists of the past. But if it went wrong, Caravaggio's failure would also be very public.\n\nThe subjects of the two lateral pictures for the Contarelli Chapel had been prescribed by Cardinal Cointrel himself. He had wanted his burial chapel to be dedicated to St Matthew, his name saint, and so the two pictures on either side of the altar were to tell stories from the apostle's life. The painting on the left was to show Matthew, the tax collector, being summoned by Christ. That on the right was to show the saint's glorious martyrdom at the hands of a pagan assassin. Cointrel had also had very particular ideas about how these scenes might be depicted, which are reflected in the unusually circumstantial wording of an attachment to one of the contracts for the painting of the chapel:\n\n> For the St Matthew Chapel... At the right side of the altar, that is, on the side of the gospel, there is to be a painting 17 palmi high and 14 palmi long in which is painted the same St Matthew in a store or large room used for tax collection with various items pertaining to such an office, with a counter such as tax collectors use, with books, and monies that have been received, or as shall seem best. From this counter St Matthew, dressed as a practitioner of his trade would be, should rise in order to follow Our Lord who passes along the street with his disciples and calls him to the apostolate; and the attitude of St Matthew should show the painter's skill, as should also the rest. On the left side, that is, of the epistle, there should be another painting of the same height and length as above in which is painted a long wide space in the form of a temple, with an altar raised up on the top of three, four, or five steps: where St Matthew dressed in vestments to celebrate the mass is killed by the hands of soldiers and it might be more artistic to show the moment of being killed, where he is wounded and already fallen, or falling but not yet dead, while in the temple there are many men, women, young and old people, and children, mostly in different attitudes of prayer, and dressed according to their station and nobility, and benches, carpets, and other furnishings, most of them terrified by the event, others appalled, and still others filled with compassion.\n\nThe level of detail in these instructions shows how carefully painters had to tread in Rome at the end of the sixteenth century. In the event Caravaggio took artistic licence, but he remained faithful to the spirit of the patron's recommendations. None of the documentary sources specifies the medium in which the works were to be carried out, although such was the pre-eminence of fresco in the traditions of Rome's Christian art that its use was probably assumed. But frescoes must be painted _in situ_ , the pigment applied directly to a fast-drying layer of wet plaster. The technique would have required Caravaggio to depart from his studio practice \u2013 the painting of live models posed in carefully controlled light conditions. Reluctant to abandon the procedures that had already won him admirers, Caravaggio purchased two large canvases and set to work in his usual way.\n\nTrue to his method of transposing the biblical past to the present day, Caravaggio imagined _The Calling of St Matthew_ taking place in a dingy room somewhere in modern Rome. Christ and St Peter have just entered the dim and plainly furnished office of Matthew, the tax-gatherer. Here they encounter five men, grouped around a table set close to a bare wall relieved only by a single window. The window's shutter is open, but little light penetrates through its four dull panes, which are made not of glass but of oilskin held in place by crossed strings. There are coins on the table as well as a moneybag, an open account book and an inkwell from which the stem of a quill protrudes. A transaction is taking place.\n\nAt the far end of the table, a young man sitting in a savonarola chair is absorbed in calculation. He is the taxpayer, who has settled his dues and is now receiving a small amount of change. His shoulders are hunched as he counts the meagre handful of coins before him and prepares to draw the money in. Directly behind him, a bespectacled old man wearing a fur-trimmed coat peers down at the table, as if to check that all the sums have been done correctly. Next to them sits Matthew himself, accompanied by his page, a round-faced boy who leans with friendly familiarity on his master's shoulder. Caravaggio's Sicilian friend, the painter Mario Minniti, posed for this figure. Opposite sits another young man in fine page's livery, his striped black and white sleeves flashing and shimmering in the half-dark of the room. He is presumably the taxpayer's minder. Tradition has it that this figure was also modelled by a painter, Lionello Spada. But the identification may be apocryphal, a flight of fancy inspired perhaps by the sword \u2013 _spada_ , in Italian \u2013 that he wears at his side.\n\nThe biblical account of Matthew's election to the apostolate is terse in the extreme: 'And as Jesus passed forth from thence, he saw a man, named Matthew, sitting at the receipt of custom: and he saith unto him, Follow me. And he arose, and followed him' (Matthew 9:9). Caravaggio has painted the moment at the heart of this truncated narrative, when Christ has just spoken his simple two-word command. Matthew, at once astonished and compelled, points to his own chest as he gazes up into the eyes of the Saviour. There is incredulity in his expression and a question frozen on his lips: 'Who, me?' He continues, absent-mindedly, to count out one last coin of the taxpayer's change, but he knows in which direction his destiny is taking him. He braces his legs, preparing to stand up and step into his new existence. The command is irresistible, its outcome inevitable. Christ fixes the tax-collector with a hypnotizingly intense stare. Even as he reaches out towards Matthew, he has already begun to leave the room. His bare feet, half hidden in deep shadow, are turned away from the company of men back towards the outside world. In a moment he will have left, taking his new apostle with him. All has been done that needed to be done.\n\nMatthew and his companions, grouped around the coin-strewn table, might almost be gaming in the tavern of the _Cardsharps_ , painted for Cardinal del Monte five years earlier. The disconsolate man paying his taxes and raking back a pile of change looks like a gambler who has just won an annoyingly small pot. Indeed that was exactly what the seventeenth-century writer Joachim von Sandrart took him for, years after the picture was painted. 'Christ is represented in a dark room,' he wrote, 'which he has entered with two of His followers and finds the tax collector Matthew in the company of a gang of rogues with whom he is playing cards and dice, and sitting about drinking. Matthew, as if afraid, conceals the cards in one hand and places the other on his breast; in his face he reveals that alarm and shame which is the result of his feeling that he is unworthy to be called to the Apostolate by Christ. One of the other men takes his money from the table by sweeping it with one hand into the other, and attempts to sneak away; all of which seems true to life and nature itself.'\n\nSandrart plainly failed to give the painting his full attention, but none the less his misinterpretation evokes a mood that Caravaggio intended to create. The tax-gatherer's office, with its basement gloom and its cast of mercenary characters, is a convincingly seedy den of iniquity. Christ brings light into this darkness, just as he brings illumination and divine purpose to Matthew's dreary, money-grubbing existence. The picture's main light source is high and to the right, to suggest daylight flooding in from above, perhaps through an open door and down a flight of stairs. It flashes on to the face of Matthew, along a diagonal parallel with the line traced by Christ's golden halo and his outstretched, spotlit, beckoning hand. It is the light of ordinary mundane reality, yet it is also the light of God.\n\n_The Calling of St Matthew_ is built on contrasts, and not only the contrast of light and shade. Whereas Matthew and his companions are dressed in foppish modern finery, Christ and the solemn, reproving figure of St Peter go barefoot and wear simple, timeless robes. They belong to a different time and place, and a different moral and spiritual universe. They might be an apparition or a dream, projected from the distant sacred past into a profane Roman present.\n\nWith _The Calling of St Matthew_ Caravaggio was staking his claim to a place in the great Italian tradition of monumental religious painting. He had the confidence to weave an overt reference to that tradition into the very fabric of his picture. The hand that Christ holds out to Matthew is a direct paraphrase of one of the most celebrated images of Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel ceiling, a detail appropriated from _The Creation of Adam_ in which the animating finger of God reaches towards the languid hand of the first man. Yet it is the hand of Adam, not God, that Caravaggio has chosen to give to his own solemnly beckoning figure of Christ. This apparent homage to Michelangelo is actually a statement of Caravaggio's independence of thought, and the detail adds a subtly appropriate layer of meaning to the picture. Caravaggio's Christ becomes a second Adam, made in God's image but purged of sin, calling Matthew to his redemption: 'For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive' (1 Corinthians 15:22).\n\nThe hand of Christ is not the only such allusion in the painting. The grouping of figures around the table has been calculated to resemble a profane version of the Last Supper. The young man counting his change, oblivious to the call of Christ, clutches a bag of money in his shadowed left hand. He is like Judas with his fifty pieces of silver. It is from the company of worldly Judases, to that of Christ the Saviour, that Matthew has been called.\n\nThe painting is poetical and metaphorical, although the piety of which it speaks is harsh, direct and forbidding. It also has a haunting quality, the character of a personal renunciation: in _The Calling of St Matthew_ , Caravaggio revisited the world of his own early genre paintings, but only to consign that world to darkness. The picture was the artist's first public demonstration of his formidable naturalism, but it is less like a depiction of real life than a dream of escaping reality altogether, of being called away from a life of vice, suddenly and inexplicably, and summoned into the presence of God. Did Caravaggio himself dream of being chosen like this \u2013 of being rescued from his own unruly, imperfect nature?\n\nThe painter fought long and hard with the second of his pictures for the Contarelli Chapel, _The Martyrdom of St Matthew_. His struggle became common knowledge among the gossiping artists of Rome. Bellori, writing seventy years afterwards, knew enough to declare that Caravaggio 'did it over twice', a claim confirmed when the picture was examined during conservation in 1966. X-ray photographs reveal the painter's aborted first composition, in which the bearded martyr stood before the altar, hands outstretched to protect himself from the assault of three armed men. As one of the assassins prepared to attack, another strode in from the side, sword at the ready. A third stepped in with his back to the viewer, as if entering the scene from directly in front of the picture. Shocked spectators looked on. In this initial attempt, the figures were considerably smaller than in the completed version. The architecture, square columns and pilasters with heavy cornicing, was correspondingly more prominent. The painter was perhaps struggling to depict the scene as it had been described in Contarelli's instructions: 'a long wide space in the form of a temple... where St Matthew dressed in vestments to celebrate the mass is killed by the hands of soldiers'.\n\nUnhappy with his first effort, Caravaggio painted it out and rethought his approach. Now he was determined to give his composition a focal point, to make an image that would be at once more monumental and more dynamic. He made two fundamental changes to the composition that had displeased him: he greatly increased the scale of the individual figures, and he reduced the number of executioners from three to one. The story of murder and martyrdom was in this way compressed to a single brutal act. In the finished work a snarling youth wields a sword over the prone figure of Matthew, who lies at the base of a simple stone altar. The saint, whose chasuble is splashed with blood, has already been wounded. The assassin grasps him by the wrist, subduing Matthew at the same time as turning his body towards him, the better to administer the _coup de gr\u00e2ce_. In the first version of the painting the killers had been represented as athletic youths stripped to the waist. In the final version the single assassin is nude save for a loincloth. A high, raking light falls on the scene, catching his pale skin and accentuating his musculature. It also catches Matthew's white vestments and his helpless upturned face.\n\nCaravaggio's final composition resembles a centrifuge, with peripheral forms and figures seeming to fly off in all directions, driven away by the violence at the centre. On the right-hand side a statuesque altar-boy screams, open-mouthed. To the left several onlookers recoil, including two men in shadow. One raises his hands in a gesture of instinctive shock and revulsion, while the other simply stares, transfixed. Behind them two _bravi_ , one armed with a sword and wearing a plumed hat, look back as they prepare to flee the scene. Two more distant figures, isolated against the darkness, have already taken flight. One is shown in half-profile while the other is shown in full-face, picked out by a sudden shaft of light. He turns back to stare at the killing, his eyes full of sadness, regret, guilt. His features are unmistakably those of Caravaggio himself.\n\nThe painter's treatment of the foreground was long regarded as a puzzle. To the right-hand side, two nearly nude figures huddle together on a fold of striped blanket. Opposite them, another reclining nude supports his weight on both hands while dangling his right leg into a dark area of void space. The near-nudity of Matthew's assassin might be explained by the fact that he is pagan, but why should these other figures be half naked in church at the celebration of Mass? It has been argued that they are no more than an expedient compositional device, and that their function is essentially to swell the small crowd of witnesses. A more plausible explanation, advanced by Giovanni Urbani in his report on the cleaning of both Contarelli Chapel pictures in 1966, is that the nudes should be regarded as recent converts to Christianity who are about to be baptized. The evidence suggests that his hypothesis is correct.\n\nThe principal source for the story of Matthew's martyrdom was the popular compendium of saints' lives known as _The Golden Legend_. There it is told that Matthew travelled to Ethiopia, where he converted many people to Christianity. His followers built him a church, where he baptized the king and queen and their daughter, Ephigenia, who entered a religious order. Matthew's martyrdom was the work of the king's successor, Hirtacus, who came to the throne determined to marry Ephigenia. When Matthew counselled her to remain a bride of Christ, Hirtacus ordered that the troublesome priest be killed. The story emphasizes that Matthew's martyrdom was the direct consequence of his missionary zeal: in earlier Italian pictorial narratives of the saint's life, the image of his killing was often immediately preceded by a depiction of him baptizing new converts.\n\nConversion and baptism were themes highly appropriate to the national church of the French, whose own king had himself been so recently converted to Catholicism. The setting of Caravaggio's painting is a baptismal chapel, with steps leading down from the altar to a lustral pool, around the edges of which the naked converts have gathered. The significance of the painting's architecture was long unrecognized, for the simple reason that hardly any such baptismal chapels have survived. But they were once a common sight in Italian churches, especially in the north. In Rome, where baptism by aspersion was the general practice, stepped pools were not necessary. But in Milan, where they practised the Ambrosian rite of baptism by full bodily immersion, such chapels contained a deep pool at the base of the altar. The liturgically precise Archbishop of Milan, Carlo Borromeo, writing in his _Instructiones fabricae et supellectilis ecclesiasticae_ , described an arrangement that closely corresponds to the setting of _The Martyrdom of St Matthew_ : 'a baptistery should be in the centre of the chapel. It should be eleven cubits wide and deep enough so that the descent to it from the floor of the chapel consists of at least three steps. By the descent and moderate depth it should resemble a sepulchre.' It seems that Caravaggio painted the kind of baptismal chapel that he remembered from his childhood in Milan.\n\nBorromeo's instruction that the baptistry should resemble a sepulchre reflects the Christian belief that baptism and death are closely connected: to be baptized is to enter a new life in Christ, and to die is also to embark on the journey to a new existence \u2013 eternal life among the blessed. Baptism and death by martyrdom were even more intimately linked in Christian theology, in part because of the belief that the wound in Christ's side had flowed with water as well as blood during the Crucifixion. The early Church father, Tertullian, commented that this was 'to make us, in like manner, called by water, chosen by blood. These two baptisms He sent out from the wound of his pierced side in order that they who believed in his blood might be bathed with the water; they who had been bathed in the water might likewise drink the blood.'\n\nThese ideas are woven together in _The Martyrdom of St Matthew_. The artist has imagined Matthew, missionary to the heathen, being murdered in the very act of conducting Mass during the sacrament of baptism. As he dies his blood flows into the baptismal pool. In this detail, murder is sanctified to a holy rite. The saint's death is a baptism of blood, a rebirth into immortality. Above, invisible both to the assassin and to the saint's shocked congregation, an angel perched on a heavy outcrop of cloud descends to thrust the palm of martyrdom into Matthew's open right hand.\n\nCaravaggio's hard-won solution to the challenge of the picture combined theological subtlety with dramatic immediacy and narrative plausibility. The murderer, all but naked like the circle of converts awaiting baptism, has sprung up from their midst. He turns out to have been a pagan in disguise, lurking among the ranks of the faithful.\n\nThe principal visual inspiration for _The Martyrdom of St Matthew_ is often said to have been Titian's famous _St Peter Martyr_ , which had been painted for an altar in the Venetian church of SS Giovanni e Paolo. That work must have been in Caravaggio's mind as he devised his own image of martyrdom, since his fallen saint and executioner are undeniably close to the same figures in Titian's composition. Yet the effect of his crowded tableau of figures is closer still to the three-dimensional sculptural _mises-en-sc\u00e8ne_ of popular religious art in his native Lombardy. _The Martyrdom of St Matthew_ resembles nothing so much as the chapel sculptures of the sacred mountain at Varallo, near Milan \u2013 in particular, perhaps, the many figures assembled in a frozen re-enactment of _The Massacre of the Innocents_. Caravaggio's picture is like a partial, spotlit memory of that crowd scene.\n\nCaravaggio's self-portrait as one of the fleeing onlookers in the _Martyrdom_ is partly a kind of signature, in line with well-established Renaissance convention. A hundred years earlier Luca Signorelli had included himself as a solemn witness at the end of the world, in his fresco cycle of scenes from the Book of Revelation in Orvieto Cathedral. Caravaggio too is a witness. Including himself in the scene may have been his way of proclaiming that he really did see it all unfold, just like this, in his mind's eye. But there is perhaps more to it: he is not only an observer, but also a participant, a furtive accessory to the dreadful act. Like the converts in the foreground of the painting, he has stripped naked to be baptized; unlike them, he has gathered his blanket around him and taken to his heels. The self-portrait, in this instance, reads like a _mea culpa_. If Caravaggio had actually been there, he suggests, he would have had no more courage than anyone else. He would have fled like the others, leaving the martyr to his fate. According to the logic of his own narrative, he remains unbaptized and therefore outside the circle of the blessed. He is a man running away, out of the church and into the street.\n\n#### A BACK-STABBING, AND OTHER MISADVENTURES\n\nOn 4 July 1600 the painter received a final payment of 50 scudi for _The Calling_ and _The Martyrdom of St Matthew_. The two pictures were complete by that date, but may not have been set into the walls of the chapel until the autumn. Only in December did the carpenter employed to do the work submit his bill:\n\n> for lining the two pictures which are on either side of the chapel of Cardinal Contarelli, which are both 14\u00bd palms broad and 15 palms long; for fixing the laths in the wall so that the boards may be nailed, for putting three [laths] for each picture... and for dividing the fir-wood boards, by 50, all my own material \u2013 it amounts to 20 scudi 20 baiocchi. For making the frames of the said pictures of my own white-poplar timber \u2013 it amounts to 20 scudi and 20 baiocchi.\n\nThe pictures for the Contarelli Chapel were compellingly original public works of art. At a stroke they brought Caravaggio's new style of painting to a much broader public. His matchless sense of drama and his use of extreme contrasts of light and dark would prove intoxicatingly influential. The painting of such seventeenth-century masters as Rembrandt in Holland, Georges de La Tour in France, Ribera in Spain, even the work of much later Romantic artists such as G\u00e9ricault and Delacroix, all are inconceivable without the pictorial revolution first unleashed by Caravaggio in his two pictures of scenes from the life of St Matthew. It is no exaggeration to say that they decisively changed the tradition of European art. But in their own time, they were controversial.\n\nCaravaggio's rival, imitator and future biographer Giovanni Baglione went to see the pictures as soon as they were installed. His account of the visit conveys the impact of Caravaggio's work on those who first saw it. But it also hints at the jealousies aroused by the sudden rise to fame of a previously little-known painter from Lombardy. Baglione went to see the pictures with Federico Zuccaro, the president of Rome's art academy, the Accademia di San Luca. Sixty years old, Zuccaro was an _\u00e9minence grise_ who aspired to the mantle of Michelangelo while painting late Mannerist monstrosities. He claimed to be unimpressed by Caravaggio's work, as Baglione reported with evident pleasure:\n\n> This commission with the paintings done after life... made Caravaggio famous, and the paintings were excessively praised by evil people. When Federico Zuccaro came to see this picture, while I was there, he exclaimed: 'What is all the fuss about?' and after having studied the entire work carefully, added: 'I do not see anything here other than the idea of Giorgione in the picture of the saint when Christ calls him to the Apostolate'; and, sneering, astonished by such commotion, he turned his back and left.\n\nAt first sight Zuccaro's response seems as puzzling as it is petty. Caravaggio's monumental, tenebristic _Calling of St Matthew_ has little in common with the works of Giorgione, painter of _The Tempest_ , _The Sleeping Venus_ and the _Three Ages of Man_. But Zuccaro's phrase, 'the idea of Giorgione', suggests that he meant to invoke the Venetian master first and foremost as a stereotype \u2013 the embodiment of a particular approach to painting. It is by no means certain that the crusty academician was familiar with Giorgione's actual works. But he certainly knew Giorgio Vasari's life of Giorgione, which had emphasized the painter's absolute dependence on the evidence of his own eyes. According to Vasari, Giorgione 'would never represent anything in his works without copying it from life'. Vasari was a partisan of the Tuscan\u2013Roman approach to art, with its strong emphasis on idealized forms, usually realized in the medium of fresco; his portrayal of Giorgione as a slavish naturalist was part of a systematic damning of the great Venetian oil painters with faint praise. So in declaring that Caravaggio was merely another Giorgione, Zuccaro was tarring him with the same brush: the comment was shorthand for saying that Caravaggio had no faculty of invention or imagination, that he was a painter who brought everything down to the level of mundane actual life, even the sacred mysteries. The curmudgeonly and conservative Zuccaro may well have been genuinely disturbed by the painter's decision to depict Matthew in his tax office as if he were a character in a low-life genre scene. If so, he would not be the last to take offence at Caravaggio's perceived sins against decorum.\n\nIn certain circles of the Roman art world Caravaggio would always be seen as an unwelcome outsider. Not only did Zuccaro criticize him for being an empty-headed naturalist, but he also implied that Caravaggio was polluting the pure and noble traditions of Roman painting with a seditious foreign idea \u2013 'the idea of Giorgione' \u2013 brought in from Venice. Caravaggio's dark and monumental oil paintings would certainly have looked extremely Venetian in the chapel of a Roman church in 1600, because only in Venice, where dampness and humidity discouraged fresco painting, was it common to see such large works of religious art carried out in oil on canvas. Caravaggio's painting must have seemed truly foreign, alien.\n\nCaravaggio may not have been unduly concerned by Zuccaro's dislike for his work, but it was hardly a good omen. The Accademia di San Luca was an influential organization that could play an important role in a painter's career. He seems to have tried to be a part of it. A few years earlier he had been one of 105 artists to participate in the religious devotion known as the Forty Hours, annual celebrations in honour of St Luke. At that time he was not yet a member of the academy, although there is evidence to suggest that he may have joined some time after 1600. He was, however, never admitted to its inner circle.\n\nThe Contarelli paintings divided opinion, but they instantly established Caravaggio as one of the leading painters of the city. However, there is no sign that success mellowed him. His life on the streets of the city was more turbulent than ever. At some point during the winter of 1600 \u2013 the precise date is unknown \u2013 he clashed with one of Rome's many unemployed mercenaries. Both men drew their swords. The painter outfought the soldier, who retired hurt. Caravaggio's friend, the notoriously hot-headed Onorio Longhi, was also involved. The injured man prosecuted and the legal document that records the affair also notes that it was settled out of court. Caravaggio must have compensated the man for his injuries:\n\n> In favour of Michelangelo Caravaggio, summoned and prosecuted for a sword wound which he had inflicted on the hand of Flavio Canonico, a former sergeant of the guards at Castel Sant'Angelo, with the complicity of Onorio Longhi, without danger to life, but with a permanent scar... the most Illustrious and Reverent Lord, the Governor [of Rome], in view of the accord and reconciliation obtained from the aforesaid Flavio who was the injured party, ordered that the lawsuit... and all other documents existing against the aforesaid [Caravaggio] for the above mentioned cause shall be cancelled and annulled and that the same [Caravaggio] shall not be molested any further on the ground of the aforesaid incident...\n\nFlavio Canonico was not Caravaggio's only victim that winter. On 19 November 1600 the painter was charged with a nocturnal assault on a young art student named Girolamo Spampa from Montepulciano in Tuscany. This is what Spampa told the court:\n\n> You should know that last Friday night, three hours after nightfall, while returning from the Academy [the Accademia di San Luca], where I had been studying, when I got to the Via della Scrofa \u2013 Messer Orazio Bianchi was with me \u2013 and I was knocking at the candlemaker's door to get some candles, the defendant came up with a stick and began to beat me. He gave me a good many blows. I defended myself as best I could, shouting: 'Ah, traitor, is that a way to act!' Some butchers arrived with lights, and then Michelangelo drew his sword and made a thrust at me, which I parried with my cloak, in which he made a gash, as you can see, and then fled. Then I recognized him, whereas previously I had not been able to recognize him.\n\nSpampa's description of the attack was confirmed by his companion, Orazio Bianchi, who gave his own town of origin as Lyon in France; he was the moderately accomplished religious painter Horace Le Blanc. Le Blanc's finest hour would come in 1622, long after his return from Italy, when he was commissioned to design sets for the triumphal entry of Louis XIII and Anne of Austria into Lyon. His decorously idealized paintings, and the pattern of his later career, when he served for years as master of Lyon's guild of painters, identify him as a pillar of the academic establishment. Although he was only about twenty years old in 1600, he was already a member of the Accademia di San Luca.\n\nCaravaggio's attack on the industrious young Spampa and his aesthetically conservative friend was not a spur-of-the-moment fracas: it was a premeditated assault that reeked of vendetta. Caravaggio had clearly lain in wait for the young student, tailing him through the dark Roman streets as he made his way home from the Accademia di San Luca. Revenge attacks of this sort were often carefully calculated. The convention was that the punishment should fit the crime. Is it possible that Spampa, keen to nail his colours to the mast of the academy, had been parroting Federico Zuccaro's criticisms of the Contarelli Chapel pictures? Had Caravaggio been tipped off by one of his own friends and allies? If so, his response had a certain brutal logic to it. Spampa had been guilty of back-stabbing. So Caravaggio attacked him from behind.\n\nThe case went no further, perhaps because of lack of evidence, perhaps because Cardinal del Monte intervened on Caravaggio's behalf. But there were other incidents besides, including one sighting of the painter that suggests he himself had been on the receiving end of a beating.\n\nIn late October 1600 trouble had broken out again between Caravaggio's friend Onorio Longhi and Onorio's brother Stefano. The pair were still arguing over their contested inheritance. Stefano had charged Onorio with assault and threatening behaviour. In the course of a three-day investigation of his grievances and accusations, the court looked into a number of incidents in which Onorio had been involved. Caravaggio's presence is mentioned. The evidence is confused and fragmentary, but presents a vivid picture of the painter's life on the streets of Rome in the first year of the new century.\n\nDuring the investigation, Onorio Longhi was asked to cast his mind back to an altercation involving himself, Stefano and others that had taken place earlier that year. Under cross-examination, he conjured up the vibrancy of Rome in the high summer in holiday mood, packed with men watching sport and spoiling for a fight:\n\n> Yes, sir, if I remember correctly, in July I was at the French tennis court at Santa Lucia della Tinta to see a match between two fencers, one of whom is called Cencio Abruzzese and the other is a Bolognese, whose name I don't know. After I had seen the two fencers fight, I went on to Piazza Navona, where some people were playing ball. I went up to watch them play. I met Vicenzo da Ascoli, a fencer, Livio Freta, who had been the judge of the said combat, Fulvio Scocimarro da Riete and Geronimo Roncalli, a merchant; there was one other with them, who they say is from Terni, but I don't know his name or anything else. They asked me what I thought about the fight between the two fencers, and who struck the most blows. I told them in my opinion Cencio had struck the most; then the man from Terni suggested that I hadn't seen well, or that I didn't understand much. I told him that he had gambled away ten scudi on the first hit, and in response the said Stefano made a mistake and threw a punch at me, then he put his hand to his sword. For my honour and defence I put my hand to my sword too. We threw so many punches that I don't know who was hit, because we were separated by many, and I was alone. But according to what I heard from the Duke of Acquasparta, who brokered a peace between us, he told me that he was hurt a little in the hand.\n\nThe magistrate then told Onorio that he was not asking about that fight, but another one that had taken place on the Via della Scrofa near the harbour of the Ripetta, the whore's part of town. It was a brawl that had started because someone had called out 'Testicles for a penny' (a double-edged provocation, since the Italian word for testicles, _coglione_ , could also signify a moron or imbecile). Longhi remembered that fracas too and described it:\n\n> Sir, I was walking down the street with some friends of mine. We were talking among ourselves and I said to them that bollocks were one a penny. Someone happened to be passing, accompanied by a certain painter whom I didn't know at all. He took it as meant for himself and told me not to speak to him like that, saying that he ate bollocks like me fried. We went at each other with our fists, and were separated. Then I went off on my own business, because after the fist-fight, those two took up stones to throw, but I didn't throw back because we had been separated.\n\nLonghi insisted that nothing else happened and that no one else came to blows, but the magistrate continued with his cross-examination:\n\n> _Who else was present at the scene?_\n> \n> With him, that is, the one who came to blows with me, was one Marco Tullio, a painter, and with me was Michelangelo Merisi, the painter, who separated us.\n> \n> _Was Caravaggio armed at the time?_\n> \n> At the time Messer Michelangelo was convalescing, so he had his sword carried by a boy. This boy had the sword and was with him when the fight occurred, but Messer Michelangelo never took it out of the scabbard.\n> \n> _Did anyone else take up the scabbard and throw it, and if so, at whom?_\n> \n> When Messer Michelangelo was separating us, my adversary drew the scabbard to himself. I don't know what he did with it then and whether he threw it at me or not.\n> \n> _Did Michelangelo have the sword in its scabbard? Why was the scabbard thrown?_\n> \n> I don't know about that, because Messer Michelangelo was so ill he could barely stand, and when he saw the sword without its sheath he went off about his own business.\n\nSuddenly the magistrate changed tack, perhaps revealing his main reason for enquiring into this otherwise apparently trivial affair. Longhi was asked to give the name of the man from Terni, the one with whom he had fought. He replied that he was not sure, but that he had heard that the man was called Luca Ciancarotta. At this point, the cross-examiner abruptly brought up the name of Ranuccio Tomassoni, also from Terni.\n\n> _Had Longhi ever had an argument with the said Ranuccio? If so, when had he quarrelled with him, and over what?_\n> \n> No, sir, I've never had any words with Ranuccio Tomassoni from Terni. Even if he is a little related to the said Stefano, he is my friend and we've never had any disagreements in the past.\n> \n> _Had he ever tried to attack Ranuccio, alone or in company?_\n> \n> No, sir, no such thing, because, as I said, Ranuccio is my friend. We ate together only a few days ago. And I've never had any arguments or attacked him.\n\nA swordfight on a tennis court; the painter barely able to walk, 'convalescing' probably not from illness but from injuries sustained in some fight or other; an argument involving testicles; a rivalry with a group of men from Terni. These events would soon enough be replayed \u2013 low farce turning to tragedy \u2013 in the lives of Caravaggio and Ranuccio Tomassoni. Stirrings of the trouble that lay ahead between the two men can be sensed behind the evasive testimony of Onorio Longhi.\n\nLonghi did know Ranuccio Tomassoni well enough to be on first-name terms, as he had claimed. Just two weeks after the investigations of late October 1600, he was up before the magistrates again. The case at hand was his alleged assault of Felice Sillano, which by then had rumbled on for more than two years. Part of the investigation turned on whether a particular witness could possibly have recognized Longhi at night. When challenged, the witness turned to him and said 'I know you by your voice, because I've heard you talking with Messer Ranuccio at the Rotonda [the Pantheon], and seen you playing tennis in the Vicole de' Pantani.' Longhi may once have been on good terms with the philandering, tennis-playing pimp. But their friendship had soured by the summer of 1600, perhaps because of Caravaggio's relationship with Fillide Melandroni, or perhaps because Ranuccio had taken the side of Stefano Longhi in the brothers' long-running battle over their inheritance.\n\nIn the archives of the tribunal of the Governor of Rome is another illuminating document, in effect an early seventeenth-century restraining order. On 17 November 1600 a sculptor called Hippolito Butio, of Milan, gave his pledge that Longhi would neither attack, nor cause to be attacked, a whole host of people. The list included the long-aggrieved Felice Sillano as well as Stefano Longhi and Flavio Canonici ( _sic_ ), whose hand Caravaggio had marked with 'a permanent scar', and Ranuccio Tomassoni.\n\nThere is a strong sense, in all this, of battle lines being drawn. A dangerous pattern of alliances was forming, a web of personal and patriotic rivalries. Caravaggio and Onorio Longhi stand on one side of the street, while Tomassoni and his henchmen from Terni gather on the other.\n\n#### TWO PAINTINGS FOR TIBERIO CERASI\n\nMeanwhile, in the autumn of 1600 Caravaggio had been offered another important commission. Two more lateral pictures were required, this time on the subjects of _The Conversion of St Paul_ and _The Crucifixion of St Peter_ , for a chapel that had been acquired by Monsignor Tiberio Cerasi in the Church of Santa Maria del Popolo. It was another exceptional opportunity for the artist to excel on a public stage. The Augustinian foundation of Santa Maria del Popolo, at the northern edge of Rome, marked the start of one of the principal routes of pilgrimage through the city. Caravaggio was well aware that over the years millions of pilgrims would see his depictions of Peter and Paul, the beloved Princes of the Apostles. With the help of Cardinal del Monte, he was becoming famous.\n\nCaravaggio's new patron, Monsignor Tiberio Cerasi, was a rich man. Born in 1544, he had made his fortune practising law at the papal court. Since 1596 he had been Treasurer-General to the Apostolic Chamber, responsible for authorizing papal expenditure. During the same period Cardinal Vincenzo Giustiniani was the Depositary-General, whose job it was to receive and distribute the funds. The two men were often brought together by their work. It may have been Giustiniani, close friend of Cardinal del Monte and owner of _The_ _Lute Player_ , who first suggested that Cerasi employ Caravaggio to paint two pictures for his burial chapel in Santa Maria del Popolo.\n\nCaravaggio may also have been favoured by the religious order that owned the church, the Augustinian Friars of the Congregation of Lombardy. They were from his corner of Italy, and would have had every chance to admire his new pictures in San Luigi dei Francesi, which was only a short walk from their door. St Augustine himself had regarded human beings as essentially helpless recipients of divine mercy, measured out according to the inscrutable logic of a predestined universe, so an Augustinian community may have been impressed by the painter's _The Calling of St Matthew_ , which shows a sudden, inexplicable shining of divine grace into the life of a sinner.\n\nCardinal Giustiniani's involvement in the commission is confirmed by the contract for the new work. He is described in the role of banker, making the first payment to Caravaggio on Cerasi's behalf. The document is dated 24 September 1600:\n\n> Michael Angelo [ _sic_ ] Merisi da Caravaggio... outstanding painter of the city, contracts with Tiberio Cerasi to paint two pictures on cypress wood, each with a length of ten Roman palmi and a width of eight, representing the Conversion of St Paul and the Martyrdom of St Peter, for delivery within eight months, with all figures, persons, and ornaments which seem fit to the painter, to the satisfaction of his Lordship. The painter shall also be obliged to submit specimens and designs of the figures and other objects with which according to his invention and genius he intends to beautify the said mystery and martyrdom. This promise the said painter has made for an honorarium and price of 400 scudi in cash... [having received] 50 scudi in the form of a money order directed to the Most Illustrious Vincenzo Giustiniani... For all this the parties have pledged themselves... They have renounced to the right of appeal, in perfect consent and have taken their oaths respectively: the Prelate according to the custom of his rank, by touching his breast; Messer Michel Angelo [ _sic_ ], by touching the Bible...\n\nTiberio Cerasi had only acquired the burial chapel in Santa Maria del Popolo in July, barely more than two months earlier, and clearly wanted to avoid the kinds of delay that had plagued the decoration of the Contarelli Chapel. He may also have suspected that he did not have long to live. Two years earlier he had signed his last testament, in which he declared the Hospital of Santa Maria Consolazione to be the _erede universale_ and residuary legatee of his will. His father, Stefano Cerasi, had worked there as a physician, and Tiberio had always kept close ties with the institution. In his will, Cerasi wrote that his love for the hospital was greater than his poor bequest could convey. He was a man with his mind on the next world, determined to be in credit when the final reckoning came. He would die while work was still in progress on the paintings for his chapel, but the results would surely have pleased him. Caravaggio's dark and solemn style was well suited to his penitential mood.\n\nSaints Peter and Paul were deeply revered in Rome. Their heads were reputedly preserved in St John Lateran, their bodies buried before the high altar of St Peter's. It was believed that they had both been martyred in the city on the same day, baptizing the Roman Church with their blood. Because they were regarded as 'the founders of the Apostolic See', the stories of their lives were often presented together, but it was unusual to see depictions of the particular episodes prescribed by Cerasi placed side by side. The conversion of Paul was not usually paired with Peter's martyrdom, but with Peter receiving the keys from Christ.\n\nThere was one notable precedent for the chosen arrangement. In the 1540s, in the Pauline Chapel, next to the Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo had painted his last pair of monumental frescoes, a _Conversion of St Paul_ and a _Martyrdom of St Peter_ for Pope Paul III. They are forbiddingly gloomy pictures, part of Michelangelo's long retreat from ideal beauty. By commissioning Caravaggio to repeat the same juxtaposition of themes in his own burial chapel, Cerasi was implicitly setting him in competition with the ghost of the most celebrated Renaissance artist of all.\n\nTo this challenge, the patron added another. In addition to Caravaggio's lateral panels of Paul and Peter, he commissioned a painted altarpiece for his chapel. The artist chosen was the Bolognese painter Annibale Carracci, who had recently completed the breathtaking cycle of mythological paintings for the ceiling of the Palazzo Farnese. The subject for his new work was to be _The Assumption of the Virgin_. Carracci and Caravaggio were the two most talented painters in Rome. Cerasi had secured the services of both, beginning what he must have hoped would be a thrilling battle for pre-eminence.\n\nCarracci was the senior of the two, some fifteen years older than Caravaggio. Before starting work, he looked at his rival's new pictures in the nearby church of the French and probably assumed that Caravaggio would repeat the pattern of his _Calling_ and _Martyrdom of St Matthew_ : making the past seem present, painting from carefully posed models, using intense contrasts of light and shade. During the course of his considerably longer career, Carracci himself had flirted with similar methods and devices. But now his sense of competition pushed him to the opposite extreme.\n\nPainting _The Assumption of the Virgin_ , Carracci reverted to the pure, sweet style of the High Renaissance. He brightened and softened his colours and ruthlessly eliminated any hint of real life. Swathed in drapery the colour of a summer's sky, arms outspread, an expression of beatific serenity on her perfectly round face, Carracci's Virgin Mary rises from the tomb like an ecstatic doll. Her feet rest on a cushion of winged cherubim's heads, while a decorous cast of bearded apostles has been arranged, below her, in various standard poses of politely expressed wonderment. The painting is airless and spaceless, all its figures pushed up to the picture plane as if to a sheet of glass. There is no suggestion of the sacred erupting into the world of the everyday. It is a dream of pure transcendence.\n\nCarracci's picture is a point-by-point refutation of all Caravaggio's innovations in the Contarelli Chapel. Harking back to the serenity of Raphael's middle style, it is an insistently retrograde work of art \u2013 a doctrinaire assertion of the importance of _disegno_ , in the sense both of drawing and of idealized composition. But it also anticipates the swooning, aerially propelled visions of the incipient Baroque \u2013 the style that in Italy at least would for a time triumph over Caravaggio's harsh brand of pious naturalism. _The Assumption of the Virgin_ is a reminder of the powerful tides of taste against which Caravaggio was swimming.\n\nAnnibale Carracci delivered his work on time, to the approval of Tiberio Cerasi, and it was duly installed on the altar of the chapel in Santa Maria del Popolo. Caravaggio struggled with his own commission. Working on panels of cypress wood, as the contract had stipulated, was very different from his usual practice of working on canvas. Oil paint does not penetrate panel in the same way that it works its way into the weft of a canvas. The resulting surface is more reflective, with more emphatically succulent colours and shadows that do not recede as fully into darkness. According to Baglione, Caravaggio persevered with the two panel pictures, but they 'were painted in a different style' and 'did not please the patron'. Cerasi rejected them and the artist had no choice but to start again, this time in his preferred medium of oil on canvas. His abortive first efforts were sold on, Baglione added, to Cardinal Sannesio.\n\nOnly one of these unsatisfactory compositions survives. The attribution to Caravaggio has sometimes been questioned, but is now generally accepted. The dimensions of the panel are very close to those of the two oil paintings that the painter eventually completed for the Cerasi Chapel. Allowing for the painter's use of an unfamiliar support, the style is convincing. The model for the angel reappears in at least one of Caravaggio's later works.\n\nIt is not hard to see why Tiberio Cerasi rejected this first _Conversion of St Paul_. The composition is a clutter and a jumble. As the bearded Paul squirms on the ground, shielding his eyes from the dazzling celestial vision, his horse rears up and foams at the mouth. The saint's aged retainer, clutching a shield decorated with a crescent moon and wearing an absurdly elaborate plumed helmet, resembles a baffled spear-carrier in a comic opera. Hearing a noise like a thunderclap, but seeing nothing, he brandishes his weapon at thin air. The young, bearded Christ descends from the heavens, reaching down to the stricken Paul with a gesture of grave compassion. He and the angel accompanying him lean awkwardly across a snapped branch of a laurel, like a pair of parachutists stuck in a tree. This cumbersome arrangement probably reflects some actual studio contrivance. A ladder and a length of rope may have been used to help the models assume their poses for this part of the _mise-en-sc\u00e8ne_.\n\nOnce again, the artist's memories of the popular religious art of Lombardy are much in evidence. The picture bears a strong resemblance to some of the more overcrowded scenes enacted by the busy mannequin figures in the chapels of the _sacro monte_ tradition. The painting is more upright than the Contarelli Chapel canvases, yet Caravaggio has tried to squeeze almost as much dramatic action into the narrower compass allowed for by the cramped dimensions of the Cerasi Chapel. As a result, the forms and figures seem bizarrely compressed, with heaven and earth forced into a weird and unconvincing proximity.\n\nDuring his early struggles with the Cerasi Chapel commission, Caravaggio was handicapped by an apparent inability to get away from the famous prototype of Michelangelo's restless and turbulent _Conversion of St Paul_ in the Pauline Chapel. The rearing horse and reeling saint, the figure of Christ descending from the heavens, arm outstretched \u2013 he borrowed and adapted all these elements from Michelangelo's far larger and more densely populated painting, as if he were setting out to create a condensed version of the earlier work. It was only when Cerasi rejected the painting out of hand that Caravaggio reconsidered and found a diametrically different solution. For his second _Conversion of St Paul_ , he went back to basics. He returned to oil on canvas and went back to the biblical source of the story, to find a new way of getting to its heart and bringing it to life.\n\nThe tale of Paul's conversion is told in the Acts of the Apostles. The Roman citizen Saul of Tarsus, the future St Paul, was travelling to Damascus with letters of authority to persecute the Christians. A harsh and ruthless man, 'breathing out threatenings and slaughter against the disciples of the Lord', he was abruptly stopped in his tracks by a miracle:\n\n> And as he journeyed; he came near Damascus: and suddenly there shined round about him a light from heaven: And he fell to the earth, and heard a voice saying unto him, Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me? And he said, Who art thou, Lord? And the Lord said, I am Jesus whom thou persecutest... And he trembling and astonished said, Lord, what wilt thou have me to do? And the Lord said unto him, Arise, and go into the city, and it shall be told thee what thou must do. And the men which journeyed with him stood speechless, hearing a voice, but seeing no man. And Saul arose from the earth; and when his eyes were opened, he saw no man: but they led him by the hand, and brought him into Damascus. And he was three days without sight, and neither did eat nor drink' (Acts 9:1\u20139).\n\nCaravaggio's own revelation, on rereading these words, may have been as sudden. The story is essentially a parable played out between the twin poles of his own art \u2013 a tale of light and darkness. Lost in the shadows of evil and ignorance, a vicious man is suddenly bathed by the light of God and his soul is washed clean. In the moment of his ecstatic vision the divine light enters him, invades and permeates his whole being. Filled with this inner illumination, the light of truth and faith, he becomes blind to the mundane world about him. There are striking parallels with the story of Matthew called by Christ as Caravaggio had imagined it in the Contarelli Chapel. But this time the metaphor of illumination, which the painter had brought to the bare text of Matthew's gospel, is there in the biblical account itself: 'there shined about him a light from heaven'. In that phrase, he found his key to understanding the nature of Paul's conversion. Turning his back on the tumult and drama conventionally associated with Paul's conversion, Caravaggio created a picture of unprecedented calm. Gone are the creakingly theatrical figures of Christ and the angel, replaced by a spectral radiance that is the light of God. There is no noise, no clamour, no comedy of misapprehension here \u2013 just simple ignorance contrasted with miraculous divine illumination, an irresistible tide of light that floods the saint and changes him forever.\n\nPaul's retainer stands quietly to one side, lost in his thoughts and half lost in the shadows. A hard-faced balding man with a furrowed brow, he tends with calm solicitude to the horse from which his master has fallen. Below, almost beneath the animal's hooves, the figure of Paul lies on his back with his eyes closed like a man dreaming of his lover. His arms are open wide, embracing the light that envelops him, filling him with truth and wisdom and humanity. He is considerably younger than the wizened, bearded Paul of the rejected version. This Paul is very much the tough Roman soldier described in the Acts of the Apostles \u2013 a hard-bodied athlete with a granite jaw who has suddenly been melted by the love of God. His sword lies by his side, resting in folds of red drapery as if to symbolize the rivers of Christian blood that he had meant to shed when he set out for Damascus.\n\nIn the moment of Paul's ecstasy, the world is brought to a standstill. A physical journey has turned into a spiritual odyssey. Caravaggio's decision to purge the story of visible narrative was brave and unorthodox, but expressive. Bellori, missing the point with perfect eloquence, described the picture as 'the Conversion of St Paul, in which the history is completely without action'. On the contrary: the action has been completely internalized, so that we see or sense it unfolding within Paul's soul. He is being moulded by the light that models his figure with its soft and gentle rays. In the chiaroscuro that plays along the length of his outstretched left arm, in the shafts woven through the tips of his fingers, in the gleams reflected in the dull sheen of his fingernails, light itself becomes palpable \u2013 something he feels, accepts, draws into the depths of his body.\n\nThis is a painting to be understood intuitively, instinctively. It is not an intellectual picture, nor one that shows any interest in beauty as conventionally understood. It is designed to speak not to the rich or theologically learned but to the poor \u2013 to roughshod peasants and sunburned labourers, ordinary people who had made the long pilgrimage south to Rome and found themselves, at last, inside the city walls. The composition is dominated by the solid, heavy form of the patiently standing horse, lifting a heavy hoof so as not to tread on the prone body of its master. The animal is no thoroughbred, but a stocky piebald beast of burden. Caravaggio paints the weight and density of its powerful flank. He paints the animal's patience and loyalty. He even conjures up a feeling of the heat that emanates from its slow, heavy body \u2013 in rural parts, in the little town where he had been brought up, poor people kept their livestock in their homes in the winter months to keep themselves warm. This is an essential part of the picture's plainspeaking intimacy. It is like a hearth, inviting cold bodies to gather round and warm themselves in the act of devotion.\n\nThe horse evoked other folk memories too. Like the benign ox and ass in traditional depictions and plays of the Nativity, the animal standing quietly in the dark recalls the manger in which Christ was born. Seen through half-closed eyes, the animal's groom might almost be St Joseph. The association adds another level of meaning to the scene. In the moment of his conversion Paul is helpless yet blessed, bathed by the light of God, just as Christ was in his infancy.\n\nBehind all this is the old idea of the _Imitatio Christi_ , which was central to the ethics of the old pauperist orders such as the Franciscans. To understand Christ's message is to become like him, to follow in his footsteps \u2013 to undergo a profound, internal metamorphosis. At the instant of his inner rebirth as a Christian, Paul mystically experiences the whole life of Christ, its beginning and its end. He becomes, in his own mind, both Christ the blessed child and Christ the doomed adult, sacrificed to save mankind. In the movements of his body are reflected the motions of his soul. He reaches his arms out like a baby. As he does so, his gesture mimes the Crucifixion.\n\nThe theological justification for pairing St Paul's conversion with St Peter's martyrdom was the belief that each event represented a mystical death. At his conversion, Paul dies to the world to be reborn in Christ; at his martyrdom, Peter literally dies, to meet his rewards in heaven. Such symmetry is implicit in the relationship between Caravaggio's two paintings. The prone body of Paul, cruciform in a gesture of spiritual empathy, is echoed by the actually crucified body of Peter.\n\nAccording to legend, Peter insisted that he be crucified upside down because he felt unworthy to die the same death as Christ. In _The Crucifixion of St Peter_ , Caravaggio shows him already nailed to the cross, defiantly half rearing up as his executioners toil to raise him into place. He exhales against the pain, stomach muscles tensing, and looks away out of the picture. His eyes are fixed on the actual chapel's altar, as if to stress that death by martyrdom is another form of participation in the rite of the Mass. Even as his own blood is shed, he trusts that he will be saved by the flesh and blood of Christ. The rock in the foreground is the symbol of his hard, enduring faith, cornerstone of the Church itself: 'thou art Peter, and upon this rock I shall build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it' (Matthew 16:18\u201319).\n\nThe action takes place in some dim corner of a nocturnal world lit only by the flash of God's grace. The light falls on Peter and the straining figures of his three executioners, but the martyr alone is alive to its message of salvation. The others grunt and sweat under the burden of his weight, grimly immersing themselves in the practical business of hoisting up a human body nailed to a cross. They look as though they are trying not to think about what they are actually doing \u2013 or pretending to themselves that it might be some more innocent and straightforward task, such as erecting a fence-post, or heaving the joist of a house into place.\n\nThe executioners are insensitive to the point of insentience, blind to the mystical significance of the death they so callously arrange. Their figures are pushed up so close to the front edge of the picture that they seem almost to spill out into the real world. Like _The Conversion of St Paul_ , _The Crucifixion of St Peter_ is a painting aimed squarely at poor and ordinary people. It is a challenge as well as a call to conscience: viewers are brought into its space and invited to take the place of Peter's executioners, at least in the mind's eye \u2013 to make good their failings, to show compassion and mercy, to open up to the light of God.\n\nThe Renaissance scholar and connoisseur Bernard Berenson, who published a short and rather tetchy book about Caravaggio in 1951, was offended by the aggressive directness of the picture:\n\n> But for the noble Titianesque head of the victim, the rest is a study in the raising of a heavy weight without the aid of machinery. Of the chief performers, the one who acts as crane and the other as booster, we see the back of one and the buttocks of the other. We do not see their faces. No need. They are mere mechanisms. Hard to conceive a more dehumanized treatment of the subject. No doubt the arrangement of the four figures as crossed diagonals taking up the entire canvas was a happy thought...\n\nThe executioners were certainly intended to shock. The presence of these coarsely posed, unmistakably low-brow figures underscored Caravaggio's total rejection of High Renaissance and Mannerist elegance. This is all the more apparent in the Cerasi Chapel, where Annibale Carracci's large and centrally placed altarpiece perfectly embodies the traditions to which Caravaggio's work is so brutally opposed. Carracci had sought to pre-empt his rival by creating a work designed to reassert the values of idealized beauty, splendid colour and lofty transcendence. In doing so, he may have hoped to sow seeds of self-doubt in Caravaggio's mind. But the younger painter was only spurred on to a more blatant statement of his own, very different priorities. In place of Carracci's emotionless splendour of effect he offered up his own spare, low-toned, militantly 'poor' art. Carracci had used rich colours, colours that literally embodied wealth and magnificence, like the celestial blue of the Madonna's cloak, painted in the costly medium of ultramarine. In stark contrast, Caravaggio kept rigorously to a palette of humble, ordinary, cheap colours: the earth colours, ochre and umber, carbon black, lead white, verdigris. The use of costly ultramarine was actually specified by Cerasi, who doubtless wanted posterity to know that no expense had been spared. But Caravaggio used the colour in such a way as to reject its rich associations. The dying Peter's robe, lying in a heap in the bottom corner of the _Martyrdom_ , has been painted in murkily shadowed ultramarine. As Bellori noted, Caravaggio avoided more brilliant vermilions and blues, and even when he did use them generally 'toned them down'.\n\nThe lives of Christ and his followers were neither rich nor splendid. Their deaths were brutal. Caravaggio insists on these home truths in every detail of the Cerasi Chapel paintings, whether it be the glint of the crouching executioner's spade or the black dirt so deeply ingrained in the upturned heel and ball of his left foot. Like Carlo Borromeo preaching in rags, the art of Caravaggio expressed an aggressively harsh piety. With _The Conversion of St Paul_ and _The Crucifixion of St Peter,_ he took his uncompromisingly severe style of painting to an ascetic extreme. As a parting gesture to his rival, as if to stress the depth of his disdain for Carracci's brand of vapid magnificence, Caravaggio contrived a cunning insult: the rump of St Paul's proletarian carthorse is pointedly turned towards Carracci's _Assumption of the Virgin_.\n\n#### IN THE HOUSE OF THE MATTEI\n\nCaravaggio finished his two lateral paintings for the Cerasi Chapel towards the end of 1601. Earlier in the year he had left the household of Cardinal del Monte to accept the hospitality of another powerful figure in the Roman Curia, Cardinal Girolamo Mattei.\n\nThe Mattei were powerful. They lived in a honeycomb complex of houses and palaces built over the ruins of the ancient Roman Teatro di Balbo, in the heavily populated district of Sant'Angelo, between the Tiber and the Campidoglio. The adjoining residences of the various branches of the family formed an entire block, known as the Isola dei Mattei. At its centre, looking out across the Piazza Mattei, was the massive Palazzo Mattei, home to Cardinal Girolamo.\n\nCaravaggio moved there some time before 14 June 1601, when he gave his address on agreeing a contract for an altarpiece of _The Death of the Virgin_ , for the church of Santa Maria della Scala in the district of Trastevere in Rome: he is described as 'Michelangelo Merisi from Caravaggio, painter of the city, living in the palace of the illustrious and reverend lord cardinal Mattei'. The terms of the contract allowed him twelve months to paint the new altarpiece. He would complete the work eventually, but not until long after that deadline had passed.\n\nCaravaggio probably remained in the household of the Mattei family until at least the beginning of 1603. His precise movements are hard to track following his departure from the household of Cardinal del Monte, who was himself friendly with the Mattei and may have been instrumental in the artist's move. Caravaggio's change of address should not be seen as marking a break between him and del Monte. The painter continued to rely on his old protector for support. On the evening of 11 October 1601 Caravaggio was stopped for carrying arms without a licence in the district of the Campo Marzio. The policeman who made the arrest reported that the painter 'insisted that he was on the household roll of the Cardinal del Monte, and because he did not have a licence and I did not know if it was true, I took him to prison at the Tor di Nona.' Nothing came of it and the painter was soon released, probably with del Monte's help. For his part the Medici cardinal seems to have remained on good terms with his prot\u00e9g\u00e9, continuing to make allowances for his erratic behaviour.\n\nCardinal Girolamo Mattei was one of three brothers. Although he was not the eldest, his elevated position in the Roman curia meant that it was he who lived in the principal family palace. He was a member of the strictest order of Franciscan friars, the Observants. Cardinal Mattei was noted for his dislike of conspicuous display and may have influenced Caravaggio's turn towards a harsh and simplified language of Christian painting in 1601. The pictures for the Cerasi Chapel, so stark and ascetic, were finished when Caravaggio was living in the Palazzo Mattei.\n\nGirolamo's two brothers, Ciriaco and Asdrubale, shared a house close to the Palazzo Mattei. Ciriaco was a year older than the cardinal, while Asdrubale was ten years younger. Both men had added to their considerable inherited wealth by marrying advantageously. They were known as enthusiastic collectors of ancient Roman sculpture and as connoisseurs of contemporary art. The family account books show that it was they, rather than their brother the cardinal, who commissioned paintings from Caravaggio. For Asdrubale he created a painting of _St Sebastian_ that has long since been lost. For Ciriaco he painted no fewer than three gallery paintings on sacred themes, all of which survive.\n\nThe archives of the Mattei family show that Caravaggio was paid by Ciriaco at the start of January 1602 for 'A painting of Our Lord Breaking Bread'. This is _The Supper at Emmaus,_ now in the National Gallery in London. The painting tells the biblical story of the risen Christ, days after the crucifixion, sharing a meal with two of his astonished followers. According to the gospel of Luke, at first they did not recognize him: 'And then it came to pass, as he sat at meat with them, he took bread, and blessed it, and brake, and gave to them. And their eyes were opened, and they knew him; and he vanished out of their sight' (Luke 24:30\u201331). Caravaggio paints the moment just before the vanishing. Dressed in robes of red and white, colours that symbolize his triumphant resurrection, Jesus reveals his identity with a gesture of gentle benediction. In the act of blessing the square and solid loaves of bread, he both confirms that he has indeed risen from the dead and affirms his own bodily presence in the Eucharist. The claws of a scrawny boiled chicken, pathetic image of mortality, are contrasted with the life-giving hands of Christ. A simple meal has become a sacrament.\n\nThe Bible says that the village of Emmaus 'was from Jerusalem about threescore furlongs', but Caravaggio imagined a place much closer to home. His _Supper at Emmaus_ is served up in a rough Roman tavern, the kind of place where the painter would meet his friends and start arguments with his enemies. As the Saviour announces himself, a hardbitten innkeeper looks on with an expression of uncomprehending suspicion, as if he might be wondering whether this pale, plump-faced young man and his ragged companions will be able to pay their bill.\n\nMeanwhile the two disciples are frozen in the throes of astonished, dawning recognition. One has his back to us. As he prepares to lever himself upright, his hands are braced on the arms of the same savonarola chair that Caravaggio had used in _The Calling of St Matthew_. At the point of his bony elbow, there is a small rent in his rough green tunic, through which his white undershirt shows. The other disciple, who wears a pilgrim's shell on his mantle, spreads his arms as wide as he can, measuring the extent of his amazement like an angler demonstrating the size of a fish that got away. His gesture also mirrors the Crucifixion, as if to shape the question springing to his mind. How is it possible that a man whom he so recently saw nailed to the cross, a bleeding corpse, should live and breathe and speak once more?\n\nThe hands of Christ and the wondering apostle seem to reach out of the painting, through the membrane that separates illusion from reality. The effect is worked through skilful foreshortenings of perspective. The apostle's outspread arms plot the whole depth of the picture. His right hand, half lost in the darkness, seems blurred by movement. His other hand, so close to the picture plane as to seem almost touchable, is sharply in focus. From the tip of Christ's thumb, back along the dappled sleeve of his red shirt to his shoulder, his arm is a piece of art that measures distance, in graded lights and darks, with such illusory precision that it is almost impossible to look at the painting and believe it truly flat.\n\nYet Caravaggio's intense realism is also, on this occasion, shot through with a strong sense of the uncanny. It is as if the painter has asked himself a series of direct, straightforward questions about the story that he was given to depict. What happens to the world when a miracle takes place? How might it be possible to tell, should the risen Christ suddenly come among us? What do things actually look like at such moments? _The Supper at Emmaus_ contains Caravaggio's answers to those questions.\n\nThe idea that divine visitations are inevitably accompanied by thunderclaps and clouds of angels is dismissed as naive and childish. Caravaggio, himself so keen-eyed and attentive to every last nuance of visual experience, imagines the process to be subtler than that. God is light, so he announces his presence among men in the elusive forms of a shadowplay. The innkeeper cannot see it, but by standing where he does he casts a shadow on the wall that gives Christ a dark but unmistakable halo. Below, a basket of fruit is balanced precariously on the leading edge of the table. It is the same basket that Caravaggio had painted for Federico Borromeo, and its contents are nearly the same too \u2013 a worm-eaten apple, a pomegranate and fig, withered grapes and trailing vine leaves, embodying decay but also symbolizing the hope of Christian redemption. The fruit and the teetering basket cast a second meaningful shadow, this one shaped like the tail of a fish, the ancient mnemonic sign for Christ used by his earliest followers. Caravaggio's painting suggests that those who would prefer to be saved, rather than damned, might do well to pay attention to such details. Even those in the presence of a miracle might easily miss it.\n\nBellori unwisely chose to single out _The Supper at Emmaus_ as an example of the painter's thoughtless literalism and lack of decorum: 'in addition to the vulgar conception of the two Apostles and of the Lord who is shown young and without a beard, the innkeeper wears a cap, and on the table is a dish of grapes, figs and pomegranates out of season. Just as certain herbs produce both beneficial medicine and most pernicious poison, in the same way, though he produced some good, Caravaggio has been most harmful and wrought havoc with every ornament and good tradition of painting...' The biographer concluded this little homily with the reflection that many other painters had been bewitched by the 'error and darkness' of Caravaggio's painting, 'until Annibale Carracci came to enlighten their minds and restore beauty to the imagination of nature'.\n\nBellori's misreading of _The Supper at Emmaus_ does at least have the virtue of highlighting some of the picture's most effective devices. The writer found his eye drawn to Caravaggio's wicker basket of fruit, so beautifully painted, only to complain that the fruits within were 'unseasonal'. He clearly felt they should have been the fruits of Easter, the time of Christ's crucifixion. Guilty of the very literalism for which he blamed Caravaggio, Bellori was oblivious to the symbolic meanings concealed within the basket of fruit, and completely blind to the significant shape of its shadow.\n\nHe was also perturbed by the disrespectful figure of the innkeeper, who wears his cap in the presence of Christ. But this is no mere oversight, or vulgar lapse, on the part of the painter; it is a detail essential to his telling of the story. The innkeeper fails to doff his cap because he does not realize whom he serves. He remains in darkness, even though a miracle is taking place before his eyes. In Caravaggio's interpretation, the story of the meal at Emmaus becomes a parable about those who see and those who do not.\n\nBellori disliked the evident poverty of the two disciples and can almost be heard tut-tutting over that prominent torn sleeve. More telling is his other complaint, about Caravaggio's depiction of Christ as 'young and without a beard'. The painter's decision to depart from the traditional image of a solemn, bearded Christ \u2013 such as he had recently painted in _The Calling of St Matthew_ \u2013 was certainly unusual. But once again, it is essential to his understanding of the story as a tale of hard-won recognition.\n\nThe principal source for the story of the Supper at Emmaus is the gospel of Luke, Chapter 24, but there is also a fleeting reference to it in Chapter 16 of the gospel of Mark: 'After that he appeared in another form unto two of them, as they walked, and went into the country.' Caravaggio seized on the three words, 'in another form'. They are the only explanation given in the Bible for the apostles' failure to recognize Christ. Risen from the dead, he took on a different physical appearance. It seems that Caravaggio's inspiration for the picture's main idea \u2013 the idea of an unobvious miracle, a miracle that men must struggle to see \u2013 had its origins in a careful reading of the Bible.\n\nBack in the 1540s Michelangelo had placed a similarly controversial, young and beardless Christ at the centre of his _Last Judgement_ , on the altar wall of the Sistine Chapel. The image was meant to evoke the early traditions of Christian Rome, where Christ had often been depicted in the guise of the sun god, Apollo. There are strong echoes of Michelangelo's Apollonian Christ, judging all mankind at the end of the world, in Caravaggio's own figure of Christ in _The Supper at Emmaus_. In the fresco of _The Last Judgement_ , Christ's left arm is turned against the seething mass of the damned, while with his right he beckons the blessed up into heaven. Caravaggio appropriated those same gestures, adapting them with surprisingly little modification for his own figure's act of blessing the bread. It is another formal echo charged with spiritual meaning. Christ's appearance to his two disciples at Emmaus prefigures his final appearance to the whole human race on the day of judgement.\n\nTwo more payments were made to Caravaggio by Ciriaco Mattei in 1602, one in July, the other in December. These were for a painting which has been plausibly identified with the _St John the Baptist_ now in the Capitoline Museum in Rome. Once again, Caravaggio treated his appointed subject in an unusual and idiosyncratic way. The saint, who is shown during his legendary retreat into the desert, appears without several of his usual attributes. He carries neither a cross nor a banderole. The lamb of God who usually accompanies him has metamorphosed into a sheep with horns. He embraces the animal, which nuzzles his cheek. It was conventional to depict St John as a haggard ascetic in animal furs, but Caravaggio presents him as a cheerfully smiling, ruddy-cheeked adolescent. Most unusual of all, he is stark naked. The boy reclines on a scrap of fur, but his discarded clothes lie around him in a heap.\n\nThe picture is so unconventional that even its very subject has been called into question. As early as 1620 the author of a guidebook to the Mattei collection gave the work a mythological title, referring to it as a _Pastor Friso_ , which identified the naked young man as a pagan shepherd. A number of subsequent scholars have taken that attribution seriously. Others have argued that Caravaggio intended to depict the biblical Isaac, son of Abraham, stripped for sacrifice and rejoicing after his sudden stay of execution. None of these hypotheses has much merit. Ciriaco Mattei presented the picture to his son, Giovanni Battista Mattei, whose name saint it certainly depicts and for whom it was almost certainly intended from the outset. An inventory of his possessions drawn up in 1616 refers to 'A painting of San Gio: Battista with his Lamb by the hand of Caravaggio', and it is safe to assume that the picture's owner knew its true subject. When Giovanni Battista made his will, seven years later, he gave instructions that the painting 'of St John the Baptist by Caravaggio' be left to none other than Cardinal Francesco del Monte. This implies that the Mattei family felt an abiding sense of obligation to del Monte for releasing Caravaggio into their service.\n\nAlthough its subject is easily established, the work is still intriguingly unusual. Why did Caravaggio paint John the Baptist in this strange, splay-legged pose? Why is the figure smiling so enigmatically? Why, above all, is he nude? Part of the answer to those questions lies in the art of the immediate past.\n\nDuring the early years of the seventeenth century, when Caravaggio was forging his style and making his reputation, he gave a great deal of thought to the works of Michelangelo. He had been born just seven years after the death of 'the divine Michelangelo', as Vasari had called him. Like every ambitious painter of his generation, he would have regarded Michelangelo's works as a summit of excellence. And as if to force such comparisons upon him, Michelangelo also happened to be his own namesake. Caravaggio had already been invited to compete with the older artist by the choice of subjects for the Cerasi Chapel. In that case, he had asserted his independence from his predecessor by reconceiving his two canonically Michelangelesque themes in a radically un-Michelangelesque manner. But in other works of the period, he complicated the game of rivalry and homage. _The Supper at Emmaus_ , with its Michelangelesque Christ, is just one of several instances. The Capitoline _St John the Baptist_ is another.\n\nThe picture is a variation on the theme of Michelangelo's _ignudi_ , the idealized male nudes which frame the nine great narrative paintings telling stories from the Book of Genesis on the Sistine Chapel ceiling. Michelangelo's male nudes are the only non-Christian elements in the whole of his scheme. They had been included as a compliment to Pope Julius II, who commissioned him to paint the ceiling: they bear festoons of oak leaves and acorns, emblems of the pope's family name, della Rovere. Collectively, they symbolize the idea of a golden age described in the writings of antiquity, the conceit behind them being that the reign of Julius amounted to another such blessed period in the lives of men. But by the second half of the sixteenth century the _ignudi_ had become controversial. Their nudity was deemed unbecoming, their pagan symbolism judged suspect, and a painter called Daniele da Volterra was hired to fig-leaf their genitalia.\n\nThe pose of Caravaggio's smiling _St John the Baptist_ has been directly borrowed from one of the four _ignudi_ who frame _The Sacrifice of Noah_ on the Sistine Chapel ceiling. The seventeenth-century writer who believed the painting to be an image of a pagan shepherd was probably responding, unconsciously, to its neo-pagan source in the art of Michelangelo, and in this sense the Capitoline _St John_ is another of Caravaggio's pictures on the borderline between 'the sacred and profane', in Cardinal Paravicino's phrase. But the true subtlety of the work lies in its double inversion of the famous but controversial prototype that inspired it.\n\nWhereas Michelangelo's nudes collectively represent a languorously beautiful ideal, an imaginary museum of male beauty raised up to the vault of heaven, Caravaggio has clearly painted a picture of a real, flesh-and-blood boy. The fact that the model has been posed just like an _ignudo_ emphasizes the gulf between Michelangelo's idealizing aesthetic and Caravaggio's countervailing realism. The flesh of Michelangelo's nudes is chiselled, marmoreally perfect. Caravaggio's adolescent saint is slight and skinny. His ribcage shows through the light-dappled flesh of his side and there is dirt under his toenails. He is an _ignudo_ brought down to earth, but not in a spirit of homage. The echo is there to assert Caravaggio's difference, to make it unavoidable.\n\nCaravaggio has also reversed the sense of Michelangelo's nudes in the act of appropriating their form. Those who have seen the Capitoline _St John_ as a daringly sexy depiction of a Christian saint, laughing provocatively as he turns to face the viewer, miss the point of the picture entirely. The truth is that Caravaggio has taken Michelangelo's notoriously pagan imagery, a classically phrased compliment paid to a pope, and fully reclaimed it for Christianity. His _ignudo_ is no sleepy, sensual emblem of a vanished golden age, but an ecstatic prophet bathed in the light of divine revelation. The naked, rejoicing boy embraces the animal by his side because it has been sent to him by God to show him what will come to pass. He sees in it the destiny of Christ the saviour, with whose fate his own is intertwined, and whom he will one day baptize.\n\nThe painter's decision to give the animal horns is unusual, but underscores the significance of the scene. It recalls the image of a sacrificial ram, and may also have been inspired by a detail of the Sistine Chapel ceiling: only a few feet from the _ignudo_ whose pose is closest to that of Caravaggio's _St John_ , Michelangelo had painted a ram being prepared for slaughter in _The Sacrifice of Moses_. Those who have misinterpreted Caravaggio's picture as an image of Isaac delivered from sacrifice are in one way simply overreacting to a genuine element of the painter's intended meaning. He meant to emphasize the idea of sacrifice by giving the sheep horns, but the sacrifice he had in mind was not that of Isaac but of Christ himself.\n\nIn the upper-right-hand corner, barely visible in the shadows, a small detail clarifies the picture's iconography: the foliage of a vine, symbolizing grapes and the wine of the Eucharist. The sacrificial sheep and the vineleaves are the outward signs of the saint's inner contemplation. In his mind's eye, he is looking into the future, seeing Christ's blessed death and the salvation of mankind. That is the reason for the smile on his face. It is the beatific smile of a mystic, a seer.\n\nThe last of the three pictures commissioned from Caravaggio by Ciriaco Mattei was _The Betrayal of Christ_. It was paid for on 2 January 1603, and probably painted just a few weeks or months before. The picture has had an eventful history. It remained in the Palazzo Mattei in Rome for nearly two centuries, after which it disappeared into the obscurity of a Scottish private collection. In 1990 it was rediscovered in the possession of the Irish Jesuit Fathers of the house of St Ignatius in Dublin, who placed it on indefinite loan to the National Gallery of Ireland.\n\nThe story of Christ's betrayal by Judas is told in all four gospels. Caravaggio followed certain stage directions, but ignored others. According to Matthew, at the time appointed for Christ's arrest, 'Judas, one of the twelve, came, and with him a great multitude with swords and staves, from the chief priests and elders of the people.' (Matthew 26:47). John adds a detail crucial to Caravaggio's nocturnal conception of the scene, equipping Judas and his men 'with lanterns and torches' (John 18:3). Mark gives the most economical account of the treacherous kiss given to Christ by Judas: 'And he that betrayed him had given them a token, saying, Whomsoever I shall kiss, that same is he; take him, and lead him away safely. And as soon as he was come, he goeth straightway to him, and saith, Master, master; and kissed him. And they laid their hands on him, and took him' (Mark 14:44\u20136). Only in Luke could Caravaggio have found the idea that Christ showed his foreknowledge of Judas's treachery by flinching at the kiss: 'Judas drew near unto Jesus to kiss him. But Jesus said unto him, Judas, betrayest thou the Son of Man with a kiss?' (Luke 23:48).\n\nDespite his academic prejudices, Bellori often responded instinctively to the sheer humanity and psychological depth of Caravaggio's painted dramas. His is by some distance the most eloquent early account of the picture: 'Judas is shown after the kiss with his hand on the Lord's shoulder; a soldier in full armour extends his arms and his ironclad hand towards the chest of the Lord, who stands still, patiently and humbly, his hands crossed before him, as John runs away behind with outstretched arms. Caravaggio rendered the rusty armour of the soldier accurately with head and face covered by a helmet, his profile partially visible. Behind him a lantern is raised and we see the heads of two other armed men.'\n\nEarlier artists had often envisaged the betrayal as a chaotic crowd scene, confusing the eye with a multitude of soldiers and panicking disciples. Caravaggio's new technique of emphatic chiaroscuro was the perfect editing device for avoiding such unnecessary complications. He used it here as a ruthless means of exclusion, spotlighting the figures at the very centre of the drama and casting everything else into deepest shadow. In his interpretation, the whole story becomes an elemental conflict between good and evil, innocence and malignity. The pale, delicate, emotionally sensitive face of Christ is set hard against the brutish, sunburned face of Judas. There is great sorrow, mingled with resignation, in Christ's half-closed eyes. In the moment of betrayal, Judas seems to lament the fatal move he has only just made. He stares into space like a man possessed, as if he is already haunted by the guilt that will soon drive him to suicide.\n\nTo this drama of juxtaposed faces, the painter has added a subplot of hands. Judas reaches out to grasp Christ with his left hand, the sinister side. Christ instinctively shrinks from the clutching embrace. Below, isolated and emphasized by a bright pool of light, Christ's own hands are clasped in a gesture of great pathos. His fingers are entwined, palms pushed away, in a movement that speaks at once of regret and acceptance of his fate. It is a detail that suggests the influence of Cardinal Mattei: the Franciscans placed the concept of _Abnegatio_ , the complete denial of self and dedication to others, at the centre of their teaching. According to the Franciscan ethic of the _Imitatio Christi_ , 'the imitation of Christ', his calm acceptance of cruelty and torture was a constant source of wonder and inspiration. Caravaggio's _Betrayal of Christ_ is one of the most powerfully moving images of that Christian ideal. It is a work that allies Caravaggio, once again, with the deepest strains of severity in Counter-Reformation spirituality.\n\nBut there is more to the eloquently compressed composition of the picture than the figures of Christ and Judas alone. To the left, just behind Christ, a terrified disciple runs away into the night. Two soldiers approach from the other side to make the arrest. They are grim and impersonal, as lacking in compassion as the stolid executioners in _The Crucifixion of St Peter_. They stand for the implacable forces unleashed by the act of betrayal. Just enough of the face of the soldier on the right is visible, beneath his helmet, to reveal that Caravaggio used the same model who had sat for the open-armed disciple in _The Supper at Emmaus_. This would have been all the more evident when both pictures hung in Ciriaco Mattei's palace. The effect must have been slightly disconcerting, like watching the same actor playing utterly contrasting roles simultaneously. Did Caravaggio do it on purpose, to demonstrate the versatility of his method? The other soldier is so obscured by the burnished steel of his helmet that almost nothing can be seen of his features. He is faceless as well as pitiless.\n\nThe encounter of Judas and Christ is charged with feeling, an exchange through which guilt and saddened acquiescence flow. Those emotions are amplified by the fleeing disciple, whose red cloak billows excitedly above the heads of Christ and Judas, linking his form so closely to theirs that he seems less like a person in his own right than like their psychic emanation \u2013 a scream forced out into the night sky by their inner turmoil. But the soldiers feel nothing and they show no capacity for feeling. They are all murderous efficiency, armoured against compassion. Christ, Judas and the disciple are beings of yielding flesh; the soldiers seem made of the very steel that they wear. Bellori was particularly struck by the horrid contrast between dark metal and soft human tissue: 'a soldier in full armour extends his arms and his ironclad hand towards the chest of the Lord.'\n\nCaravaggio took the idea for this vivid distinction from a woodcut of Christ's arrest in the garden of Gethsemane by the German Renaissance artist Albrecht D\u00fcrer. In D\u00fcrer's image the soldier's chain-mailed arm, which calls to mind the scales of an armadillo, reaches across the kissing Judas to the vulnerable figure of Christ with exactly the same gesture. In his own picture, Caravaggio sharpened that ugly juxtaposition and made it even more shocking. The soldier's black armour, jointed at shoulder and elbow, looks like the carapace of some gigantic insect. His black hand points into Christ's neck like the sting of a scorpion about to pierce its prey.\n\nCaravaggio was in the habit of pillaging prints and engravings for compositional ideas during the early years of the seventeenth century. He probably kept a stock of such images, ready catalysts for his imagination. D\u00fcrer's woodcut was not his only source for _The Betrayal_. There is another borrowing in the composition, this time from an engraving actually commissioned by the man for whom the picture was destined, Ciriaco Mattei himself. In 1601 Mattei had asked the engraver Francesco Villamena to commemorate a particularly brutal Roman street battle between members of the city's pro-French and pro-Spanish factions. From this bruising scene of affray, Caravaggio took one detail: that of the crescent-shaped, billowing cloak that connects the fleeing disciple to the figures of Christ and Judas. Once again, the painter makes the detail an organic part of his own, very different composition. The actual borrowing is less interesting than the fact that Caravaggio should have been thinking about a scene of modern-day violence in Rome when he devised the composition of his _Betrayal_. It seems that he envisaged the scene, from the start, as just the kind of fracas with which he was personally familiar \u2013 a nocturnal scuffle, with figures crying out in the dark Roman night as the _sbirri_ pounce on their man.\n\nAt the back right of the scene, set slightly apart from its principal action yet straining to witness it, the painter included his own self-portrait. He holds up a lantern with his right hand, a gesture which some have seen as a proud flaunting of his new and very particular method \u2013 a demonstration of exactly that technical revolution in studio lighting which Bellori attributed to Caravaggio when he spoke of him 'placing a lamp high so that the light would fall straight down, revealing the principal part of the body and leaving the rest in shadow so as to produce a powerful contrast of light and dark'. The trouble with this is that the light that Caravaggio holds up is actually rather feeble. It fails to illuminate anything much except for the painter's own face and intent expression. The light that falls across Christ's saddened face and clenched hands, the light that gleams in the metal armour of the soldiers, comes from somewhere else. It is fluid and cannot be easily located.\n\nCaravaggio knew very well that studio lighting, the trick for which he was fast becoming famous, can only ever be a device. What counts is what is done with it. The dim paper lantern in Caravaggio's hand may indeed be the emblem of his method. But its ineffectiveness is significant. The painter brings light to the scene, but in a symbolic rather than a literal sense. The real light-source is his imagination.\n\n#### DIRTY FEET\n\nCaravaggio was increasingly well known in Rome \u2013 the volatile, aggressive painter with the lightning-strike style, who made stories from the Bible look as though they were taking place right here, right now. He was also becoming famous as the painter of feet: the overlapped feet of Joseph, feeling the chill during the flight to Egypt; Christ's bare feet, on the stone flags of Matthew's counting house; the nail-pierced feet of St Peter and the dirt-ingrained feet of his coldly indifferent executioner.\n\nFeet were controversial. Here is a passage from a book about the Christian saints and martyrs, written by the theologian Niccol\u00f2 Lorini del Monte in the second decade of the seventeenth century:\n\n> In sum, feet may be taken by the holy Church as symbolising the poor and humble. In addition to the authority of the Holy Fathers, there are also fundamental reasons [for this], because the poor may be called the feet of the Church, and to caress the feet is to caress the poor of Christ. Because if the feet are the last and most lowly part of the human body, the poor and humble are the last part, and those who hold the last place in the Church. The poor carry the heaviest burdens of the world. They are exposed to all the blows, bumps and knocks... And if the feet are a member [of the body], then nude and uncovered they lack rosiness, and it is not a shameful thing to discover them: the poor servants of Christ were not guilty and had nothing of which to be ashamed... But yet, as they are vile the poor may be humiliated; nevertheless, God has honoured them so much that he has willed the greatest Heroes of the world serve them, and caress them, and fatten them up with servitude and earthly sustenance.\n\nLorini's paean to feet was part of a discussion of the life of a popular thirteenth-century saint, Elizabeth of Hungary. The daughter of a king, she was famous for receiving the poor into the apartments of her palace, where she fed them, dressed their wounds and washed their feet as Christ himself had washed the feet of his disciples. Francis of Assisi, whose followers called him _alter Christus,_ 'another Christ', had also abased himself at the feet of the poor and needy. In Caravaggio's time wealthy members of certain religious confraternities emulated such venerable examples \u2013 clothing, feeding and washing the feet of poor pilgrims coming to Rome. To do so was quite literally to embrace humility, to lower the proud self to the ground in emulation of Christ. The Latin root of _humilitas_ is the word _humus_ , meaning 'ground'. The word 'humble' is part of the same linguistic family. To honour the foot is to honour the lowest part of the human body, and implicitly to humble the self in the sight of God.\n\nWhen Caravaggio painted the saints and martyrs with bare feet, he was firmly allying himself with the pauperist wing of the Catholic Church. Not only was he explicitly welcoming the poor into his pictures, making them feel part of the same impoverished family as that of Christ and his followers, he was also implicitly calling on the rich to follow the example of those such as St Francis, the merchant's son, and Elizabeth of Hungary, the princess, who had given away all their worldly possessions to minister to the poor. The message would not always be well received.\n\nThe painter was kept busy by other commissions as well as by the demands of the Mattei family during the first three years of the century. Early in 1602, several months before painting _The Betrayal of Christ_ , he had learned that he was required once more at the church of San Luigi dei Francesi. Although more than a year had passed since Caravaggio had finished the lateral canvases for the Contarelli Chapel, the completion of the whole decorative scheme had been delayed by the prevarications of Jacob Cobaert. At the end of January 1602 the tardy Flemish sculptor finally delivered his marble altarpiece of Matthew and the angel, still partially incomplete. It was instantly rejected by the increasingly irritable and fractious coalition of Mathieu Cointrel's executors. Just eight days later Caravaggio was asked to replace the sculpted altarpiece with a painting of the same subject. Matthew was to be shown writing his gospel. The contract specified that he must be depicted taking dictation from an angel; those were the only figures required. It was a clear brief, but its execution would prove to be far from straightforward and Caravaggio would end up having to paint two versions of the picture. The root of the problem would be his depiction of the saint's feet.\n\nCaravaggio's first _Matthew and the Angel_ for the Contarelli Chapel eventually passed to the Kaiser-Friedrich Museum in Berlin. Like the lost portrait of Fillide, it was destroyed by fire during the Second World War, but a record of its appearance is preserved in black-and-white photographs. Possibly because he knew that his picture was replacing a marble altarpiece, the painter created a powerfully sculptural composition. Matthew and his attendant angel, a tender winged boy who guides the saint's writing hand, form a single monumental group. The evangelist sits with his body twisted effortfully around the great book in his lap. His shoulders are hunched, his neck arched forward so that he can peer at the text. The gleaming white pages of the book and the dark jerkin that he wears obscure and interrupt much of his anatomy. His body is reduced to its component elements: balding, bearded head on a bull neck; gnarled hands and forearm; bare legs and heavy feet; toes thrust almost into the viewer's face. This Matthew is an aggressively inelegant, proletarian figure, conceived along the lines of St Peter in the Cerasi Chapel and very different from the pale-skinned tax-gatherer or the heroic fallen priest depicted in Caravaggio's earlier pictures for the chapel. The suggestion is that he is both writing and reading for the first time, like a peasant made suddenly and miraculously literate.\n\nThe gospel of Matthew was at the centre of a controversy between Catholics and Protestants. In the fourth century, St Jerome had asserted that Matthew wrote in Hebrew. But at the start of the sixteenth century the humanist author Erasmus had questioned whether the received version had really been translated from a Hebrew original. This raised the possibility that the biblical book of Matthew was based on a later, corrupt version of the text \u2013 posing a grave threat to the authority of the Church itself. In 1537 a Protestant Hebraist named Sebastian Munster published his own translation of a Jewish manuscript that he claimed was the true text of Matthew's gospel, and which differed from the received version in numerous places. Caravaggio was certainly aware of this: the words in the book on Matthew's lap are written in Hebrew, and he has been careful to ensure that they exactly mirror the sense of the received version approved by the Catholic Church.\n\nBecause Matthew has just started writing his gospel, the painter shows its opening lines: 'The book of the generations of Jesus Christ, the son of David, the son of Abraham.' Matthew, aided by the angel, is about to finish the next phrase, 'Abraham begat', which marks the start of the gospel's tracing of the lineage of Christ. As the bloodline leading to the salvation of mankind is announced, Matthew stares in wonder.\n\nAccording to St Jerome, Matthew was the first of the apostles to write his gospel. By the time Caravaggio painted his picture, this had become part of Catholic tradition. He alludes to it by implication through his emphatic use of chiaroscuro. As the wizened, sunburned figure of Matthew receives the very first divinely inspired Christian text, he is bathed in light. Through him, the whole world will be illuminated. As so often during this phase of his career, Caravaggio defines his own art by contrast with that of Michelangelo. Once more, he has the Sistine Chapel in mind, specifically the vast, sculptural figures of the prophets who sit enthroned at the level of the pendentive arches. Michelangelo's monumental figures, like Caravaggio's Matthew, are shown in the spasms of divine revelation, reading or writing the prophecies vouchsafed to them by God. Also like Caravaggio's Matthew, they are barefoot, and often accompanied by inspiring angelic figures.\n\nBut Caravaggio evokes the comparison with Michelangelo's prophets only to offer his own, opposed conception of divine inspiration. His _St Matthew_ perfectly reverses all of the properties of the Michelangelesque figure of the prophet. Michelangelo's prophets are nobly idealized figures, decorously draped, but Caravaggio's Matthew is an ordinary, imperfect human being in working clothes that leave his arms and legs bare. Michelangelo depicts troubled intellectuals, straining to grasp God's veiled meanings, but Caravaggio's sainted peasant is a simple man stunned by the directness of his revelation. Whereas Michelangelo's prophets sit on carved thrones of marble, Caravaggio's apostle sits on a simple wooden chair, the same savonarola chair already used for the _Calling of Matthew_ and the _Supper at Emmaus_.\n\nPerhaps the most touching aspect of the painting is the intimacy of the relationship between the stooped saint and the tender young angel, whose wings enfold the whole scene in a hushed embrace. The angel is God's messenger but also the embodiment of Christian love \u2013 a love so generous it encompasses even those as ragged and gnarled as the cross-legged, doltish St Matthew. The contrast between the two figures is the contrast between extreme youth and encroaching old age. Frailty is being overcome, an old man is being made young by the teachings of a child, which are the teachings of Christ himself, and the writing of the first word of the first gospel marks the very instant when the Old Testament is being replaced by the New.\n\nDespite or more likely because of its brusque singularity Caravaggio's picture 'pleased nobody', according to Baglione. The _St Matthew_ was rejected as soon as it was delivered. Bellori gave the fullest account of events: 'Here something happened that greatly upset Caravaggio with respect to his reputation. After he had finished the central picture of St Matthew and installed it on the altar, the priests took it down, saying that the figure with its legs crossed and its feet rudely exposed to the public had neither decorum nor the appearance of a saint.' That was, of course, precisely Caravaggio's point: Christ and his followers looked a lot more like beggars than cardinals. But the decision of Mathieu Cointrel's executors \u2013 who included Fran\u00e7ois Cointrel, his nephew and heir \u2013 was final. Saving Caravaggio's blushes, Vincenzo Giustiniani took the painting of _St Matthew_ for his own collection. According to Bellori, Giustiniani also prevailed on the congregation of San Luigi dei Francesi to allow the painter to try again.\n\nThe resulting picture, his second version of _St Matthew and the Angel_ , was accepted without demur. It remains on the altar of the chapel. The character of the painting, and indeed the very fact that it was commissioned at all, suggests that those in charge of the commission had few doubts about the painter's ability. As far as they were concerned, it was merely his taste, and the tenor of his piety, that was suspect: if he was given the right instruction, these could easily be amended.\n\nThe second _St Matthew_ suggests that Bellori's account of the reasons for the rejection of the first was correct. Matthew the shockingly illiterate peasant has suddenly been turned into Matthew the dignified, grey-haired sage. This scholar-saint kneels at his desk, quill pen at the ready. He is draped in red robes and has been equipped with an expression of dignified attentiveness. Rather than guiding his uncertain hand, the angel now counts off the verses as he dictates them. The pages of the book are no longer visible, but since the angel has got to the index finger of his left hand \u2013 number two, in the gestural rhetoric of the time, since Italians counted the number one with their thumbs \u2013 it seems that he has once more got to the start of the second verse, and Abraham's begetting of Christ's lineage. The angel's airborne arrival from behind Matthew closely echoes the composition of Tintoretto's _Virgin Appearing to St Jerome_ , which Caravaggio may have seen in Venice. There is no suggestion of intimacy here. A message is not vouchsafed tenderly as an act of love, but handed down from on high as an emanation of divine authority.\n\nCaravaggio's second _St Matthew and the Angel_ is a much diluted, dutifully toned-down version of his original idea. Matthew's poverty and humility are not rudely proclaimed, but politely whispered. The most tellingly emphatic of the painter's several adjustments relate to the apostle's feet. They are shown in profile rather than thrust towards the viewer, still bare but unlikely to offend anybody.\n\nFor the first but not the last time, Caravaggio's work had been censored. His sin when painting the first _St Matthew_ had been to make holy poverty and humility unpalatably real. On this occasion his embarrassment was spared by Vincenzo Giustiniani, but Giustiniani's purchase of the first _St Matthew_ itself created a paradox. A work of art expressly designed to articulate ideals of popular piety, to appeal to the broadest possible audience, had been deemed unsuitable for mass consumption. Instead, the picture had found a home in the collection of a noted connoisseur. The implication was that there was something dangerous, even seditious, about Caravaggio's emphatically humble vision of the origins of Christianity. In a prominent church, such an intoxicatingly powerful painting might serve as a rallying cry. It might have an influence. Its visual language might help shape the visual language of the Counter-Reformation Catholic Church. But confined to the collection of a rich man, it became something much less potent: an interesting work of art, an experiment in a new style, but altogether too strange and adventurous for anyone but a sophisticate and his friends to appreciate.\n\n#### LONG LIVE _V_\n\nVincenzo Giustiniani was a torchbearer for Caravaggio's intensely ascetic religious art. He had probably helped the painter to win the commission to paint the lateral canvases in the Cerasi Chapel, and if Bellori is to believed it was he who persuaded the executors of Mathieu Cointrel to allow Caravaggio a second attempt at the _St Matthew_ altarpiece for the Contarelli Chapel. Now, probably around the start of 1603, Giustiniani commissioned one of Caravaggio's most uncompromisingly pauperist depictions of Christ and his disciples, _Doubting Thomas_ , and when it was finished he displayed it prominently in the huge Palazzo Giustiniani, opposite San Luigi dei Francesi, on Via Crescenzi. Its presence there, in addition to that of the first _St Matthew_ , meant that the Giustiniani collection was fast becoming an advertisement for Caravaggio's new approach to devotional art. Vincenzo Giustiniani must have hoped that with his support the artist would eventually win papal favour, obtain great public commissions and become one of those painters who transform the depiction of Christian belief. Without him, many of Caravaggio's most remarkable pictures might never have been created.\n\n_Doubting Thomas_ is a raw picture about the palpable proving of faith. Joachim von Sandrart, impressed by the graphic realism of the work, described it as a picture of 'Christ, in whose holy wounds, Thomas, in the presence of the other apostles, is putting his finger. By means of good painting and modelling he was able to show on the faces of all those present such an expression of astonishment and naturalness of skin and flesh that in comparison all other pictures seemed to be coloured paper.' Sandrart was responding not only to the flesh wound in Christ's side but also to the wrinkled and wizened skin of Thomas and his companions. Thin and papery with age, perhaps it was this that elicited his thoughts about other pictures looking like coloured paper. Caravaggio, once the painter of withered autumn fruits, was becoming increasingly the painter of withered human beings, battered by age and poverty.\n\nLike _The Supper at Emmaus_ , _Doubting Thomas_ was inspired by a legend of the risen Christ. The painter's source was a passage from the gospel of John:\n\n> when the doors were shut where the disciples were assembled for fear of the Jews, came Jesus and stood in the midst, and saith unto them, Peace be with you. And when he had so said, he shewed unto them his hands and his side. Then were the disciples glad, when they saw the Lord... But Thomas, one of the twelve, called Didymus, was not with them when Jesus came. The other disciples therefore said unto him, We have seen the Lord. But he said unto them, Except I shall see in his hands the print of the nails, and thrust my hand into his side, I will not believe. And after eight days again his disciples were within, and Thomas with them: then came Jesus, the doors being shut, and stood in the midst, and said, Peace be unto you. Then saith he to Thomas, Reach hither thy finger, and behold my hands; and reach hither thy hand, and thrust it into my side: and be not faithless, but believing. And Thomas answered and said unto him, My Lord and my God. Jesus saith unto him, Thomas, because thou hast seen me, thou hast believed: blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed' (John 20:20\u201329).\n\nCaravaggio chose a half-length frieze-like composition and a close-up view, further excluding all extraneous detail with his usual blanket of shadow. The story is distilled to its essence. Four faces, arranged in the configuration of a diamond, bear mute witness to the miracle of the Resurrection. Christ gently accepts the indignity of being surgically investigated by his sceptical follower. Holding aside the folds of his burial sheet, he guides Thomas's hand towards him and draws the disciple's forefinger into his open wound. Two fellow-disciples crowd round, eyes fixed on the clinical probing of divine flesh. Christ too looks down, as though assisting at his own autopsy. The place where finger meets wound is a different kind of vanishing point, achieved without the calculations of perspective. All converges at the place where the miracle is proved to be true, and the metaphysical and the empirical meet.\n\nThomas and his fellow apostles are men in the same mould as the first _St Matthew and the Angel_ , earnest, ordinary, with heavily lined brows and sunburned faces. Thomas's sleeve needs restitching at the shoulder. An otherwordly radiance floods the scene, illumination the herald of revelation. Cured of his doubt, Thomas himself looks not at the wound in Christ's side but instead to the light.\n\nThere is also, once more, the suggestion of a reminiscence of Michelangelo's paintings for the Sistine Chapel. Thomas's reaching gesture is another of Caravaggio's inverted variations on the fingertip-touching act of generation at the centre of Michelangelo's _Creation of Adam._ In the act of touching Christ, Thomas is born again in unquestioning faith.\n\nGiustiniani commissioned one other, very different picture from Caravaggio. It is the single, stunning exception to the prevailingly solemn body of work produced by the artist during these middle years of his career. _Omnia vincit amor_ , or _Love Conquers All_ , was painted in the summer of 1602. The most nakedly libidinous of the painter's secular mythological works, it is a mischievously joyful celebration of Eros \u2013 a laughing proclamation of the power of sexual love.\n\nA smooth-skinned, naked young Cupid, far removed from the wizened saints of Caravaggio's devotional pictures, confronts the viewer with a puckish smile. The figure half sits and half stands, one leg raised and bent at an angle of almost ninety degrees to his body. Awkwardly perched on a table draped with a white sheet, he occupies an interior cluttered with the stuff of intellectual, artistic, military and political endeavour: men may fight and dream, create and aspire, but in the end love will always triumph over all. The picture's symbolism is concisely explained in a 1638 inventory of the Giustiniani collection, where it is listed as 'A painting of a smiling Cupid, in the act of disparaging the world'. The question of whether it may have had other and deeper meanings, both for Caravaggio and for his patron, Vincenzo Giustiniani, has been hotly contested.\n\nThe pubescent boy who modelled for the picture also modelled for the _St John the Baptist_ , painted by Caravaggio for Ciriaco Mattei at around the same time. Like that other picture, _Omnia vincit amor_ is a variation on Michelangelo's _ignudi_ in the Sistine Chapel, although the effect on this occasion could hardly be more different. The _St John_ is a sanctified version of a Michelangelo nude, spiritually transformed by Christian revelation. This dazzling Cupid in an airless room is devoid of conscience or piety. He embodies a triumphant, amoral, vibrant sexuality.\n\nThe figure's pose carries echoes not only of the _ignudi_ , but also of famous sculptures, one by Michelangelo, the marble figure of _Victory_ , and one by Donatello, the celebrated bronze _David_ , the first freestanding image of the male nude since antiquity, a work charged with homoerotic overtones. Caravaggio's sexy adolescent is the extrovert alter ego of Donatello's veiled, ambiguous, naked young man. The most sensually explicit detail of Donatello's bronze is a feather, a plume from the felled Goliath's helmet, that tickles David's inner thigh. The same motif is repeated in Caravaggio's painting, but here the boy's leg is brushed by the tip of one of his own Cupid's wings.\n\nJoachim von Sandrart, a guest of Vincenzo Giustiniani between 1629 and 1635, reported that the marchese prized the _Omnia vincit amor_ above all the other works in his collection. He gave an admiring, if not altogether accurate, description of the picture itself, and an arresting account of the manner in which it was originally displayed:\n\n> Caravaggio painted for the Marchese Giustiniani a life-size Cupid as a boy of about 12 years old, seated on a globe, and raising his bow in his right hand. On his left are various instruments, a book for studies, a laurel wreath. The Cupid has the brown wings of an eagle. Everything is accurately and clearly designed with bright colours and a three-dimensionality that approximates reality. This painting was among 120 others in a gallery of the most celebrated artists. But, I recall, it was covered with a curtain of dark green silk, and was shown last, after all the others, to avoid eclipsing the other works.\n\nThe objects strewn at Cupid's feet and by his side form a dispersed but uniquely haunting still life: a hallucination of things. They allude to the arts, sciences and letters. A compass and triangle, representing architecture as well as geometry, are prominent in the left foreground. A violin and a lute, rendered in extreme foreshortening, are propped on a musical part-book. A manuscript, emblem of literary ambition, lies open and abandoned on the floor. A laurel wreath has been dropped on to an empty cuirass and other scattered pieces of armour, of the same dark steel as that worn by the sinister soldier in _The Betrayal of Christ_. These signs of military glory undone are complemented by the crown and sceptre obscurely nestling in the dishevelled sheets near Cupid's raised calf. Poking out from behind his right thigh is the rim of a celestial globe, blue with gold stars. Astronomy too has been laid low by Cupid, who holds up two arrows \u2013 not his bow, as Sandrart had asserted \u2013 to symbolize his triumph over all the works and schemes of industrious but easily tempted humanity.\n\nThe objects in the painting may have been selected to reflect Vincenzo Giustiniani's own interests and family history. He was an author and a well-known musical amateur with a keen interest in astrology. The Giustiniani also had an illustrious military and political history. According to one ingenious (but incorrect) interpretation, the picture is not even intended to show love's triumph over all worldly endeavours. Instead it is a celebration of Vincenzo Giustiniani's many accomplishments, a Neoplatonic allegory of the passion propelling him and his family to so many different forms of excellence. But if art and culture really were being celebrated, why would their remnants litter the floor like bric-a-brac?\n\nSandrart's remark about the patron keeping the picture until the end of a tour through his house \u2013 saving the best until last \u2013 is suggestive. Having shown his guests his splendid palace, his collections of classical statuary, his musical _camerino_ , his pictures by the great masters of Italian art, Giustiniani would show them _this_ \u2013 an allegory of all hubris, creative and intellectual, brought low at the feet of love. An elegant gesture of knowing self-deprecation was surely intended. As rich and influential as he was, as accomplished in the arts, letters and sciences, even he still had to concede \u2013 with a graceful smile, of course \u2013 that there was a limit to his powers. Before love, all must give way.\n\nBut _Omnia vincit amor_ was more than just an excuse for that graceful flourish of rhetoric. The picture is arrestingly littered with letter _v_ 's. The majuscule in the musical part-book is a _v_. The set square is arranged in the form of a _v_. The compasses form an upside down _v_. The violin and lute fall across each other to form a _v_. The crown and sceptre shape a _v_. So does the curiously awkward arrangement of the Cupid's splayed legs. His wings echo the shape too. They are eagle's wings, which also formed part of the Giustiniani family crest. All these _v_ 's are also implicated in an orgiastic series of sexual consummations. The set square pushes at the furled circle formed by the part-book's leaves. The compass straddles the set square. The bow of the violin has slid over the neck of the instrument. The sceptre phallically pierces the circle of the crown. Even the white sheet on which the boy rests has contrived to fold itself, at the point just below Cupid's phallus, into the shape of the female sex.\n\nThe phrase _omnia vincit amor_ is taken from Virgil's _Eclogues_ , where it is followed by the line _et nos cedamus amori_ : 'Love conquers all; let us lovers all yield to it.' In Caravaggio's painting, the objects of art and culture have not merely been conquered by love, they have given themselves up to passion. The picture buzzes and pulsates with libidinous energy. It is a mythology shot through with a raucously erotic and life-affirming sense of comedy, a fantasy of learning and knowledge suddenly caught up in the throes of sexual self-abandonment.\n\nBut why would Caravaggio have painted such a picture for a Roman nobleman? And why would a man such as Vincenzo Giustiniani have wanted one? There was in fact a long tradition of such erotically charged mythologies in Italian painting. They were usually created on the occasion of family weddings. The earliest examples were painted on the panels of the wedding chests traditionally given by groom to bride in fifteenth-century Tuscany. By the end of the fifteenth century the mythological love painting had emancipated itself from the decoration of wedding chests to become an independent art form. Botticelli's _Birth of Venus_ is the most famous example. The goddess of love rises from the sea and steps on to dry land. As she does, a cloak is readied by Venus's handmaiden to wrap her perfect body. A particular bunched fold of that cloak, close to Venus's face, has been painted by Botticelli to resemble the female sex and within it a tiny leaf is folded, an emblem of fertility. There are shades, here, of Caravaggio's vulva-like twist of sheet in _Omnia vincit amor_ \u2013 and an anticipation of its meaning. _The Birth of Venus_ was painted as a gift to a Medici bride. Its message was unambiguous. Like the virgin Venus leaving the sea and arriving on earth, the bride was about to leave her former chastity behind and embark on married life. As she did so, the painting was offered to her as a prayer for the future fertility of the union.\n\nThis tradition was still alive in Caravaggio's time, although by then it had mutated into yet more spectacular forms \u2013 none more so than the mythological-erotic ceiling painted by Annibale Carracci for the ceiling of the Farnese Palace between 1597 and 1601. A deliberately pagan parody of Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel ceiling, Carracci's Farnese decorations constitute a vast panorama of the loves of the gods, a comical riot of the sexual indiscretions of Jupiter, Juno and a veritable horde of other, amorously inflamed deities. The overarching theme of the ceiling is _Omnia vincit amor_. The work was painted, just like the wedding chests of Tuscan tradition, just like Botticelli's _Birth of Venus_ , to celebrate a wedding.\n\nIt is highly likely that Caravaggio's own _Omnia vincit amor_ was commissioned on the occasion of a wedding in the Giustiniani family. Whether it commemorates a particular event or not, its essential meaning is clear. Vincenzo was a family name among the Giustiniani, so all those orgiastically active _v_ 's in the picture may be taken to stand both for the man who commissioned the work and for his many heirs and descendants. Long live the Giustiniani, the picture priapically exclaims: long may they prosper, and long may they procreate.\n\n#### THE BLACK WINGS OF ENVY\n\nGiovanni Baglione and his friends were not happy to see the painter from Lombardy doing so well. Forty years later, when he came to write his short biography of Caravaggio, Baglione still seethed with a sense of injustice when he thought of his rival winning a string of commissions from Vincenzo Giustiniani and Ciriaco Mattei. As far as Baglione was concerned, Caravaggio's patrons had been fooled by nothing more than clever publicity: 'The Marchese had been put into this frame of mind by Prosperino delle Grottesche, Caravaggio's henchman [Prospero Orsi, the painter of grotesques]... Moreover, Signor Ciriaco Mattei succumbed to the propaganda... Thus Caravaggio pocketed from this gentleman many hundreds of scudi.'\n\nKarel van Mander's _Schilderboek_ of 1604 includes some pithy remarks on the rivalries that divided Rome's competing factions of artists during the early years of the seventeenth century. According to van Mander, Clement VIII and his papal court commissioned so many new works that they stirred up a frenzy of competition among painters and sculptors: 'a new ardour is kindled; lean Envy secretly begins to flap her black wings and everyone strives to do his best to gain the coveted prize.'\n\nThe dark wings of Caravaggio's Cupid certainly fanned the flames of Giovanni Baglione's envy. Infuriated by the acclaim with which Caravaggio's _Omnia vincit amor_ had been received \u2013 the curtain of green silk later described by Sandrart proof of its status as the _coup de th\u00e9\u00e2tre_ of Vincenzo Giustiniani's whole collection \u2013 Baglione responded with an act of provocation. On 29 August 1602 he brought a new work to the artists' exhibition held annually in the courtyard of San Giovanni Decollato. Caravaggio was not taking part in the show, but his friend and follower Orazio Gentileschi did have a picture on display. Baglione's painting was an attack on both of them, as Gentileschi would later explain under cross-examination: 'there certainly is some rivalry among us. When I hung a picture of _St Michael the Archangel_ in San Giovanni dei Fiorentini [a slip of the tongue; the exhibition took place in San Giovanni Decollato], Baglione showed up and hung one of his opposite, a _Divine Love_ that he had done to vie with an _Earthly Love_ by Michelangelo da Caravaggio.'\n\nThe full title of Baglione's painting, now in the Gem\u00e4ldegalerie in Berlin, is _Divine Love Overcoming Earthly Love, the World, the Flesh and the Devil_. It is no masterpiece but it is a clever and vicious painting, carefully calculated to try to wound Caravaggio and cloud his reputation. Inverting both the moral and the message of _Omnia vincit amor_ , Baglione shows love conquered by virtue. A saint in armour subdues a cowed and cowering Cupid, while the devil skulks in darkness to one side. Although armed with a thunderbolt rather than shield and sword, the figure of _Divine Love_ evokes traditional images of Archangel Michael trampling Satan underfoot \u2013 a detail that can only have been intended to sharpen Baglione's satire. Caravaggio's own holy namesake is shown exorcizing the erotic and demonic spirits of Caravaggio's art. The resemblance to St Michael may also have been meant as a sideswipe at Gentileschi and his own 'picture of _St Michael the Archangel_ '. But Caravaggio was the primary target. Baglione's parody is completed by the emphatically Caravaggesque lighting that flashes across the vengeful angel and the prone, flaccid form of Cupid below.\n\nNot content with satirizing Caravaggio and his art, Baglione even dared to offer his own picture to Vincenzo Giustiniani's brother, Cardinal Benedetto Giustiniani. Yet more galling, it was accepted, and Baglione given the traditional painter's reward of a gold chain. Gentileschi, who would tell this part of the story too in court, was distinctly unamused by the whole affair. He tried to get his own back by telling Baglione that his avenging angel should have been naked and childlike, perhaps deliberately misunderstanding the figure's pointed and satirical resemblance to the Archangel Michael: '[Baglione] had dedicated _Divine Love_ to Cardinal Giustiniani and although said picture was not liked as much as the one by Michelangelo \u2013 all the same, that Cardinal gave him a neck chain. That painting had many flaws. I told him he had done a grown-up man in armour who should have been nude and putto, so he did another that was completely nude.'\n\nThat last remark is only half true. Baglione did paint another _Divine Love_ , the version now in the Palazzo Barberini in Rome, but he completely ignored Gentileschi's advice. The second and equally grown-up angel is certainly no naked putto. He still wears armour, albeit modified this time to a breastplate and some wisps of drapery. The most important change has been made elsewhere, at the bottom of the picture. The devil, previously shown lurking in obscurity, now wheels round with an expression of startled guilt on his face. Despite his staring eyes, his fangs and his pointed ears, he is unmistakably a portrait in caricature of Caravaggio, caught _in flagrante_ with a flushed and furtive Cupid. Baglione's second _Divine Love_ went beyond satire. It was a visual accusation of sodomy.\n\nBaglione repeated that charge verbally, and in public. He and his friends talked openly about Caravaggio keeping company with a _bardassa_ \u2013 vulgar Italian slang derived from a Turkish word for a young man who took the female part in sexual encounters with other men. Rome's artists gossiped, so people may have begun to look at Caravaggio's _Omnia vincit amor_ in a different light. The identity of the boy who had modelled for Cupid was known. He was Cecco di Caravaggio, who prepared the artist's paint and his canvases. If Baglione was to be believed, not only was he Caravaggio's assistant and model, he was also his catamite.\n\nHalf a century later, the story was still current. In about 1650 an English artist called Richard Symonds was shown round the Giustiniani collection in Rome. He made notes on the pictures, writing down any anecdotes that struck him. He obviously spent a while in front of _Omnia vincit amor_. The _custode_ told him that it was one of the most precious pictures in the collection, that it had cost 300 scudi, and that both the Cardinal of Savoy and a member of the Crescenzi family had offered 2,000 ducats for it. But the punchline of the spiel, no doubt regularly trotted out to tourists visiting the palace, was the scandalous relationship between artist and model. Here is a full transcription of the entry in Symonds's travel journal:\n\n> Cupido di Caravaggio \/ Card di Savoya profe. \/ 2 milia duboli p[er] \/ il Cupido di Caravaggio \/ Costo 3 cento scudi. \/ Checco del Caravaggio tis \/ calld among the painters \/ twas his boy \u2013 \/ haire darke, 2 wings \/ raie, compasses lute \/ violin & armes & laurel \/ Monsr Crechy vuolle dare \/ 2 milia dubole \/ Twas the body & face \/ of his owne boy or servant \/ that laid with him.\n\nFrom the readiness with which the story was believed and then accepted into local legend, it seems that nobody had been particularly surprised to hear about Caravaggio's alleged homosexual proclivities. He was known to be an impetuous man who followed his passions. He kept company with whores and courtesans, such as Fillide Melandroni, and on the evidence of his paintings he was equally alive to the physical charms of men. Caravaggio and Francesco Boneri, alias Cecco, were close: Cecco stayed with him even after he was obliged to leave Rome in 1606. There is a good chance that the rumours were true and that Caravaggio did indeed have a sexual as well as a working relationship with 'his owne boy or servant'.\n\nWhatever the reality, Baglione's accusations were damaging and dangerous. Sodomy was a capital crime in Clement VIII's Rome, and though the authorities were unlikely to investigate the well-connected Caravaggio's sexual behaviour, as long as he was reasonably discreet, the potential harm to his name and prospects was immense. Once an artist had been smeared as a pederast, his work was smeared too. People were liable to stop taking it seriously, seeing it only through the lens of its creator's presumed sexual aberration. This had happened half a century before, notoriously, to an artist named Giovanni Antonio Bazzi. Bazzi had offended the famous chronicler of artists' lives, Giorgio Vasari, who had taken his revenge in print: 'since he always had about him boys and beardless youths, whom he loved more than was decent, he acquired the by-name of Sodoma.' This was all a pure fabrication on Vasari's part, first started perhaps by Bazzi's rival, the Sienese painter Domenico Beccafumi. But the mud stuck, and to this day the artist is known as Il Sodoma, 'the Sodomite'.\n\nCaravaggio was deeply sensitive about his reputation. He never knowingly allowed the least slight to go unpunished. His nocturnal assault on Girolamo Spampa, the art student from Montepulciano, was proof of that. Spampa had probably been recycling Federico Zuccaro's criticisms of Caravaggio's Contarelli Chapel paintings, which he had most likely heard from Baglione in the first place. Either way, Baglione must have been aware of the beating that Caravaggio had given Spampa, which had taken place just eighteen months before. He knew that his satires and smears would not be forgotten. Sooner or later, Caravaggio would retaliate.\n\nThe autumn and winter of 1602 passed without incident, as Caravaggio bided his time. Only in spring of the following year did he give vent to his simmering anger. He was stung into retaliation by the unveiling of Baglione's largest work yet, _The Resurrection_ , an altarpiece for the principal Jesuit church in Rome, the Ges\u00f9. That work is now lost, but, to judge by Baglione's preparatory study in the Louvre, it was a clumsy and grandiose essay in the same proto-Baroque idiom as Carracci's _Assumption of the Virgin_. In the sketch Christ stands heavily on a stage-flat cloud as angelic choirs hymn his heavenward ascent. Below on earth, one of the soldiers guarding the tomb gets drowsily to his feet, while others snooze or look on in laboured poses of amazement.\n\nBaglione could carry off the mock sublimity of a parody like the _Divine Love_. But when he strove for effects of awe-inspiring transcendence, he was undone both by his lack of skill and by the essentially prosaic nature of his imagination. His shortcomings can only have been magnified by the scale of the altarpiece for the Ges\u00f9: eight metres high and nearly five across. The picture was in its allotted place by Passiontide 1603, but kept under wraps until Easter Sunday itself, the day of the Resurrection. It seems never to have been much loved. Caravaggio and his friends set the tone for its reception by poking fun at it from the moment it was unveiled. There would be no protests when it was quietly removed from the church towards the end of the seventeenth century, following alterations to the transept altars.\n\nCaravaggio observed (and probably helped to orchestrate) the picture's unfavourable reception with rancorous pleasure. He was already annoyed that Baglione had been given such a prestigious assignment \u2013 and all the more irritated because he suspected that Baglione had won the job through the ruse of offering his satire, the _Divine Love_ , to Benedetto Giustiniani. Cardinal Giustiniani was a Jesuit and had probably intervened with the general of the order, Claudio Acquaviva, to obtain the commission for Baglione. So when his rival produced his monumental flop, Caravaggio decided that it was the moment to take his revenge. What better time to kick a man than when he is down?\n\nShortly after Easter Sunday 1603 a couple of newly composed satirical poems caused something of a sensation in the artists' quarter of Rome. Copies were passed round. Impromptu recitals were held. The verses were aimed at 'Gioan Bagaglia' or 'Gian Coglione', 'John Baggage' or 'Johnny Testicle'. They were not the most ingenious nicknames for Giovanni Baglione, but they were effective. One of the poems also included a swipe at 'Mao', the alias of Tommaso Salini, who was a minor still life painter and Baglione's closest associate.\n\nThe first poem is crude and makeshift, a mock-sonnet with all the subtlety of a punch in the face:\n\n_Gioan Bagaglia tu no[n] sai un ah_\n\n_le tue pitture sono pituresse_\n\n_volo vedere con esse_\n\n_ch[e] non guadagnarai_\n\n_mai una patacca_\n\n_Ch[e] di cotanto panno_\n\n_da farti un paro di bragesse_\n\n_ch[e] ad ognun mostrarai_\n\n_quel ch[e] fa la cacca_\n\n_portela adunque_\n\n_i tuoi disegni e cartoni_\n\n_ch[e] tu ai fatto a Andrea pizzicarolo_\n\n_o veramente forbete ne il culo_\n\n_o alla moglie di Mao turegli la potta_\n\n_ch[e] libelli con quel suo cazzon da mulo pi\u00f9 non la fotte_\n\n_perdonami dipintore se io non ti adulo_\n\n_ch[e] della collana ch[e] tu porti indegno sei_\n\n_et della pittura vituperio_.\n\nJohn Baggage you don't even know\n\nThat your pictures are mere woman's-work\n\nI want to see\n\nThat you won't even earn a counterfeit penny from them\n\nBecause with as much canvas\n\nAs it would take to make yourself a pair of breeches\n\nYou can show everyone\n\nWhat shit truly is\n\nTherefore take\n\nYour drawings and cartoons\n\nThat you have made, to Andrea the grocer's shop\n\n[so he can wrap fruit and veg in them]\n\nOr wipe your arse with them\n\nOr stuff them up the cunt of Mao's wife\n\nBecause he isn't fucking her anymore with his donkey cock\n\nPray pardon me, painter, if I do not worship you\n\nBecause you don't merit that chain you wear round your neck\n\nAnd your painting deserves only vituperation.\n\nBenedetto Giustiniani's award of a gold chain to Baglione evidently still rankled. Rubens, Van Dyck and Rembrandt would all paint themselves wearing chains of gold, symbols of accomplishment and courtly patronage. It was a mark of intellectual distinction, a sign of honour, but it had been conferred on Baglione for painting a picture that explicitly _dishonoured_ Caravaggio.\n\nThe second poem was rather more carefully constructed, in regular hendecasyllabic lines. Its attacks on Baglione were slightly less sexually graphic, at least until the last line:\n\n_Gian Coglione senza dubio dir si puole_\n\n_quel ch[e] biasimar si mette altrui_\n\n_ch[e] pu\u00f2 cento anni esser mastro di lui._\n\n_Nella pittura intendo la mia prole_\n\n_poi ch[e] pittor si vol chiamar colui_\n\n_Ch[e] no[n] pu\u00f2 star p[er] macinar con lui._\n\n_I color no[n] ha mastro nel numero_\n\n_si sfaciatamente nominar si vole_\n\n_si sa pur il proverbio ch[e] si dice_\n\n_ch[e] chi lodar si vole si maledice_\n\n_Io no[n] son uso lavarmi la bocca_\n\n_ne meno di inalzar quel ch[e] no[n] merta_\n\n_come fa l'idol suo ch[e] \u00e8 cosa certa._\n\n_Se io metterme volessi a ragionar_\n\n_delle [s... re] fatte da questui_\n\n_no[n] bastarian interi un mese o dui._\n\n_Vieni un po' qua tu ch'[e] vo' biasimare_\n\n_l'altrui pitture et sai pur ch[e] le tue_\n\n_si stano in casa tua a' chiodi ancora_\n\n_vergogna[n]doti tu mostrarle fuora._\n\n_Infatti i' vo' l'impresa aba[n]donare_\n\n_ch[e] sento ch[e] mi abonda tal materia_\n\n_massime s'intrassi n[e] la catena_\n\n_d'oro ch[e] al collo indegnamente porta_\n\n_ch[e] credo certo [meglio] se io non erro_\n\n_a pi\u00e8 gle ne staria una di ferro._\n\n_Di tutto quel che ha detto con passione_\n\n_per certo gli \u00e8 p[er] ch\u00e9 credo beuto_\n\n_avesse certo come \u00e8 suo do\u00f9to_\n\n_altrime[n]te ei saria un becco fotuto._\n\nCall him Johnny Bollock,\n\nthis man who sets about criticizing another man\n\nwho could be his master for a hundred years.\n\nI mean in my beloved art of painting,\n\nbecause he would like to call himself a painter\n\nalthough he's not even fit to grind colours for that other man.\n\nUsing colours isn't as easy as one two three,\n\neven if he shamelessly wants to pretend it's like that.\n\nEveryone knows the truth of the proverb:\n\nMen like to attack those whom they should really be praising.\n\nI'm not one for washing my mouth out,\n\nnor for exalting someone who doesn't merit it,\n\nas he praises his false idol.\n\nIf I wanted to start describing\n\nthe pathetic things this man has done\n\na whole month wouldn't be enough, nor even two.\n\nCome here for a moment, you who like to criticize\n\nthe paintings of another,\n\neven though you know that your own\n\nare still in your house\n\nbecause you're ashamed to show them to anyone.\n\nIn fact I'm going to stop this humiliation in a minute\n\nbecause I've just got too much material to work with\n\nespecially if I start on that necklace\n\nof gold which you so undeservedly wear round your neck\n\nbecause I believe, if I'm not mistaken, that you should\n\nreally have an iron one attached to your ankle.\n\nAs for all that [Johnny Bollock] has said with such passion,\n\nwell, it can only be because he's drunk, in my opinion,\n\nas he ought to be,\n\notherwise he'd just be a fucked-over cuckold.\n\nThere was a long and carnivalesque tradition of colourful insult in Rome, embodied by the battered ancient statue known as _Pasquino_ , which stood at the corner of Palazzo Braschi to the western side of Piazza Navona. It had long been the custom to attach squibs, satires, scurrilous pieces of graffiti and other outbursts of defamatory rage to the wall next to the statue, under the cover of darkness. There was a collective noun for these libels: _pasquinate_ , or 'pasquinades' _._ Caravaggio, a familiar sight in the Piazza Navona, sword strapped to his side, may well have attached the verses attacking Baglione to the so-called 'speaking statue'. In any case it must have been fairly obvious to anyone who knew about the trouble between the two men that Caravaggio was behind this poetry of scabrous ridicule.\n\nThe timing of his attack was unwise. During the early years of the seventeenth century there was a fierce crackdown on libel in Rome, in direct response to the widespread unrest that had followed a notorious trial and public execution. In the summer of 1599 a beautiful young noblewoman called Beatrice Cenci had been sentenced to death for murdering her tyrannical and incestuous father. Her mother, Lucrezia, and her two brothers, Giacomo and Olimpio, had also been convicted as accomplices to the crime. Appeals for clemency were turned down by the pope, and on 11 September of the same year the execution had taken place on a temporary scaffold erected on the Ponte Sant'Angelo. Lucrezia and Beatrice were publicly beheaded, while Giacomo had his flesh torn piece by piece from his body with red-hot pincers. Olimpio was spared because he was still a minor. But he was forced to watch the suffering of the others and roused with cold water on the many occasions when he fainted. A vast crowd was present, including perhaps Caravaggio: artists were encouraged to witness executions so that they might imagine the pains of the Christian martyrs all the more sharply. The sympathies of the people were firmly with the Cenci. It was widely believed that the execution was no more than a judicial murder, designed to enrich Clement VIII and other members of the Aldobrandini family. The pope did not care for justice, it was said. He was just looking for an excuse to sequester the Cenci's estates. There was rioting and seven died in the crush.\n\nThe notoriously tough Governor of Rome, Ferrante Taverna, had personally supervised the extraction of Beatrice Cenci's confession. In the immediate aftermath of her trial and execution, he clamped down brutally on the circulation of seditious rumours. At the end of 1599 he issued a decree, _Contro detrattori della fama, & honor' d'altri in lettre d'avisi, versi, prose, o altrimenti_, 'to curb the audacity of those... who use their pernicious tongues, in writing newsletters to various parts, filling their papers with lies and calumnies'. Tough penalties would be imposed on anyone who 'defamed, and detracted from honour and reputation... under the guise of cleverly written poems, and witty epigrams, or libellous prose, & pasquinades'. A man found guilty of the most serious form of libel could expect a sentence of from seven years to life rowing in the papal galleys. Many of those convicted requested beheading instead.\n\nWithin a matter of months of Caravaggio's poems starting to circulate, Baglione and Tommaso Salini \u2013 Mao, as he was known \u2013 decided to take the case to court on a charge of criminal libel. They prepared their evidence with care. Salini cultivated the acquaintance of a painter who was close to Caravaggio, Filippo Trisegni. In a show of friendship, he lent Trisegni various studio props, including a helmet, and promised to teach him how to paint cast shadows. Eventually Salini managed to wheedle a copy of the first poem out of Trisegni. He then persuaded him to write the second one out for him in longhand. Armed with Exhibit A and Exhibit B in the case for the prosecution, Baglione and Salini struck back at their enemies. On 28 August, Baglione lodged a complaint with the Governor of Rome about some _libelli famosi_ , or 'famous libels'. The accused were Onorio Longhi, Caravaggio, Orazio Gentileschi and the hapless Filippo Trisegni. Baglione produced his manuscripts of the offending poems, incriminatingly written out in the hand of Caravaggio's known friend Trisegni, as he addressed his deposition to Judge Alfonso Tomassino, judicial representative of Governor Taverna:\n\n> You should know that I am a painter by profession and have been practising this profession here in Rome for a good many years. Now it happens that I have gone and painted a picture of the resurrection of Our Lord for the Father General of the Company of Jesus, which is in a chapel of the church of Ges\u00f9. When they found out about the said picture, which was this past Easter, the said accused were envious because they intended, I mean, the said Michelangelo intended to do it himself. So this Michelangelo out of envy, as I said, and the said Onorio Longhi and Orazio, his friends and followers, have gone round speaking ill of me and reproaching my work. And, in particular, they have done some verses that dishonour and insult me. They gave these round and circulated them among many different people, these being the ones I'm showing you, which I had from the painter Messer Tommaso Salini. He told me he got them from Filippo Trisegni, also a painter, and that a part of the said verses were written by Filippo in his presence, being those that begin 'John Baggage' and end 'your painting deserves only vituperation' and that the others are those on this quarter page that begin 'Johnny Bollock' and end 'otherwise he'd just be a fucked-over cuckold'. So I take action against the above-named and any others that have assisted, or in whatever way were aware of and found guilty of this fact, asking that action be taken against them as justice requires, since the above-named accused have always persecuted, emulated, and envied me seeing that my works are held in higher esteem than theirs.\n\nImmediately afterwards Mao Salini made his own deposition, fleshing out Baglione's account of events with more detail. Salini particularly relished telling the story of how he had trapped Filippo Trisegni into helping him obtain copies of the incriminating poems:\n\n> I was taking a stroll around with the said Filippo asking him what painters were saying about the picture that the said Giovanni had done for the church of Ges\u00f9. He told me that Michelangelo of Caravaggio, Onorio Longhi, and Orazio Gentileschi, all three painters, had put together some verses against the said Giovanni, and against me since I am his friend, concerning the said painting. And so, a few days later, the said Filippo with fine words gave me a paper with several verses written against the said Giovanni, which were on a quarter-page. Then he told me that the said Orazio had written them together with Ottavio Padovano [a nickname for Ottavio Leoni], likewise a painter, and that Ludovico Bresciano, also a painter, was going around distributing them to numerous painters. In particular, he had given them to one Mario, in like manner a painter, who lives in Via del Corso.\n> \n> Then \u2013 I don't know how many days later \u2013 the said Filippo came to my house one day towards evening to see a painting. After showing it to him, I begged him to tell me a little about the sonnet that he had given me a while back. That was before he gave me the said verses that I mentioned above. Then he told me that he had already given it to me once, and when I said that I had misplaced it he finally wrote the sonnet out for me there in my house on half a page, which if I don't remember badly begins 'John Baggage', telling me that the said Michelangelo and Onorio had written it, and that he had received it from a catamite [ _bardassa_ ] of Onorio and Michelangelo called Giovanni Battista who lives behind the Banchi.\n> \n> What's more, he told me that the said Michelangelo, knowing that this Filippo had been handed the said sonnets, had warned him to be careful that these sonnets didn't fall into the hands of the said Giovanni or in my hands because trouble would be caused, and that certain young men had done them at his home for their pleasure, telling me also that a certain Bartolomeo, servant of the said Michelangelo, was going around distributing these sonnets to whoever wanted one, and that he had also written others.\n\nWhat Salini so carefully described was exactly what the new libel law had been brought in to eradicate: a systematic attempt to blacken a man's reputation. The cast of villains was impressive. First there was the naive accomplice, Trisegni, with his 'fine words', taking a malicious pleasure in the whole affair while unwittingly playing the part of a patsy. Then there was the network by which the slanders were distributed. It included the Lombard artist called Ludovico from Brescia and his friend Mario \u2013 possibly Caravaggio's old friend from Sicily, Mario Minniti \u2013 who took the poems from one artist's studio to the next. An alleged catamite and a servant of doubtful morals were also involved. Finally, at the centre of the conspiracy, were Caravaggio and his shady friends. They wrote the poems at Caravaggio's home, which at this time was the Palazzo Mattei, and they did so out of pure malice, 'for their pleasure'. After Salini's testimony, the judge had little choice but to prosecute.\n\nLess than two weeks later, the black-cloaked _sbirri_ swooped. On 11 September 1603 they took Filippo Trisegni while he was having lunch at home in the Via della Croce. Caravaggio was seized in the Piazza Navona the same day. Less than twenty-four hours later, they arrested Orazio Gentileschi at his quarters in Via Paolina. They also searched Gentileschi's rooms and removed certain letters and sonnets, to be used as evidence. The only defendant to escape arrest was Onorio Longhi. He had left town, presumably after a tip-off.\n\nThe accused were kept apart, in order to prevent them getting their respective stories straight before the trial. Gentileschi was held at the crumbling Corte Savella. Caravaggio and Trisegni were kept in solitary confinement at the Tor di Nona. Their dark, single cells were on the first floor. Nearby was another prison known as the _galeotta_ , so called because it housed convicts who had already been condemned to row in the papal galleys. It was a vivid reminder of the fate awaiting Caravaggio and his associates if Giovanni Baglione had his way.\n\nFilippo Trisegni was the first of the accused to give evidence. He began by pretending that he barely knew Mao Salini: 'I know a painter called Tommaso but I don't know his surname. He lives near me on Via della Croce. I usually call him Mao and I believe he's from Rome.' But there was an immediate surprise in store for him. Salini had provided the court with a note written to him by Trisegni, requesting the loan of an iron helmet. The judge produced the note, which surely implied that Trisegni and his neighbour were closer than he had just said. He had written the note, had he not? Wrongfooted, Trisegni backtracked hurriedly. He could not deny that the note was in his handwriting. On reflection, he added, 'the said Tommaso is a very good friend of mine, who lent me chalks and anything else I needed.'\n\nIt was not an auspicious beginning. But Trisegni managed to recover his composure when questions were asked \u2013 as he must have known they would be \u2013 about certain scurrilous verses. His responses were teasing and ambiguous, clearly intended to deflect attention away from himself, as well as from Caravaggio and the other suspects. He implied that a mysterious man called Gregorio Rotolanti had commissioned the verses from a yet more mysterious and unnamed man, a student of physics or logic \u2013 Trisegni was not sure which. Here is the main body of his testimony:\n\n> I heard some insulting poems about the said Tommaso told by Gregorio Rotolanti, and since Tommaso is my friend I pretended to like them and begged the said Gregorio to give me a copy. And so I went to his home and he let me copy some verses but I don't remember exactly what they said. The wife of the said Tommaso was mentioned in it and he was called Mao and it said 'Your pictures are woman's work' or something similar and I think they were on a quarter-page. After I copied them I went to see the said Tommaso and told him that he ought to be aware that while he was going around speaking badly of other people's paintings people were speaking badly of him too. Then I told him I wanted to show him something that had been written against him and so I showed him that poem. I gave it to him and [Mao] pressed me to tell him who had given it to me and who had written it, but I never wanted to tell him because I didn't want to cause trouble.\n> \n> Yet he pressed me and named a lot of people and especially Michelangelo of Caravaggio, Bartolomeo, who was Michelangelo's servant, and Orazio Gentileschi, a man from Parma called Ludovico Parmigianino, another called Francesco Scarpellino, and he asked me if the person could be one of them. I said to him 'It could be any one of them \u2013 it might be one of them but I don't want to tell you his name.' I had been waiting for him to teach me how to do figures in cast shadows and then I would have told him. But he never taught me, and so I didn't tell him.\n> \n> But he did beg me to tell him if I heard anything else about him. And so I spoke to the said Rotolanti, who said that he had another poem against the said Tommaso. Then on the following day we met on Via della Croce and went into the apothecary, where he let me copy some more verses that I think began with, 'Johnny Bollock'. It was in a nice style and well written. But I don't know much about verse and out of several verses I made one. Rotolanti didn't want to give me the original because he said he wanted to learn it by heart. I asked him who had written them and he answered that a young man had written it, a student of logic or maybe physics, a _valent'huomo_ , who was really good at it and would write a sonnet or two for a woman for me if I so desired. He told me he was a graduate and wrote exquisite verse. So I returned to see Tommaso about fifteen or twenty days after the first visit and showed him this other poem and left it with him. It was on a quarter-page filled with small handwriting from one side to the other. He told me that he had lost the first one and asked me if I would be kind enough to give him a copy. Since I had learned almost all of it by heart I made him a copy there at his home the way I remembered it.\n\nTrisegni's testimony directly contradicted Salini's deposition to the court. The man whom he claimed had given him the verses, Gregorio Rotolanti, now became a key witness. But he was never called to testify. Perhaps he had gone into hiding, like Onorio Longhi. Or maybe Trisegni had simply invented Rotolanti and his story about the student of physics or logic with a talent for versification.\n\nGentileschi was next to be questioned by the court. The main purpose was to identify the handwriting of the various documents that the _sbirri_ had confiscated at his home. These included a letter to which some playful verses were attached, as well as four sonnets written on a single piece of paper. After having admitted that 'I know how to write but not very correctly', Gentileschi denied that any of the verses produced in evidence were written in his hand. He said that the eight lines of verse attached to the letter were written by a friend of his called Lodovico. As for the four sonnets, 'I say that about six to eight days ago one Giovanni Maggi, an engraver and painter that lives in Vicolo dei Bergamaschi, gave them to me. He dabbles in these things but I don't really know if it's his handwriting. But it could be his handwriting.'\n\nOn the next day, 13 September, the magistrate arranged a confrontation between 'Mao' \u2013 Tommaso Salini \u2013 and Filippo Trisegni. This was common practice when two witnesses had given opposing testimonies. Neither man changed his story. Salini repeated his assertion that Trisegni had listed the names of those who had written the two poems. He stressed once again that Trisegni had told him that he been given some of the verses by the _bardassa_ , the catamite 'who lives behind the Banchi'. But Trisegni denied everything and maintained that Salini was lying.\n\nLater the same day Caravaggio was called to give evidence. The notary, Decio Cambio, made his usual careful report of the proceedings, but the painter gave him less work than any of the other witnesses. He was haughty and taciturn. He gave his answers grudgingly and kept them short. At one point he asked, with evident irritation, how much more he would have to listen to, as if to suggest that the enquiry was just an elaborate waste of his time. He declared, improbably, that he had never heard of any scurrilous poems written about Giovanni Baglione and Mao Salini. He claimed that he had not even spoken to Orazio Gentileschi for three years. But he made no pretence of his utter contempt for Baglione's work. That was the one subject on which, dangerously, he became almost effusive. But perhaps the most noteworthy part of his testimony is his grumpy, one-line definition of a good painter.\n\nHere is the full court record of his interrogation:\n\n> _Before His Excellency the Illustrious Alfonso Tomassino assistant examining magistrate and myself... Michelangelo Merisi of Caravaggio interrogated under oath by the magistrate._\n> \n> _Asked how, under what circumstances, and for what reason he was incarcerated._\n> \n> _Answered_ :\n> \n> I was arrested the other day in Piazza Navona but I don't know what the reason and circumstances are.\n> \n> _Asked what profession he exercises_.\n> \n> My profession is painting.\n> \n> _Asked if he knew and knows some painters in Rome and which ones._\n> \n> _Answered_ :\n> \n> I think I know almost all the painters in Rome starting with the _valent'huomini_. I know Gioseffe, Caracci, Zucchero [ _sic_ , for Zuccaro], Pomarancio, Gentileschi, Prospero, Giovanni Andrea, Giovanni Baglione, Gismondo and Giorgio Todesco, Tempesta, and others.\n> \n> _Asked if all the painters named above are his friends and are all (as they are commonly called) valent'huomini._\n> \n> _Answered_ :\n> \n> Almost all the painters I have listed above are my friends, but not all of them are _valent'huomini_.\n> \n> _Asked to identify what he means by the word 'valent'huomo'._\n> \n> _Answered_ :\n> \n> By the term ' _valent'huomo_ ' I mean he who knows how to do well, that is, he who knows how to do his art well. So in painting a _valent'huomo_ is one who knows how to paint well and imitate natural objects well.\n> \n> _Asked to identify which of them are his friends and which are his enemies_.\n> \n> _Answered_ :\n> \n> Of those I listed above neither Gioseffe, nor Giovanni Baglione, nor Gentileschi, nor Giorgio Todesco are my friends because they don't speak to me. The others all speak and converse with me.\n> \n> _Asked to specify which of the above-named he considers and holds to be valent'huomini (as they are commonly called) and those which he does not consider as such_.\n> \n> _Answered_ :\n> \n> Of the painters I listed above as good painters, Gioseffe, Zucchero, Pomarancio and Annibale Carracci; as for the others I don't consider them _valent'huomini_.\n> \n> _Asked if he knows if the above-named painters are judged respectively to be good or bad by other painters, just as he judges and reputes them to be_.\n> \n> _Answered_ :\n> \n> _Valent'huomini_ are those who are well versed in painting and will judge as good and bad painters those that I judge myself to be good and bad. But those that are bad and ignorant painters will judge as good painters the ignorant just as they are.\n> \n> _Asked if he knows of any person or painter who praises, considers and holds to be a good and virtuous painter one of those painters named above that he esteems is not a good painter_.\n> \n> _Answered_ :\n> \n> I don't know of any painter that praises and considers a good painter any of those painters that I don't esteem to be good painters.\n> \n> _Then_ :\n> \n> I have gone and forgotten to tell you that Antonio Tempesta \u2013 he too is a _valent'huomo_.\n> \n> _Asked in particular if any other painter has praised and praises the said painter Giovanni Baglione and who he might be._\n> \n> _Answered_ :\n> \n> I don't know of any painter who thinks that Giovanni Baglione is a good painter.\n> \n> _Asked if he has seen any of the works of the said Giovanni Baglione and which ones._\n> \n> _Answered_ :\n> \n> I've seen almost all the works of Giovanni Baglione, that is, the big chapel at the Madonna dell'Orto, a painting in San Giovanni Laterano, and recently _The Resurrection of Christ_ at the Ges\u00f9.\n> \n> _Asked how he judges the above-named painting The Resurrection, and if he knows if it was praised or reproached by other painters._\n> \n> _Answered:_\n> \n> I don't like that painting there at the Ges\u00f9 because it's a bungle. I think it's the worst he's done and I haven't heard any painter praise the said painting. Of all the painters I've spoken to no one liked it.\n> \n> _Then_ :\n> \n> Except that it is praised by someone who's always with him, who's called his guardian angel, who was there praising it when it was unveiled. They call him 'Mao'.\n> \n> _Asked to identify with whom or with which painters he saw that painting The Resurrection._\n> \n> _Answered:_\n> \n> Prospero and Giovanni Andrea. And I saw it on other occasions when I went to the Ges\u00f9, but I don't remember if any other painters were with me.\n> \n> _Then_ :\n> \n> What am I going to have to hear next about this matter?\n> \n> _Asked if he knows if the said Mao is a painter and if he has done any paintings and if he has seen any of them._\n> \n> _Answered:_\n> \n> Maybe he dabbles in art and still daubs, but I've never seen any work of this Mao.\n> \n> _Asked if he has met and knows Onorio Longhi and Ottavio Padovano_.\n> \n> _Answered_ :\n> \n> I know Onorio Longhi, who's very much a friend of mine, and I also know Ottavio Padovano.\n> \n> _Then_ :\n> \n> But I've never spoken to Ottavio Padovano.\n> \n> _Asked if he has ever had a conversation with the said Onorio Longhi and Orazio Gentileschi concerning the said painting The Resurrection._\n> \n> _Answered:_\n> \n> I've never spoken to Onorio Longhi about the said painting of the Resurrection by Baglione, and it's been more than three years since I've spoken to Gentileschi.\n> \n> _Asked if he knows the painter Lodovico Bresciano and Mario, also a painter._\n> \n> _Answered:_\n> \n> I know a Lodovico Bresciano and a Mario, both painters. This Mario once stayed with me and it's been three years since he left and I haven't spoken to him since. As for Lodovico I've never spoken to him.\n> \n> _Asked if he knows someone called Bartolomeo, who was once a servant of his, and his whereabouts._\n> \n> _Answered:_\n> \n> I know Bartolomeo. He was once my servant who went two months ago to the Castello del Soderino.\n> \n> _Asked if he knows someone called Giovanni Battista, a young man who lives behind the Banchi._\n> \n> _Answered:_\n> \n> I don't know any young man called Giovanni Battista or any young man who lives behind the Banchi.\n> \n> _Asked if he knows how to write verse in the vulgar tongue._\n> \n> _Answered:_\n> \n> Your Excellency, no. I don't dabble in verse either in the vulgar tongue, or in Latin.\n> \n> _Asked if he has ever heard of a poem or composition written in the vulgar tongue in which the said Giovanni Baglione was mentioned._\n> \n> _Answered:_\n> \n> I have never heard it in verse or in prose, in the vulgar tongue, or in Latin.\n> \n> _Asked if he has ever heard of a poem or composition written in the vulgar tongue in which the said Giovanni Baglione was mentioned._\n> \n> _Answered:_\n> \n> I have never heard in verse or in prose, in the vulgar tongue or in Latin, or in any other form, anything where mention of the said Giovanni Baglione was made.\n> \n> _And to his Excellency who said that according to the Bar he was aware that mention had been made of this Giovanni Baglione, and also of the said Mao, in some verses in the vulgar tongue._\n> \n> _Answered:_\n> \n> Never have I received information that mention has been made of Giovanni Baglione or of the said Mao in verse in the vulgar tongue.\n\nCaravaggio's definition of a good painter as 'one who knows how to paint well and imitate natural objects well' is almost comically prosaic. Perhaps he meant it as a deliberately provocative, no-nonsense assertion of his own notoriously direct naturalistic approach. But it is equally likely that he was just playing dumb. Caravaggio knew very well that there was more to painting than the mere reproduction of appearances. But it was not in his interests to appear before the court as an intellectual. After all, intellectuals were the kind of people who might write poetry in their spare time.\n\nCaravaggio's eventual list of _valent'huomini_ was influenced by calculation. Most of those chosen were conservative and academically minded painters. None were his friends, least of all Annibale Carracci, with whom he had crossed paintbrushes in the Cerasi Chapel. He included Federico Zuccaro, who had insulted Caravaggio's Contarelli Chapel canvases in the presence of Giovanni Baglione. Zuccaro was president of the Academy, so no wonder Caravaggio wanted the court to think he thought well of him. This was not merely false magnanimity: it was a shrewd attempted alignment with respectability.\n\nShortly after Caravaggio gave his evidence, Baglione decided to concentrate his attack on Gentileschi. He came back to the court that afternoon with another exhibit for the prosecution. It was an angry letter to Baglione from Gentileschi, written earlier that summer. Baglione had been on a pilgrimage to the shrine at Loreto and Gentileschi had asked him to bring him back some silver figurines of the Madonna. Baglione had given him two figures, but they were in lead, which Gentileschi had taken as a slight. Having explained the background to the court, Baglione then produced the letter:\n\n> To Giovanni the painter,\n> \n> I am not returning your Madonna figurines as you deserve but will keep them for the devotion they represent. However, I consider you a man with just about enough courage to buy them in lead. Your other actions have shown everyone all the riches you are made of and I don't give a hoot about you.\n> \n> I'd like you to do me a favour by hanging some offal on that chain you wear around your neck as an ornament to match your worth. I told you that if you sent me one in silver I would pay you for it. I would never under any circumstances send one in lead to a courteous gentleman, like the ones you see worn on hats.\n> \n> And with this I take leave of you and return your friendship and who is saying this to you cannot be a blackguard.\n\nThis was conclusive proof of Gentileschi's enmity. The robust style of the letter also showed that he had misled the court when he said he could barely string a sentence together on paper. Most incriminating of all, however, was the reference to Baglione's chain. 'In the sonnets written against me he mentions a neck chain saying I ought to wear an iron chain instead,' Baglione told the court. 'In this note he also speaks about the neck chain saying I should hang some offal in place of the chain. I steadfastly insist that it must have been him...'\n\nThe next day, as a final throw of the dice, the examining magistrate recalled Orazio Gentileschi. If he could be made to crack under cross-examination, the case would suddenly be thrown wide open.\n\nAt first the magistrate lulled Gentileschi into a false sense of security, asking him a series of questions about other artists, which Gentileschi parried with ease. It was at this point in the trial that he blithely volunteered the story about Baglione bringing his picture of _Divine Love_ to the annual artists' exhibition, to compete with his own _St Michael the Archangel_. He presumably wanted to demonstrate that he had nothing to fear from a discussion of the rivalry between them. He was happy to admit to the occasional disagreement with Baglione, but he also took care to distance himself from Caravaggio, complaining that both men had a habit of looking down on him:\n\n> I haven't spoken to the said Giovanni Baglione since the St Michael affair and especially because he expects me to raise my hat to him on the street and I expect him to raise his hat to me. Even Caravaggio, who's a friend of mine, expects me to salute him, and although both of them are my friends, there's nothing more between us. It must be six or eight months since I've spoken to Caravaggio, although he did send round to my house for a Capuchin's robe and a pair of wings I lent him. It must be about ten days since he sent them back.\n\nGradually the magistrate turned the conversation towards the incriminating note, although for the time being he kept the document itself up his sleeve. Did Gentileschi ever remember Baglione leaving Rome? Had Baglione ever given anything to him? The accused stumbled slowly but surely into the trap. Gentileschi told the court that Baglione had gone to Loreto and that he had brought him back some lead figurines 'like the ones that are worn on hats'. He had hoped for silver ones, but he had thanked Baglione graciously none the less. What about a note? Had he written a note? Gentileschi pretended to struggle to remember. Baglione had written to him first, as he recalled, saying that he had heard that Gentileschi was complaining about the figurines. He had felt obliged to reply. 'I answered him in a note that I held devotion dear, that I was surprised that he would write these things to me, that I had thanked him in the presence of several people... and that he shouldn't think I was interested in all that silver nonsense.'\n\nAfter a little more sparring the magistrate suddenly produced the note itself, to Gentileschi's evident consternation. At first he tried to deny that he had written the note, then realized that the handwriting was so evidently his that he had better own up to it. But when confronted with the line about hanging offal on Baglione's chain, he panicked and half-heartedly denied authorship of the letter once again. Drowning in his own inconsistency, all he could find to cling to was an implausible insinuation that the letter was a forgery. His testimony rapidly descended into incoherence. 'It seems to me,' he stammered, 'yet it doesn't, that I wrote about offal and chains, but the handwriting looks like mine. I recognize this letter by my handwriting. It's true I wrote about someone who had done something bad and that he face up to it but I don't think I've written about chains and offal.'\n\nAt this point the notary reported, ' _He got confused_.' Again and again the magistrate pressed him for the truth about the letter, but Gentileschi just went round and round in ever-decreasing circles: 'it doesn't seem to be in my hand, but I know I haven't written this note in this manner: it is like my handwriting but I don't know of having written these things... the handwriting looks like mine, but I don't think I've written this letter in this way, but it is my handwriting...' It was not quite a confession, but he must have signed such a testimony with a heavy heart.\n\nBut just as the case seemed to have swung decisively against them, the defendants were reprieved. Someone must have told the Governor of Rome to call off his hounds, because on 25 September 1603 Caravaggio was suddenly released from prison. He was bailed under guarantee from the French ambassador, which strongly suggests that Cardinal del Monte, friend to the Medici and to France, had engineered his release. The condition of bail was that he 'was not to leave his habitual residence without written permission... at the risk of being condemned to the punishment of galley slave'. He was also obliged to make himself available for a further hearing in a month's time. In another document of the same date, Ainolfo Bardi, Count of Vernio, undertook to ensure that Caravaggio would offend 'neither the life nor the honour' of either 'Giovanni Baglione, painter' or 'Tommaso, alias Mau [ _sic_ ]'.\n\nIn the event, there were no further hearings and the case was dropped. But that was not quite the end of the affair. By November 1603 Caravaggio's friend Onorio Longhi was back in Rome. He wanted revenge for the ordeal of the lawsuit and tried to pick a fight with Baglione and Salini. This time, Longhi was the one who ended up in court, arrested for threatening behaviour by a _sbirro_ who signed himself 'Tullio, assistant to the head of police'. The events leading up to the arrest were described by Salini in his deposition to the court:\n\n> I was in the church of Minerva together with my friend Messer Giovanni Baglione. We wished to hear Mass and while we were waiting I saw Onorio Longhi who was standing in front of us staring at me saying something very softly with his mouth that couldn't be heard. Then he beckoned me with his head and I went over and asked him what he was calling me for. He started to say, 'I'd like to make you swing from a wooden scaffold, you fucking grass.' To which I answered that he was insulting me so in church but that outside he wouldn't have dared say such a thing. Then, raising his voice, Onorio told me to come outside and said I was a fucker and a grass if I didn't and that I should come out and he'd be waiting for me.\n> \n> He immediately went out of the rear door of the Minerva and picked up a stone saying, 'Come out, you scum you grass.' Then I told him he was lying through his teeth and that he should put down the brick or we'd be uneven. And then the said Messer Giovanni Baglione came out and held me back and Onorio began to say, 'There are two of you', and a companion of the said Onorio, a procurator from Truffia who lives in Montecitorio, turned towards Messer Giovanni and seeing him with a dagger said, 'Put the dagger down.' Onorio, likewise, said 'Get the dagger off him',... and the said procurator approached him [and punched the said Messer Giovanni in the chest ]... and all at once Onorio threw the brick at Messer Giovanni, which hit his hat but didn't hurt him. Then he turned towards me, but having a stone in my hand I told him to stop or I'd knock him down. All the same he came towards me saying, 'You fucking grass', and so I called him a liar and entered the church and he went off with the said procurator.\n\nShortly after this, Salini added, Longhi challenged him to a swordfight again, 'near the door of the friars' cloister'. When he refused to rise to the bait, Longhi went to wait at Salini's home on the corner of Via della Croce. When Baglione and Salini got there, he shouted at them to arm themselves, but still they refused to fight with him. Salini went to see his tailor and Baglione went into 'the baker's shop that sells bread, wine and charcoal'. (Were it not for this aside in Salini's testimony, it might never have been known that bakers in the artists' quarter of seventeenth-century Rome sold charcoal from their bread-ovens to painters.)\n\nThe tale of provocation ends there, with Salini trying on shirts and Baglione buying artist's materials and the enraged Longhi left yelling in the street. The story as Salini had told it was confirmed by another eyewitness, Lazzaro Visca, a barber. True to his profession, he added one small tonsorial detail to the picture: the infuriated Longhi had a red beard.\n\n#### A DAGGER, A PAIR OF EARRINGS, A WORN-OUT BELT\n\nOnorio Longhi left the custody of the _sbirri_ with a caution as the enmity between rival factions of artists rumbled on. Caravaggio had not been involved in the latest fracas, if only because he was away from Rome at the time. He had left the city shortly after the collapse of the libel trial, to research a new picture he had been asked to paint.\n\nIn early September 1603 the heirs of Ermete Cavalletti had acquired a chapel in the church of Sant'Agostino. Caravaggio was in prison at the time, but immediately after his release Ermete's widow, Orinzia Cavalletti, commissioned him to paint an altarpiece depicting the Madonna of Loreto. Cavalletti's late husband had been particularly devoted to the cult of Loreto, a small town in the Marches, east of Rome, which was home to the fabled Holy House of the Virgin Mary, and during the last year of his life he had organized a pilgrimage to the Holy House, then one of the principal pilgrimage sites in the Roman Catholic world. Caravaggio decided to familiarize himself with the shrine and its legend before starting work on the altarpiece, so he too followed the pilgrims' trail. Orazio Gentileschi may or may not have asked him to pick up a few silver figurines when he got there.\n\nWhile he was on the road, Caravaggio accepted another commission, this time to paint an altarpiece for the Capuchin church of Santa Maria di Costantinopoli in the town of Tolentino. The picture is lost and was nearly forgotten altogether, but in the late nineteenth century a scholar working in the town's municipal archives stumbled on a letter about it. Dated 2 January 1604, it was sent to the priors of the town by a nobleman from Tolentino, Lancilotto Mauruzi, who was living in Rome at the time. He congratulated them on securing Caravaggio's services and wanted them to know that he was 'a most excellent painter, of great worth, in fact the best in Rome today'. He pleaded with them to treat the artist well, because if he created one of his 'extraordinary' paintings for Tolentino it would forever bring honour to the town. The fate of the work is unknown, but it must have disappeared some time after 1772, when the author of a local guidebook rapturously described it as 'a singular and precious production of Knight Michelangelo Amerigi da Caravaggio, in which, in his strong and dark manner, he depicted St Isidora Agricola piercing a tree with a spike and miraculously bringing forth a fountain: the figure is so natural, seeming to be alive, such is the delicacy of the flesh tones... there are also other figures, transfixed by the sight of the miracle: in fact one could say it it is a miracle of art, so true to life does it seem.'\n\nCaravaggio went on to Loreto, for how long we do not know, but he was back in Rome by the beginning of 1604. In the aftermath of the libel trial, his life became increasingly unsettled. Having lodged for several years with powerful patrons, first del Monte and then the Mattei family, he was now living in rented accommodation. Not long after his release from prison he had moved into a small two-storey house in the Vicolo dei Santa Cecilia e Biagio (now the Vicolo del Divino Amore), a narrow curved street flanked on one side by the walls of the Palazzo Firenze. The palace was part of the machinery of Medici power in Rome, serving among other things as the post office for Tuscany, and del Monte was often required to be there in the course of his duties. It seems that despite his changed circumstances the painter was still keen to stay close to his protector.\n\nUnlike many Roman streets, the Vicolo was, and still is, unshaded by any large church or monastery. In high summer the sun beats down on to the roofs and through the windows of the houses there, creating dramatically Caravaggesque effects of light and shade. The painter's new home had a cellar and a small courtyard garden with its own well. His landlady, Prudentia Bruni, charged him the modest sum of 40 scudi a year in rent. His reasons for moving are not known. Perhaps he wanted privacy. He was living alone with his one assistant, according to a communion census carried out for the parish of San Nicola dei Prefetti. The document in question, part of a _Status animarum_ , or report on 'the state of souls', records that 'Michelangelo, painter' had taken communion as required, together with 'Francesco, his servant' \u2013 Cecco, the model for _Omnia vincit amor_ , the source of all those rumours about Caravaggio's homosexuality that would still be current half a century later. There must have been talk, but Caravaggio was paying no attention to it.\n\nAn inventory of Caravaggio's household contents was drawn up when his tenancy ended abruptly in August 1605, an event that will be described below. The inventorist noted the objects in the order in which he encountered them, so the list of things also describes a sequence of rooms. Like many of the documents concerning Caravaggio, the inventory is fascinating but tantalizing. Reading it is like leafing through a dossier of arbitrarily cropped and framed snapshots of the things a man once owned \u2013 the furniture he sat on, the weapons with which he fought, the books he read, the tools he used. But all the photographs are just a little out of focus. Crucial details are missing and there is no one to fill in the gaps:\n\n> This is the inventory of all the personal property of the painter Michelangelo from Caravaggio... First, a kitchen-dresser made of white poplar-wood, with three compartments and an alder frame, containing eleven pieces of glassware, namely glasses, carafes and flasks covered in straw, a plate, two salt-cellars, three spoons, a carving board and a bowl, and on the above-mentioned dresser two brass candlesticks, another plate, two small knives and three terracotta vases. _Item_ a water jug. Two stools. _Item_ a red table with two drawers. _Item_ a couple of bedside tables. A picture. _Item_ a small chest covered with black leather, containing a pair of ragged breeches and a jacket. A guitar, a violin. A dagger, a pair of earrings, a worn-out belt and a door-leaf. _Item_ a rather big table. _Item_ two old chairs and a small broom. _Item_ two swords, and two hand daggers. _Item_ a pair of green breeches. _Item_ a mattress. _Item_ a shield. _Item_ a blanket. _Item_ a foldaway bed for servants. _Item_ a bed with two posts. _Item_ a chamber-pot. _Item_ a stool. _Item_ an old chest. _Item_ a majolica basin. _Item_ another chest containing twelve books. _Item_ two large pictures to paint. _Item_ a chest containing certain rags. _Item_ three stools. _Item_ a large mirror. _Item_ a convex mirror. _Item_ three smaller pictures. _Item_ a small three-legged table. _Item_ three large stretchers. _Item_ a large picture on wood. _Item_ an ebony chest containing a knife. _Item_ two bedside tables. _Item_ a tall wooden tripod. _Item_ a small cart with some papers with colours. _Item_ a halberd. _Item_ two more stretchers.\n\n'Once he put on a suit of clothes he changed only when it had fallen to rags.' Bellori's remark, repeated in one or two other early sources, finds confirmation in the ragged breeches and jacket and the worn-out belt. There is little in the way of cooking equipment, which suggests that neither the painter nor his apprentice spent a great deal of time in the kitchen. It is not surprising to learn that Caravaggio kept books, and a pity that the notary did not list their titles (though if they _had_ been identified, a multitude of over-ingenious iconographic hypotheses would have been unleashed on the painter's work). At any rate, their presence gives the lie to the old academic caricature of Caravaggio as an unlettered copyist of appearances. But we cannot tell anything conclusive from what is here about his relationship with his servant: all the references to beds and bedding occur in one place, so it can be inferred that the two men either shared sleeping quarters, or slept in adjoining rooms. But Cecco certainly had his own separate bed, or mattress.\n\nThe convex mirror is likely to be the one in which Caravaggio had studied his own, distorted self-portrait while painting the _Medusa_. It is probably the same object that can still be seen, propped up on the table, in the _Martha and Mary Magdalen_ in Detroit. The mention of a 'large mirror' is more mysterious: mirrors were extremely expensive in the early seventeenth century, and, given Caravaggio's often-remarked disregard for his own appearance, it is unlikely he would have owned one for reasons of vanity. It was most likely another tool of his studio, which he used to bounce or reflect light, much like a modern cinematographer. The 'large painting on wood' could have been one of the two botched first attempts at the Cerasi Chapel commission.\n\nOne thing is clear from the inventory: Caravaggio was living modestly. For all Baglione's allegations of 'the many hundreds of scudi' that he had 'pocketed' from Ciriaco Mattei, there was not much sign of suddenly acquired wealth in the meagre possessions assembled in the little house on the Vicolo dei Santa Cecilia e Biagio. Caravaggio was a very well known painter by early 1604, but his future was by no means assured. When Clement VIII commissioned a series of altarpieces for St Peter's in these, the last years of his pontificate, Caravaggio was not among the artists approached.\n\nPart of the problem was almost certainly his personality. By now he would have been notorious as a proud and difficult man. Baglione and his clique would have been only too happy to reinforce that impression. But there were other, more powerful forces working against Caravaggio. The Catholic Church was moving decisively away from the severe Counter-Reformation piety embodied so powerfully by his work. The religious attitudes that he had grown up with in Milan were falling increasingly out of favour among those in positions of power. Carlo Borromeo's belief that the princes of the Church should clothe themselves in humility and model their lives on those of Christ's own poor disciples was falling terminally out of fashion. Poverty and the poor were there to be controlled, regulated, put in their place. In parallel, the idea that Christian art should exalt poverty was regarded as increasingly eccentric and distasteful by senior churchmen, from the pope downwards. It was the function of art to hymn the majesty of God in his heaven \u2013 and therefore to bathe the papal court and the upper hierarchies of the Church in the reflected glory of that higher, celestial court. Like the art of Caravaggio, the art favoured by a newly triumphalist Church was aimed at the poor as well as the rich. But its approach was very different. It did not welcome the poor and the meek or make them feel that they, ultimately, were the inheritors of the earth. It was there to awe, daunt and stupefy them, to impress them with visions of a force so powerful it could not be resisted \u2013 and must, therefore, be obeyed.\n\nFor all his sensitivity and genius, there could ultimately be no place in this new Baroque sensibility for an artist such as Caravaggio. If anything, his art was becoming even more pared down, more severe, with the passage of time. This pattern of development, begun with the Cerasi Chapel paintings, had continued throughout 1603. In his evidence given at the libel trial, Orazio Gentileschi had remembered Caravaggio returning 'a Capuchin's robe and a pair of wings'. Cecco had worn the wings when he sat for _Omnia vincit amor_. The Capuchin robe, sacred uniform of the Franciscan order, had been worn by the rather older model whom Caravaggio cast in another picture of the same period, _St Francis in Meditation_ , now in the Galleria Nazionale d'Arte Antica, Palazzo Barberini, Rome. Nothing is known about why, or for whom, this ascetically morbid picture was painted. The saint kneels alone in darkness beside the simple wooden crucifix that assists his meditations. His torn, patched cloak is the symbol of his piety and of his utter disdain for the things of this world. He holds a skull in his hands, staring deep into the sockets where eyes once were. He is shown lost in contemplation of his own mortality, and of the eternal life that awaits him thanks to Christ's crucifixion at Golgotha, 'the place of the skull'. But the idea of the picture is stronger than its execution. The folds of the drapery have been cursorily painted and the penitential pose seems artificial. Caravaggio had always composed with a strong sense of theatre, but here his work tips over into theatricality.\n\nAccording to Gentileschi, Caravaggio had returned the borrowed habit at around the beginning of September 1603, so probably the _St Francis_ was completed shortly before then. _The Sacrifice of Isaac_ is another picture from this time. Less penitentially gloomy, it clothes an Old Testament legend in the same robes of holy poverty. The lined and bald Abraham is cousin to Caravaggio's earlier pauper saints and strongly resembles the uppermost disciple in his _Doubting Thomas_. A simple man of simple faith, he steels himself to do God's bidding, holding his screaming son down as if the boy \u2013 modelled by Cecco in yet another guise \u2013 were just one more lamb brought to slaughter.\n\n_The Sacrifice of Isaac_ had been the subject of a famous competition in fifteenth-century Florence between Lorenzo Ghiberti and Filippo Brunelleschi, for the commission of a cast-bronze pair of doors for the city Baptistry. Each artist had produced a single bas-relief in bronze, which between them became the two most famous Renaissance treatments of the subject. The eventual winner, Ghiberti, had devised a composition of great elegance and delicacy, setting the scene in a gracefully abbreviated landscape and lending a balletic quality even to the murderous gesture of the Old Testament prophet. Brunelleschi had produced a much brusquer and more violent interpretation of the story, focusing on the action itself, where Abraham plunges the dagger dramatically towards his son even as the angel stays his hand. Brunelleschi lost the competition, but unsurprisingly it was with his vivid, violent, essentially late medieval view of the story that Caravaggio identified. Caravaggio's greatest Dutch admirer, Rembrandt, would give a yet more brutal emphasis to the drama, by showing Abraham's smothering hand clamped over the face of his helpless son.\n\n_The Sacrifice of Isaac_ is also notable for Caravaggio's very last view of landscape: an idyllic glimpse of the Roman _campagna_ complete with winding path, avenue of cypresses, a country villa and a distant monastery silhouetted against a fragment of summer sky. From 1604 onwards, his painted world shrinks in on itself, and even events set outside look as though they are taking place in a darkened theatre. Middle tones almost disappear. Increasingly, there is only darkness and light.\n\n#### A PLATE OF ARTICHOKES AND OTHER STORIES\n\nCaravaggio would receive just three commissions for large-scale public religious paintings between 1603 and 1606. As the spareness and solemnity of his work became increasingly out of step with the times, he was forced to watch from the sidelines as lesser painters overtook him in the unstable hierarchy of Roman patronage. In reaction, he became ever more aggressive. An eighteenth-century writer of artists' lives, Filippo Baldinucci, recounts the story of Caravaggio's jealous attack on a Florentine painter called Domenico Passignano. Passignano's sin had been to secure the coveted commission to paint an altarpiece for St Peter's. One day his assistant was alone with the unfinished picture, which was still curtained off from public scrutiny, when Caravaggio went to take a look. Showing 'no respect for place or person', he drew his sword, cut a slit in the fabric and poked his head through the hole. His assessment of the work in progress was predictably caustic: 'As bad as I thought, from a painter like him'. The message was presumably passed on to Passignano by his startled apprentice. The legend was soon absorbed into the collective memory of the Italian artist.\n\nCaravaggio was picking fights with other people too. On 24 April 1604 he got into an argument with a waiter at one of his local restaurants, the Osteria del Moro, or 'Tavern of the Blackamoor'. In the course of an altercation concerning artichokes, he smashed a plate against the man's face. Stopping only to have his wound dressed at the barber-surgeon's, the waiter took his grievance straight to court. He gave his name as Pietro de Fossaccia and declared that he was originally from Lago Maggiore. This is his testimony against Caravaggio:\n\n> At about seventeen hours [half past twelve] the above-named defendant with two other men was eating in the Tavern of the Blackamoor, near the Church of the Magdalen, where I am employed as a waiter. I had brought him eight cooked artichokes, to wit, four cooked in butter and four in oil, and the said defendant asked me which were done in butter and which in oil. I replied: 'Smell them, and you will easily know which are cooked in butter and which in oil.' Thereupon, he flew into a rage and without further words seized an earthen plate and flung it in my face. It hit me here in the left cheek, wounding me slightly. Then he got up and snatched the sword of one of his companions, which was lying on the table, perhaps with intent to strike me. But I got away from him, and came here to the office to file a complaint.\n\nA copyist called Pietro Antonio de Madii, from Piacenza, had also eaten at the Tavern of the Blackamoor that lunchtime. He was called as an eyewitness. He partially corroborated the waiter's story. But, in recalling the exact words that had been exchanged, he shed new light on the incident. The verbal precision of his evidence may have reflected the habits of his work, as a transcriber of others' words:\n\n> I was dining at the Tavern of the Blackamoor. On the other side of the room there was Michelangelo da Caravaggio, the painter. I heard him ask whether the artichokes were done in oil or butter, they being all in one plate. The waiter said: 'I don't know', and picked one up and and put it to his nose. Michelangelo took it badly and sprang to his feet in a rage, saying: 'It seems to me, you fucked-over cuckold, that you think you're speaking to some kind of vulgar provincial [ _barone_ ].' And he seized the plate and threw it at the waiter's face. I did not see Michelangelo grasp the sword to threaten the waiter.\n\nCaravaggio was being touchy about status again. The fight may have been sparked by a question about butter and olive oil, but the argument was really about something else. The painter was accusing the waiter of a quasi-racist insult. The Romans were proud of their olive oil \u2013 Montaigne had remarked on its quality when he visited the city \u2013 and scorned northern Italians for lacking the discrimination to appreciate its fine but faintly bitter taste. Lombards were easily caricatured as cowherds from far-off plains and mountains, who thought a meal was not a real meal unless it was dripping with butter and cheese. The painter accused the waiter of taking him for a _barone_ , which has been imperfectly translated above as 'vulgar provincial'. Its literal meaning is 'baron', but used ironically, in the language of demotic insult, it means the opposite \u2013 a low parody of an aristocrat, somebody from the sticks who thinks he has taste but actually has none.\n\nCaravaggio responded to the implied slight by hurling a plate at the man's mouth. It was an impetuous act, but as usual the painter had put thought into his violence. The punishment mirrored the perceived crime: 'You think I have no taste? Taste this.' The insult that accompanied the assault, _becco fottuto_ , or 'fucked-over cuckold', was the same phrase that had been used at the end of the poem addressed to 'Johnny Bollock'. Caravaggio must have used it fairly frequently.\n\nDespite only three major commissions in these troubled years, Caravaggio certainly had work to do. His altarpiece for _The Death of the Virgin_ was years overdue and he still had the picture of the Madonna of Loreto to paint. But he seems to have found it increasingly difficult to concentrate for prolonged periods. In the past he had been a conscientious respecter of deadlines, but now he had a growing reputation for unreliability. It was with the Caravaggio of these years in mind that Karel van Mander wrote his comment about the painter spending a month in the streets for every two weeks in the studio, swaggering about with his sword at his side, 'with a servant following him, from one ball-court to the next, ever ready to engage in a fight or argument'.\n\nIt was probably in the summer of 1604, between fights, that Caravaggio painted the hauntingly intense _St John the Baptist_ now in the Nelson-Atkins Museum in Kansas City. The picture was almost certainly painted for the Genoese banker Ottavio Costa. There is an early copy in the church of the Oratory of the Confraternity at Conscente, in Liguria, which was a fief of the Costa dynasty. The family had paid for the building of the church, so it may be that Caravaggio's painting was originally destined for its high altar, and subsequently replaced by the copy for reasons unknown. Perhaps Ottavio Costa was so impressed by the work when he saw it that he decided to keep it for his art collection in Rome.\n\nThe picture is very different to the _St John the Baptist_ painted for Ciriaco Mattei a couple of years before. As in the earlier painting, the saint occupies an unusually lush desert wilderness. Dock leaves grow in profusion at his feet. But he is no longer an ecstatic, laughing boy. He has become a melancholy adolescent, glowering in his solitude. Clothed in animal furs and swathed in folds of blood-red drapery, he clutches a simple reed cross for solace as he broods on the errors and miseries of mankind. The chiaroscuro is eerily extreme: there is a pale cast to the light, which is possibly intended to evoke moonbeams, but the contrasts are so strong and the shadows so deep that the boy looks as though lit by a flash of lightning. This dark but glowing painting is one of Caravaggio's most spectacular creations. It is also a reticent and introverted work \u2013 a vision of a saint who looks away, to one side, rather than meeting the beholder's eye. This second _St John_ is moodily withdrawn, lost in his own world-despising thoughts. The picture might almost be a portrait of Caravaggio's own dark state of mind, his gloomy hostility and growing sense of isolation during this period of his life.\n\nOnly one other painting by Caravaggio can be securely dated to 1604. It is _The Entombment_ , a large and ambitious altarpiece for the Oratorian church in Rome, Santa Maria in Vallicella, a few hundred yards west of the Piazza Navona, close to where the Tiber snakes around the Vatican. He finished it some time shortly before 1 September, when the picture is described as 'new' in a document recording that it had been paid for by a man called Girolamo Vittrice. Girolamo commissioned the work for the burial chapel of his uncle, Pietro, who had died in 1600. Like many of the painter's most important patrons, the Vittrice family was closely connected with Filippo Neri's Oratory and therefore directly allied with the emphatically populist, pauperist wing of the Roman Church. Pietro Vittrice had been particularly close to Filippo Neri himself and had strongly supported the core values of the Oratory, with its stress on the importance of charitable works, its antipathy to elaborate ritual and its ambition to revive the simple and direct faith associated with the early Church.\n\nCaravaggio's monumental and dramatic altarpiece for Vittrice's burial chapel was immediately recognized as one of his most accomplished paintings. Baglione baldly stated that 'this is said to be his best work', a judgement that was echoed rather more circumstantially by Bellori:\n\n> One of the best works by Caravaggio is the _Deposition of Christ_ [ _sic_ ] in the Chiesa Nuova of the Oratorians which has received well-deserved praise. The figures in the painting are placed on a stone in the opening of the sepulchre. In the centre Nicodemus supports the Sacred Body under the knees, embracing it, and as the hips are lowered, the legs jut out. On the other side St John places one arm under the shoulder of the Redeemer whose face is upturned and his breast deathly pale; one arm hangs down with the sheet and all the nude parts are drawn forcefully and faithfully from nature. Behind Nicodemus are seen the mourning Marys, one with her arms upraised, another with her veil raised to her eyes, and the third looking at the Lord.\n\nCaravaggio had Michelangelo in mind again when he created _The Entombment_. Pietro Vittrice's burial chapel was dedicated to the Piet\u00e0, the solitary lamentation of Mary over the dead Christ. Caravaggio deliberately harked back to one of the most hallowed images of that earlier event in the story, namely Michelangelo's marble _Piet\u00e0_ in St Peter's. The limp right arm of Caravaggio's dead Christ, with its prominent veins, is a direct paraphrase in paint of the same element in Michelangelo's composition. The flesh of the arm gently bulges over the supporting hand of St John, just as it does over the hand of the Virgin Mary in the marble _Piet\u00e0_. But in Caravaggio's painting, John's hand inadvertently opens the wound in Christ's side. For the pathos and poetry of Michelangelo's sculpture, in which Mary mourns the man she once cradled as a child, Caravaggio substitutes his own intense morbidity. Caravaggio's dead Christ is punishingly unidealized. He truly is the Word made flesh: a dead man, a real corpse weighing heavily on those who struggle to lay him to rest. John strains not to drop the sacred burden. Nicodemus stoops awkwardly as he clasps the body around the knees in a bear-hug, locking his right fist like a clamp around his left forearm.\n\nOnce more, the painter emphasizes the bare feet of Christ and his disciples. Nicodemus's feet, so firmly planted on the tomb slab by the heavy load of the corpse, are veined and creased at the ankle. Christ's feet dangle limply in space. Such details could be controversial elsewhere, but the Oratorians' sense of decorum was evidently undisturbed by Caravaggio's insistence on holy poverty. Christ's drapery has been given strong emphasis, shining with particular force in the darkness of Calvary. His winding sheet dangles below the tomb slab, touching the leaves of a plant \u2013 a juxtaposition perhaps meant to symbolize the hope of new life brought even to the darkness of the grave. Pietro Vittrice had especially venerated the Holy Shroud of Turin, fabled as the winding sheet in which Christ had been interred.\n\n_The Entombment_ is a powerfully sculptural painting. It alludes to Michelangelo's _Piet\u00e0_ but ultimately looks back again to the polychrome _mises-en-sc\u00e8ne_ of the _sacri monti_ and the vivid terracotta sculptures of northern Italian tradition. The figures are tightly grouped, each responding to the tragedy of death in a different way. Caravaggio's Madonna, who has been given a wimple so that she resembles a nun, gazes solemnly at the dead body of her son. The other two female figures are more overtly expressive. Mary Magdalen, eyes uptilted in a trance of sorrow, raises her hands to the heavens. The third Mary bows her head and weeps. Both these figures were modelled by Fillide Melandroni. She had dropped out of Caravaggio's art for a while, but was clearly still part of his life. Her continued presence in Rome at around this time is confirmed by a communion census report of Easter 1603, in which she is recorded as living with her brother and aunt from Siena in the parish of Santa Maria del Popolo. By now she was twenty-two years old.\n\nThere is a hint of theatricality about the pair of figures modelled by Fillide, which jars with Caravaggio's prevailing rhetoric of brutal realism. Perhaps he was trying to sweeten the bitter pill of his art, at least to a degree. There would be hints of compromise in one or two other Roman pictures of the period, a sign perhaps that his confidence had been knocked by rejection. In fact the whole composition of _The Entombment_ has a slightly staged and artificial feel to it, although this may reflect a specific aspect of the image's meaning. There was a tradition of painting Christ's entombment not as a dramatic event but as a moment of votive stasis \u2013 a presentation of his sacrifical body both to the congregation of the church and, symbolically, to all mankind. Caravaggio's Nicodemus looks directly out of the picture as he and John seem, indeed, to hold Christ's body up to view, and Bellori's description of the painting repeatedly refers to the image of Christ as 'the Sacred Body'. This element of the composition may well have been created to complement the actual liturgy of the Mass, as the painting originally hung directly above the altar in the chapel: at the moment when the priest elevated the host, the actual flesh of Christ, he was obliged by the design of Caravaggio's composition to align it with the painted body of Christ.\n\n#### STONES THROWN AND A DOOR DEFACED\n\nOn 4 June 1604 Caravaggio was sentenced for his attack on the waiter, along with several people convicted of unrelated offences. The other men and women in the dock included a furrier, a launderer and a recent convert to Christianity from Judaism. Their various crimes and punishments are detailed in the judicial Latin of the document, but whereas the entry under Caravaggio's name gives the nature of his offence \u2013 wounding a man under the left eye with an earthenware plate \u2013 it fails to specify the penalty. Perhaps he was again let off with a warning, thanks to his powerful friends.\n\nOn 19 October he was back in prison at the Tor di Nona. This time he and some friends were accused of throwing stones at some police officers. The alleged incident had taken place two days earlier, at 9.30 in the evening, on the Via dei Greci. His fellow defendants were Ottaviano Gabrielli, a bookseller; Alessandro Tonti of Civitanova, a perfume-maker; and Pietro Paolo Martinelli, a courier to the pope. Their testimonies are contradictory, but they give at least a piecemeal picture of the incident.\n\nCaravaggio had eaten with Martinelli and Gabrielli that evening at the Osteria della Torretta, the 'Tavern of the Little Tower'. After dinner they had decided to walk to the Piazza del Popolo. They were halfway there when they were arrested for throwing stones. 'We were arrested because a stone had been thrown and they wanted me to tell who had thrown it, whereas I didn't know,' Caravaggio testified. 'I told the constables, \"Go and look for the man who threw the stone, and no more abusive words.\" ' In his version of events, he had been walking along with his old friend Onorio Longhi, as well as the bookseller Gabrielli and someone else whose name he did not know. They had stopped to chat in the street to a girl called Menicuccia \u2013 a nickname for the courtesan Menica Calvi \u2013 when he heard stones flying through the air. He was under the impression that the stones had been thrown at his friends. He insisted that he was just an innocent bystander.\n\nThe pope's courier, Martinelli, distanced himself from the whole affair. He claimed to have walked on ahead with another friend. Ottaviano Gabrielli denied having been present at dinner with the others. He asserted that he was on his way to meet the girlfriend of a friend of his when he got caught up in the evening's events. Gabrielli admitted having been in prison once before, on suspicion of selling prohibited books. On the evening in question, he said, he had witnessed Caravaggio's arrest but had not been involved in the events leading up to it. As the _sbirri_ had taken Caravaggio away, the painter had appealed to Gabrielli for help. The bookseller recalled his precise words: 'Go to the house of the Illustrious Cardinal del Monte and speak to Monsignor the Cardinal del Monte, or to his majordomo... and go to the house of Signora Olimpia Aldobrandini.' Gabrielli had taken the message but had been arrested himself later.\n\nFor his part, the perfume-maker said that he had had nothing to do with any of it. He had never been in prison before, he said. It was unfair. He had only been going for a walk on the Via del Babuino. During his one night in jail, he had clearly been struck by Caravaggio's confidence in his powerful patrons. The perfumier remembered the painter saying, 'Whatever happens, I'll be out tomorrow.'\n\nIt is clear from Caravaggio's testimony that this had been only one of several run-ins with the police in the autumn of 1604. He was accused of using offensive language to the _sbirro_ who had arrested him, Corporal Malanno. Caravaggio answered that the said Malanno had a grudge against him. The policeman was hostile and insulting whenever he bumped into him, the painter complained, but he stoutly denied having called the arresting officer a 'cocksucker' on the night in question.\n\nA month later Caravaggio was stopped again, late at night, walking along a narrow conduit called the Chiavica del Bufalo. The arresting officer filed his report on 18 November 1604:\n\n> Five hours after nightfall at the Conduit of the Bufalo, Michelangelo da Caravaggio, who was carrying a sword and dagger, was halted by my men. When asked if he had a licence, he answered, 'Yes,' and presented it, and so he was dismissed, and I told him he could leave, and said, 'Goodnight, sir.' He replied loudly, 'You can stick it up your arse,' and so I arrested him, since I did not wish to bear such a thing. I ordered my men to take him, and when he was bound he said, 'You and everyone with you can shove it up your arses.' And so I put him in the jail of the Tor di Nona.\n\nAs always the evidence is fragmentary, but what we have of it at the end of 1604 strongly suggests a life going awry. Caravaggio is living in rented accomodation with only his apprentice Cecco for company. He has several commissions but works at them in sporadic bursts. He flares up at the merest hint of an insult. He goes looking for trouble late at night and even manages to pick a fight with the police when they are on the point of letting him go.\n\nWinter came and went with little sign of Caravaggio doing much in the way of work: no pictures from his hand are known from these months. His former rival, Annibale Carracci, had fallen into a deep melancholy after the completion of the Farnese Gallery, so deep that it prevented him from working altogether. In the terminology of the time, Caravaggio was choleric rather than melancholic, but he too seems to have been afflicted by some form of painter's block. By early 1605 his debts had begun to mount up. His rent was in arrears. His landlady, Prudentia Bruni, kept sending him reminders that he studiously ignored.\n\nMeanwhile the city was in a state of political flux. Clement VIII took to his bed in February 1605 and died on 3 March after a short illness. The supporters of the French faction in Rome rejoiced when Alessandro de' Medici was elected as Pope Leo XI, but he was frail and old and soon after his election he too died, on 27 April. Rome was a turbulent city at the best of times, but it was doubly unstable whenever the papal throne was empty. During this interregnum normal government was effectively suspended. According to long tradition, a blanket amnesty was given to the inmates of the city's jails. The felons celebrated their newfound freedom with predictable exuberance. The regular civic authorities tried to maintain their grip on the population, but their jurisdiction was frequently contested at such times by the _caporioni_ , the heads of the city districts.\n\nThree days after the death of the short-lived Medici pope Leo XI, simmering rivalry between the French and Spanish factions broke out into open street warfare. Soon there was a full-blown riot, with fighting spilling over from the Piazza della Trinit\u00e0 into the Via dei Condotti. The _bargello_ of Rome, the city's principal law enforcement officer, tried to restore order with his troops. But he was met, with equal force, by Giovan Francesco Tomassoni, _caporione_ of the Campo Marzio district, his brothers Ranuccio and Alessandro, and their own ragtag militia. The ensuing argument revolved around jurisdiction over prisoners. The _bargello_ wanted to take a number of men into custody, whereas the Tomassoni demanded that the men be handed over to them, for reasons that are not clear: they were either allies, whom the pro-Spanish Tomassoni intended to set free, or they were enemies, sought for the darker purposes of retribution.\n\nThe three Tomassoni brothers ended up in court over the incident. The outcome is unknown, but the testimony given by two eyewitnesses paints a vivid picture of the upheavals in Rome. The first to be called was Lieutenant Antonio Crepella, an officer under the command of the _bargello_ who had been assigned to patrol duties on the day in question:\n\n> Sir, I was with the _bargello_ of Rome, who was leading the entire constabulary, and we were walking slowly around Rome. When we were in Piazza Trinit\u00e0 we saw a large crowd of people towards Via de' Condotti, who were quarrelling and had their swords out. So we hurried there and the people, when they saw us, ran off in all directions. Chasing after them, we caught seven or eight. We then led them off as prisoners towards Tor di Nona by order of the _bargello_... and when we were in the Piazza of Cardinal Borghese [Piazza S. Eustachio, in front of the Palazzo Borghese] the _caporione_ of Campo Marzio, Captain Francesco Tommasoni da Terni, appeared in front of us, along with his brother Ranuccio, and another brother whose name I don't know, but who is older than them, with a great crowd of people who were all from the militia, which Francesco captains.\n> \n> He and his brothers were all three armed with swords, daggers and prohibited pistols. Some of the militiamen were armed with arquebuses, some with halberds, and some with other weapons. Their captain Francesco said to me, 'Hey! What prisoners are these?' I told him they were prisoners who had been fighting in Piazza della Trinit\u00e0, where there had been people hurt, and someone may have been killed. He replied that I should stop, and that he wanted the prisoners himself, and that I should hand them over to him, because they were taken in his _rione_ , and that he wanted to know what was going on, because it was up to him to account for these things. I replied: 'Captain Francesco. Don't get in my way. Let me go, and talk with Captain Girolamo, who is on his way. Don't make [trouble]. These prisoners fought with us, and we can't hand them over to you. Let us take them to prison, then go and talk to the Governor, and get satisfaction.\n> \n> The said Captain Francesco answered me: 'I want you to leave them with us,' and put his hand to the pistol he was carrying, and his brothers also took their pistols, saying, 'Leave them here! Leave them here, or we'll cut you all into pieces, you fucking pricks!' and their militiamen shouted, 'To arms! To arms! Beat the drum!' One of them pointed his halberd at my chest, saying: 'Get away from here! What are you doing here? Get out of here!' Finally, having surrounded us, the said Francesco, his brothers and the militiamen took the prisoners away from the _sbirri_ and led them away themselves. Then they let us go, and I came straight here to the office to give my account.\n\nThe next, unnamed witness, another officer under the command of the _bargello_ , was asked to identify the participants. He could only indicate Francesco and his brothers. His account differs little from that of the lieutenant, until he comes to the aftermath of the event:\n\n> And while we were waiting [at the 'office' where they had gone to report the incident] the _caporione_ Captain Francesco Tomassoni came and said, 'Go to the Heavens. The prisoners are mine.' And we said, 'Take them,' but also that he would have to give us an account of it. Then he said, 'Do us a favour, take us to the militia [Tomassoni's own headquarters].' And so we escorted him to his house in Piazza S. Lorenzo in Lucina. When we were inside we told him to make a list of the prisoners with their names and surnames, and someone who was dressed in long clothes began to write it. While they were being written down, I told him to make out the receipt saying that we had consigned them to him, and he replied: 'I don't want to make out a receipt, etc.' Ranuccio, the _caporione_ 's brother, came towards me and said: 'I'll talk with my brother Gian Francesco, who's here in a house where the prisoners are, etc.' Then the _caporione_ and his people forced us to halt, saying, 'Stop there! Stop there!' and putting their hands to their swords and pointing them at us _sbirri_ and prisoners. I know two of them, one of whom was Captain Ranuccio, and another one, an old man who is his relative.\n\nGiovanni Baglione was also a _caporione_ during the period of the two Vacant Sees. His area of jurisdiction was the district of Castello. Perhaps his civic duties brought him into contact with the Tomassoni clan. Baglione would later describe Ranuccio Tomassoni as an honourable young man, which suggests that they may have been friends. Honourable or not, Ranuccio and his family were certainly well connected in Rome. When his brother Alessandro died later in the year of an unspecified illness, he was accorded the signal honour of burial in the Pantheon.\n\nOn 29 May 1605 Camillo Borghese was elected as Pope Paul V. The new Borghese pope, considerably less severe than his predecessor, allowed the revival of the traditional nepotism of the papal court, ensuring that his nephew Scipione was elected to the cardinalate. The papal nephew loved food and art in equal measure and would soon become an acquisitive collector of Caravaggio's pictures. But private and public domains were very different. The official religious style of the Borghese papacy would be far removed from Caravaggio's simplicity and austerity. For major commissions, the graceful manner of an artist such as Guido Reni was preferred. The ground was being prepared for the soaring majesty of the full-blown Baroque style.\n\nOn the eve of Paul V's coronation, Caravaggio was back in jail. He had been stopped yet again for bearing arms. When he failed to produce a licence for his weapons, he was taken to prison \u2013 not the Tor di Nona this time but the governor's jail. The name of the arresting officer was Captain Pino. His testimony was brief:\n\n> Last night about seven hours after nightfall [3 a.m], as I was on patrol with my constables at Sant'Ambrogio on the Corso, there came a man by the name of Michelangelo, wearing a sword and dagger. Stopped and asked whether he had a licence to carry the said weapons, he said he had not. I had him arrested and brought to jail, and I now make my report, as is my duty, that he may be punished according to justice.\n\nIn the margin of his report, Captain Pino drew a little sketch of the offending sword and dagger. The questioning of Caravaggio followed. The court notary took down his responses and made a note of the outcome:\n\n> I was seized on the street of the Corso in front of the Church of Sant'Ambrogio. It may have been eight hours after nightfall [4 a.m.] for it was light, and I was seized because I had a sword and dagger.\n> \n> I have no written licence to carry a sword and dagger. However, the Governor of Rome had given oral orders to the captain and his corporal to let me carry them. I have no other licence.\n> \n> _He recognized the weapons taken from him by the constables_.\n> \n> _He was allowed to go at large, with three days' time to prepare his report_.\n\nJust what Caravaggio had been doing in the middle of the night is anyone's guess. He is unlikely to have been up to much good. Six weeks later, on 19 July 1605, he was back in the Tor di Nona, having been cautioned for the crime of _deturpatio portae_ , or defacing doors. A woman called Laura della Vecchia and her daughter Isabella lodged the complaint.\n\n_Deturpatio_ was a specific legal term that can be translated as 'house-scorning'. It was invariably a response to a perceived slight or injury. House-scorners generally operated in the dead of night, when they were less likely to be disturbed by the police. They often made a lot of noise, shouting insults or singing lewd songs as a prelude to the vengeful assault itself. Then they would throw stones, damaging shutters and blinds. Sometimes they would also hurl animal bladders filled with blood or ink to leave other visible marks of shame. Excrement was often smeared on to doors and door handles. Doodles were drawn, scurrilous graffiti in the shape of erect phalluses or cuckold's horns.\n\nThe charges levelled at Caravaggio by Laura della Vecchia and her daughter do not specify which of these methods the painter had employed. The wording of the complaint against him suggests that the worst damage was done to the door of the house. That may in itself suggest the nature of the painter's grievance. House-scorning was an almost exclusively male activity, and the most common perpetrators were men whose amorous attentions had been rejected by women. Had Isabella della Vecchia led Caravaggio on in some way, only to change her mind? Had Laura della Vecchia shut the door of her house \u2013 and therefore, metaphorically, the door of her daughter's chastity \u2013 against the infuriated painter? Or perhaps Isabella was just one of the many whores with whom the abrasive Caravaggio mingled, and quarrelled. There is reason to believe that sex, in some form, lay at the root of the argument. As the spring turned to summer in the troubled year of 1605, even the painter's relationships with women were going badly.\n\n#### A CACKLING OF GEESE\n\nCaravaggio did manage to start work on at least one picture in the heat of the Roman summer of 1605: _The Madonna of Loreto_ , commissioned for the Cavalletti Chapel in the Roman church of Sant'Agostino some eighteen months earlier. Caravaggio's painting was clearly shaped by his experience of visiting Loreto and its Holy House, which was said to have flown miraculously from Nazareth to Italy in the Middle Ages, eventually touching down in Loreto one night in December 1294. Protestants, predictably, dismissed the cult of Loreto as a sham. Even the credulity of many devout Catholics was strained by a legend according to which the childhood home of Jesus Christ himself had been aerially projected, by the force of miracle, from Nazareth to an obscure wood in the eastern Marches of Italy. The popularity of the shrine was sustained by its dramatic popular appeal, and by the persuasive rhetoric of its promoters. Louis Richeome's influential tract _Le Pelerin de Lorette_ was originally published in French in 1604, the year before Caravaggio painted his picture. Soon translated into Latin, Italian and a number of European vernacular languages, Richeome's text was a bestseller that brought thousands more pilgrims to the doors of the Holy House.\n\nRicheome placed great emphasis on the miracle of the Incarnation and eloquently made the case for regarding Loreto as the holiest of all holy shrines. The following passage is taken from _The Pilgrime of Loreto_ , the English translation of his book:\n\n> when we shall have reckoned up by name, the most renowned places of all the world, as well out of profane Writers, as out of the sacred Scriptures, the Chamber of _Loreto_ exceedeth them all in this condition, in having been the closet, where the marriage of the Sonne of God with our humane Nature was celebrated in the B. Virgin's womb, the most high and mysterious worke, that the holy Trinity maker of all things, did ever accomplish; for therein God was made man; the Creator, a creature; the supreme cause, an effect; the Word, flesh; the spirit did take a body; the first is become last, and Alpha, Omega...\n\nBy Caravaggio's time there were two basic conventions for depicting the shrine of Loreto. The Madonna and child might be shown sitting on the roof of the Holy House, as they had been said to do during its magic carpet-like flight from Nazareth to Italy. Or the Madonna might simply be shown standing, holding the Christ child, in a pose derived from an ancient cult statue said to have been carved by St Luke himself that was housed on the altar of the shrine.\n\nDeparting from the limited conventions of existing Lauretan imagery, Caravaggio depicted two poor modern pilgrims kneeling at the entrance to the famous shrine. They are husband and wife, or perhaps mother and son. They have come in all humility, as every pilgrim was advised to do, to pray to the Queen of Heaven. Their feet are bare and dirty, their clothing begrimed, patched and poor. They have been rewarded for their honest piety and their weeks on the pilgrimage trail with a vision. The Virgin has chosen to appear to them, in the very doorway of the Holy House of Loreto itself. The infant Christ appears with his blessed mother, clasped in her arms, a finger of his right hand raised in the gesture of benediction. Haloed by a filigree circle of gold, Mary cranes her neck towards the pilgrims, as if to make sure that she catches every last word of their prayers.\n\nIn Caravaggio's time, it was the custom for pilgrims to enter Loreto barefoot, wearing simple clothes. Their immediate destination was the simple dwelling of the Holy House itself, which, like the modest barn of Francis of Assisi's first church, had been shoehorned into a splendid marble architectural casing, itself contained within the vast nave of a later cathedral. Once arrived, the pilgrims were to circle the holy dwelling three times, on their bare knees. Having made this slow crawl towards the hope of salvation, they were finally allowed to enter the shrine.\n\nAll this is the implied prelude to Caravaggio's gentle fantasy of a painting. The work is a _tour de force_ of naked religious populism: spare to the point of banality, blatant in its appeal to the masses. The gratification that it offers is instant, the idea that it embodies too good to be true. It is the realization, in art, of every pilgrim's dream. At the end of the barefoot, knee-scraping journey, a vision. The door to the Holy House has become the door to Heaven itself. The two weary pilgrims are greeted by the Virgin and Child and implicitly welcomed towards another, better place. They will have no further need of their walking sticks, now they have come this far.\n\nSuch is the sheer directness of its appeal to popular piety, _The Madonna of Loreto_ has often been regarded as something of an embarrassment \u2013 a saccharine, sentimental picture, the only work in Caravaggio's entire _\u0153uvre_ with something of the chocolate-box about it. But in its time it was unusual and daring. No artist had ever given such prominence, in a major religious altarpiece, to two such nakedly proletarian figures as the pair of kneeling pilgrims.\n\nThere was an old tradition of including portraits of men and women who had paid for certain altarpieces within the work themselves. Such donor portraits, as they have become known, often place the kneeling figures of such pious benefactors to either side of the Virgin and Child. They are included within the scene, yet they are also apart from it, witnesses rather than participants. In _The Madonna of Loreto_ , Caravaggio turned this convention on its head, first by making the kneeling figures central to the sacred story (the story's catalyst, even, since it is their faith that has called forth the vision of the merciful Madonna and child), and secondly by depicting them not as wealthy donors but as poor pilgrims who have circled the shrine at Loreto three times on their bare knees. The man's filthy naked feet, turned towards the viewer, emphasize this shockingly complete inversion of an old pictorial tradition.\n\nWhat might the true donors of the picture, the Cavalletti, have made of all this? Might they not have been disconcerted by Caravaggio's substitution of their images by those of the two poor pilgrims? It would only have required a relatively minor adjustment to the picture for the normal proprieties to be observed. He could easily have painted the standing Madonna and Child with the kneeling figures of Ermete and Orinzia Cavalletti to either side, in the manner of traditional donor portraits. Yet he did not, and no such alteration was asked of him.\n\nErmete Cavalletti was of course dead by the time Caravaggio finished _The Madonna of Loreto_. But he would most likely have approved of the painter's innovations. Ermete's dedication to the Santissima Trinit\u00e0 dei Pellegrini is proven: as a member of that lay confraternity, he, a rich man, had abased himself in imitation of Christ and washed the feet of poor pilgrims. Caravaggio's painting no less dramatically asserted the pauperist values of that institution. In fact the painter might be said to have repeated that act of self-abnegation, on Cavalletti's behalf, by putting poor pilgrims in place of his rich patrons. The replacement may even imply a kind of wishful metamorphosis, with the kneeling pilgrims as metaphorical portraits of Ermete and Orinzia Cavalletti themselves \u2013 transformed, through their humility of heart, into honorary members of the blessed poor.\n\nWhether that too was part of Caravaggio's meaning, there is every indication that the family approved wholeheartedly of his picture. Not only was it accepted without demur and without alterations, but Orinzia Cavalletti arranged for her own burial beneath the floor of the same chapel.\n\nOnce again, Caravaggio had painted a monumental altarpiece aimed squarely at the poor and the hungry. The location of the church for which he painted the picture was also part of its message and part of its significance. With the completion of _The Madonna of Loreto_ , Caravaggio now had major works on display in two of the most frequently visited churches on the principal pilgrimage axis through northern Rome. Every year wave after wave of pilgrims would enter the city from the north at the Porta del Popolo. Immediately on their left was the church of Santa Maria del Popolo, for which Caravaggio had painted _The Conversion of St Paul_ and _The Crucifixion of St Peter_. The main pilgrimage route from there towards St Peter's then led directly along the Via di Ripetta and its continuation, the Via della Scrofa, to the corner of the Via dei Coronari. Turning right on to that street, in the direction of the Tiber and the Ponte Sant'Angelo, the pilgrim would find himself in one of the most congested thoroughfares in all Rome. The church of Sant'Agostino lay at the start of the Via dei Coronari, so named after its multitude of Rosary-makers' shops, thronged by pious tourists buying Rosaries and other devotional souvenirs of their visit to the Eternal City. Caravaggio knew that he was guaranteed a vast audience of the pious and the humble by virtue of Sant'Agostino's prominent place on the city's Christian itinerary. To the pilgrims who entered the church and walked into the Cavalletti Chapel, he offered a perfected mirror image of their own travels, one in which they could see themselves reaching the wished-for end of every pilgrim's journey.\n\nIt was this direct appeal by Caravaggio to the poor, and the central role he gave them in his theatre of Christianity, that most shocked his critics. Writing from the perspective of the later seventeenth century, when the pauperist ideals of the early Counter-Reformation lay in ruins, Bellori cast Caravaggio in the role of a seditious revolutionary. With pictures such as _The Madonna of Loreto_ he had opened a Pandora's Box of vulgarity: 'Now began the imitation of common and vulgar things, seeking out filth and deformity, as some popular artists do assiduously... The costumes they paint consist of stockings, breeches, and big caps, and in their figures they pay attention only to wrinkles, defects of the skin and exterior, depicting knotted fingers and limbs disfigured by disease.'\n\nBellori's disgust for Caravaggio's 'popular' art, his lazar-house realism, was echoed by Giovanni Baglione. Unlike Bellori, Baglione was a contemporary of Caravaggio, and had gone to see the picture soon after it was installed. His predictable dislike of the work was only intensified by the huge crowds that it drew: 'In the first chapel on the left in the church of Sant'Agostino, he painted the Madonna of Loreto from life with two pilgrims; one of them has muddy feet and the other wears a soiled and torn cap; and because of this pettiness in the details of a grand painting the public made a great fuss over it.'\n\nThe word Baglione used for public was _popolani_ , which specifically denoted the lower classes: peasants, _hoi polloi_. To convey the kind of fuss they made over the picture, he used _schiamazzo_ , which means a din of chattering, but can also be used to describe the cackling of geese.\n\nBellori and Baglione represented the values of the academy, of idealized classical style. But they spoke not only for a particular notion of decorum in art: they spoke also for power and for wealth, and for forms of religious art that spoke down to, rather than for, the mass of Christian believers. Caravaggio had not painted _The Madonna of Loreto_ for them. He had painted it for the _popolani_ , and whether they cackled like geese or not, the _popolani_ took it to their hearts. Not for nothing is the picture commonly known by its 'popular' title \u2013 which is, simply, _The Madonna of the Pilgrims_.\n\n#### LENA WHO STAYS ON HER FEET IN THE PIAZZA NAVONA\n\nPrecisely when Caravaggio finished and delivered the altarpiece to Sant'Agostino is unknown. It may not have been until the autumn of 1605, or even later: he was probably still working on the picture at the end of July, but could have done no work on it at all in August, because for the whole of that month he was again in trouble with the law.\n\nOn 29 July 1605 a junior notary called Mariano Pasqualone accused Caravaggio of assault and grievous bodily harm. The young man arrived, still bleeding, in the legal offices of a certain Paolo Spada, where a clerk of the criminal court took his statement under oath:\n\n> I am here in the office because I have been assaulted by Michelangelo da Caravaggio, the painter, as I am going to relate. As Messer Galeazzo and I \u2013 it may have been about one hour after nightfall [8.30 p.m.] \u2013 were strolling in Piazza Navona in front of the palace of the Spanish ambassador, I suddenly felt a blow on the back of my head. I fell to the ground at once and realized that I had been wounded in the head by what I believe to have been the stroke of a sword. As you can see, I have a wound on the side of my head. Thereupon, the aggressor fled.\n> \n> I didn't see who wounded me, but I never had disputes with anybody but the said Michelangelo. A few nights ago he and I had words on the Corso on account of a woman called Lena who is to be found standing at the Piazza Navona, past the palace, or rather the main door of the palace, of Messer Sertorio Teofilo. She is Michelangelo's woman. Please, excuse me quickly, that I may dress my wounds.\n\nAfter Pasqualone's departure from the office, his companion, Galeazzo Roccasecca, who gave his profession as a writer of apostolic letters, added his own witness statement:\n\n> I saw a man with an unsheathed weapon in his hand. It looked like a sword or a small pistol. He turned round at once and made three jumps and then turned towards the palace of the Illustrious Cardinal del Monte, which was nearby down the little street where we were. He wore a black cloak on one shoulder only. I said to Messer Mariano, 'What is it? What is it?' and he replied to me, 'I have been assassinated and I am wounded.' I saw that he had a wound in the head and he said, 'I am assassinated... it could not have been anyone other than Michelangelo da Caravaggio.' And that is the truth.\n\nSome seventy years later Giambattista Passeri wrote a long and circumstantial account of what might have been behind the trouble between Caravaggio and Pasqualone. Passeri was a painter, poet and author of artists' lives, who had clearly been told some version of the story while he was doing his research in the artists' studios of Baroque Rome. Having applied a liberal coat of literary polish to the original anecdote, he included it, as an entertaining diversion, in the first edition of his life of the painter Guercino:\n\n> In the first chapel to the left of the entrance in S. Agostino, Caravaggio painted the Holy Virgin with the Child in her arms and two pilgrims adoring her. At that time he lived in the House of the Eight Corners, in one of the little streets behind the Mausoleum of Augustus. Nearby lived a lady with her young daughter, who was not at all unattractive; they were poor but honest people. Michelangelo wished to have the young girl as a model for the Mother of God which he was to paint in this work, and he succeeded in this by offering them a sum of money which was large enough, considering their poverty, to enable him to carry out his wish.\n> \n> This girl was being courted by a young man who was a notary by profession and who had asked the mother for her daughter's hand in marriage. However, he had always received a negative answer because this simple and naive woman was unwilling to give her daughter to a notary since, as she said, all notaries are surely bound for damnation. The young man was indignant at this refusal, but he nevertheless did not lose track of his beloved. Thus he found out that she frequently went to the house of Caravaggio and remained there for long periods of time posing for him.\n> \n> Full of jealousy and totally enraged, he contrived to meet the mother one day and said to her, 'My good woman, you're so scrupulous and such a good guardian, and here your lovely daughter, whom you refused to let me marry, goes to this miserable painter so that he can do anything he likes with her. Really, you have made a wise choice and one which is worthy of your class, refusing to let her marry a man like me so that you can make her the concubine of this scoundrel. Now you can just keep her and I hope it will do you a lot of good.' Then turning his back, he left her confused and completely upset.\n> \n> It seemed to this lady that she had inadvertently done the wrong thing by taking her daughter to Michelangelo, even though she had done so in perfectly good faith, and it also seemed that this notary had good reason, at least from his point of view, for treating her so badly. She went immediately to Caravaggio in tears and complained about what had happened on his account. He smiled bitterly at this accusation and asked her who it was that had so unjustly mistreated her. From her description he easily recognized him as a person whom he frequently met in the street. He consoled the lady with gentle words and sent her home.\n> \n> He was upset by this incident and, being by nature irritable and violent, the next morning he put a hatchet under his coat and went out to look for this young man. This being Wednesday, market day, he carried the affair right into Piazza Navona, just when a fair was being held there. It took place in front of the church of S. Giacomo degli Spagnoli, near the Triton Fountain. He went up to the notary and gave him such a terrific blow on the head with the hatchet that he fell to the ground unconscious and covered with his own blood. And Michelangelo said, 'Now learn to behave yourself if you don't know how.' After this misdeed he took refuge at San Luigi dei Francesi and remained there for a long time. Fortunately for Caravaggio, the notary did not die from the blow, even though he was unconscious and for a long time remained ill. It was some years before they settled their feud and the indemnity.\n\nIn several striking respects, Passeri's account is impressively close to the witness statements given in the immediate aftermath of the attack. Passeri gets Pasqualone's profession right, correctly specifies the place where the attack occurred, describes it as a surprise assault on an unarmed man. So even though his 'poor but honest' female characters sound like the heroines of a fairy story, Passeri's assertion that the young lady at the centre of the dispute was Caravaggio's model is worth taking seriously.\n\nPasseri's description of the two women as virtuous creatures from the world of fable also marks the one serious fault-line between his account and the original witness statements. Although brief, Pasqualone's description of the mysterious Lena suggests that she was actually a prostitute. Two very precise phrases in his testimony may shed light not only on this specific incident, but also on the whole vexed question of Caravaggio's nocturnal existence \u2013 the other life that he pursued, so vigorously, in the shadows of the city.\n\nPasqualone's exact words in Italian when first describing the girl were ' _una donna chiamata Lena che sta in piedi a Piazza Navona_ ' \u2013 literally, 'a woman called Lena who stays on her feet in the Piazza Navona'. This way of describing a woman who can always be found standing in a certain place carries an insinuation; the phrase is still current Italian slang for a streetwalker, a whore. There was in fact a known prostitute called Lena Antognetti working in the area at around this time, who was arrested in Piazza Catinara, the present-day Piazza Cairoli, opposite the church of San Carlo ai Catinari, on the night of 1 November 1604. She was apparently on her way home but was stopped for being out after curfew.\n\nThe young notary's second remark about Lena is even more intriguing. He baldly says ' _e donna di Michelangelo_ ', which literally means 'she is Caravaggio's woman', but implies a particular form of possession. Pasqualone pointedly does _not_ describe Lena as ' _la donna di Michelangelo_ ' but as ' _donna di Michelangelo_ ': not ' _the_ woman of Caravaggio' but simply 'woman of Caravaggio', a phrase that objectifies her and carries the suggestion that she is one of several such women. Pasqualone might simply have been saying that Lena was one of several prostitutes frequented by Caravaggio, but it is also possible that he meant to imply that she was one of several prostitutes _controlled_ by Caravaggio \u2013 and that the painter, therefore, was a part-time pimp.\n\nPasqualone's remarks offer an explanation for much of Caravaggio's seemingly random nocturnal escapades and unpredictable behaviour. His life becomes no less violent, but more logical. Caravaggio certainly used whores as models. He painted Fillide Melandroni and, quite possibly, Fillide's friend Anna Bianchini. He painted Lena the streetwalker, and according to Giulio Mancini, who knew Caravaggio well, at least one other prostitute modelled for him in Rome. Perhaps he and his friends just happened to know a lot of whores and courtesans \u2013 after all, such women tended to move in the same circles and live in the same places as painters, sculptors and architects. But it is conceivable that there was more to it than that. Caravaggio needed women to model for him, so rather than be at the mercy of pimps for a reliable supply of girls, why not secure his own small team of whores? He would get free use of female models, which was by no means otherwise easy to arrange. He would not be beholden to anybody, which always made him uneasy. He would earn a bit of extra money on the side, and there would have been some free sex. For their part, the prostitutes would get their own livelihood, and a formidable protector.\n\nCaravaggio used his contacts in high places to ensure that he could carry a sword and a dagger with impunity wherever he went. If he could not always actually produce a licence, he could usually count on Cardinal del Monte, or his majordomo, to get him out of trouble. Maybe one of the reasons Caravaggio went about armed the whole time was that when he was out on the street, he was also out on duty, looking out for 'his' women.\n\nMany of the known incidents involving him lend at least circumstantial support to the hypothesis. What kind of argument over a whore could have led to a sudden, brutal assault of the kind perpetrated by Caravaggio on Pasqualone? The romantic answer is that both men were in love with the girl. But if that were so, a duel would have been the solution. It would have been a matter of honour, whereas Caravaggio treated his victim with a calculated show of contempt. If, on the other hand, Lena was one of Caravaggio's prostitutes, the shameful attack from behind becomes easier to explain. Pasqualone was perhaps a client who had not paid, or had mistreated the girl in some way, so Caravaggio took his revenge publicly, sending out a clear message to anyone who might be watching.\n\nSeen in this light, many of the smaller or more puzzling details to emerge from the painter's criminal record suddenly come into sharper focus. He is often seen out and about, carrying a sword, in the small hours of the morning. He attacks the house of two women, who have annoyed him in some way that seems to relate to sex. On the evening of the stone-throwing, he stops in the street to chat with Menicuccia, a whore whom he clearly knows well. All of this is consistent with the behaviour of a pimp.\n\nThe enmity between Caravaggio and Ranuccio Tomassoni, soon to reach its climax, may have been in some way territorial: certainly Tomassoni was a pimp himself. Caravaggio painted one of Tomassoni's girls, Fillide Melandroni, and, having got her to model for him, perhaps he also tried to persuade her to work for him.\n\n#### THE CASE OF THE DAMAGED CEILING\n\nAt the end of July 1605, concurrently accused of the assault on Pasqualone and the _deturpatio_ of Laura and Isabella della Vecchia, Caravaggio skipped bail and fled to the coastal city of Genoa. He probably took letters of introduction with him from some of his patrons and protectors in Rome. Ottavio Costa and Vincenzo Giustiniani, both enthusiastic collectors of Caravaggio's work, had strong links with the city, as above all did the Colonna family, his protectors since boyhood. The Marchesa Costanza Colonna was living in Rome, at the Palazzo Colonna, between 1600 and 1605. The Colonna family had intermarried with one of the great Genoese families, the Doria. As soon as Caravaggio got to Genoa, he sought out one of the marchesa's relations, Prince Marcantonio Doria, who, although it came to nothing, offered him a prestigious commission.\n\nCaravaggio spent the best part of a month away. On three separate occasions between 3 and 19 August, a Roman court notary reported his failure to attend hearings in the case brought by Laura della Vecchia. Repeated summonses were addressed to him and he was eventually fined for contempt. Meanwhile, his movements were being carefully tracked by Fabio Masetti, an agent in Rome working for Cesare d'Este, Duke of Modena.\n\nMasetti was keeping a close watch on Caravaggio in the summer of 1605 because he was trying to get a picture out of him. Earlier in the year Cesare d'Este had conceived the idea of staging another pictorial competition between Caravaggio and Annibale Carracci. This rematch of the Cerasi Chapel contest of 1601 was to have been staged for a 'Chapel of the Madonna' in the newly renovated ducal castle in Modena. The idea was that each artist should paint a scene from the life of the Virgin. Carracci was to paint the altarpiece, Caravaggio a single canvas for one of the side walls. But there were problems from the outset. Carracci was crippled by depression, and Caravaggio had good reason to dislike the terms of the commission: his picture was to be considerably smaller than his rival's, and in March 1605 another of the duke's agents in Rome, Attilio Ruggieri, reported that Caravaggio was trying to wriggle out of the assignment altogether, truculently remarking that the duke would be better off hiring a miniaturist to paint such small figures. Caravaggio's fee was to be just 50 or 60 scudi, compared to the 200 offered to Carracci.\n\nIn the end he had stuck with it, and by the summer responsibility for handling the commission had passed from Attilio Ruggieri to Masetti, whose letters from Rome to Modena are a paper trail of mounting frustration. On 17 August, Masetti told the duke that it was impossible to force a painting out of the depressive Carracci, saying that there was nothing for it but to accommodate the painter's strange 'humour'. Meanwhile, he added, 'Caravaggio is in contempt of court, and is to be found in Genoa.' On 20 August, Masetti reported that Carracci continued to be utterly intractable, but that efforts were being made to secure Caravaggio's return to Rome: 'a settlement is now being negotiated for Caravaggio; as soon as it's concluded, I'll be on his back.' Perhaps del Monte was still busy on Caravaggio's behalf \u2013 Galeazzo Roccasecca had hinted as much in his testimony for Pasqualone at the end of July.\n\nMasetti's next letter, of 24 August, shows that the Este agent was now trying to put pressure on Caravaggio through del Monte:\n\n> When I heard that Caravaggio had appeared in Rome in hope of a settlement, I petitioned Cardinal del Monte to command him to despatch Your Highness's painting, which he promised me would be ready quickly, though one can't rely on [Caravaggio]. It is said that he is funny in the head [' _e uno cervello stravantissimo_ '; literally, 'he is a very extravagant brain'] and also that Prince Doria sought to have him paint a loggia for him [in Genoa] and wanted to give him 6,000 scudi for it, but that he didn't want to accept, though he had almost promised. It occurred to me to sound out whether, under these circumstances of his non-attendance [in Rome], he would be happy to move there [to Modena], where he could have given every satisfaction to Your Highness. But seeing that he is so unstable I have done no more.\n\nCaravaggio's refusal of a prince's ransom for the small task of decorating a loggia struck Masetti as typically capricious. But the painter had never learned to work in fresco, so he could not have accepted the commission even if he had wanted to. Besides, he had business to attend to in Rome. Apart from anything else, he needed to arrange some more modelling sessions with Lena and finish off the overdue _Madonna of Loreto_.\n\nCaravaggio was indeed back in Rome a week or so before the end of the month. On 26 August he signed a judicial peace with Mariano Pasqualone. Damages had probably been paid, although the legal conventions governing such documents made it sound like a gentleman's agreement: 'the above-named parties, exhorted and persuaded by mutual friends, determined to make peace as befits good Christians...'\n\nIn exchange for a pardon from the Governor of Rome, Caravaggio put his name to the declaration:\n\n> I, Michelangelo Merisi, having been insulted by Messer Mariano, clerk of the Vicar's Court, as he would not wear a sword in the daytime, resolved to strike him wherever I should meet him. One night, having come upon him accompanied by another man and having perfectly recognized his face, I struck him. I am very sorry for what I did, and if I had not done it yet, I would not do it. I beg him for his forgiveness and peace, and I regard the said Messer Mariano with a sword in his hand as a man fit to stand his ground against me or anybody else. I, Michelangelo Merisi, do affirm all the above.\n\nPasqualone's lawyers must have insisted on some of the more humiliating phrases in this fulsome apology. Did Caravaggio sign it through gritted teeth? Or did he simply regard it, phlegmatically, as a means to an end? Assault with a lethal weapon was a serious crime. He had been let off lightly. Intriguingly, the judicial peace was actually signed at the Palazzo Quirinale, in the antechamber of the papal nephew, Scipione Borghese. It is possible that the new Borghese cardinal had helped to arrange Caravaggio's truce with Pasqualone. It was at around this time that Caravaggio's darkly penitential depiction of _St Jerome Writing_ entered Scipione Borghese's collection. Perhaps the work was a gift, in recognition of a favour received. It is a strikingly sombre painting. The wizened and emaciated figure of Jerome sits in semi-darkness, writing in a great book. His deeply shadowed face and the bald dome of his head are modelled so severely, in chiaroscuro, as to resemble the skull that lies on the desk before him as a _memento mori_. It is a morbid visual rhyme.\n\nGetting on with his life turned out to be more difficult than Caravaggio might have hoped. While he was away in Genoa, his infuriated landlady had taken advantage of his absence to seize his possessions in lieu of rent, and change the locks on the house in Vicolo dei Santa Cecilia e Biagio. This occasioned the inventory of its contents, which was made on 26 August (see p. 271). 'Two large pictures to paint' were included on the list. Perhaps one of them was the half-painted canvas of _The Madonna of Loreto_ , still in his studio but now frustratingly inaccessible. The other, most probably, was the incomplete and long-overdue _Death of the Virgin_ , which had been commissioned by the jurist Laerzio Cherubini, to serve as the altarpiece for a chapel that he had acquired in the church of Santa Maria della Scala in Rome, all the way back in 1601.\n\nCaravaggio decided to vent his rage on the landlady who had locked him out with another _deturpatio_. Just four days after he had signed his peace with Mariano Pasqualone, he was being prosecuted yet again, for throwing stones at her windows. The attack took place in the small hours of 1 September and later that day Prudentia Bruni was airing her grievances in court:\n\n> Last night at about the fifth hour [1 a.m.], the said Michelangelo came and threw so many stones at the shutters of my windows that he broke them all down one side, as Your Lordship sees.\n> \n> [The notary adds: _then she showed the wooden shutter broken in one part, and also some stones that were in the said window, which was noted down as evidence_.]\n> \n> And a little after this he came back with some others, playing a guitar; they stopped on the corner of the alley, and he talked with his companions, but I couldn't hear the exact words they were saying.\n> \n> The said Michelangelo did this because he rents a house of mine, which is beside my [own] house. Some days ago he wounded a notary of the Vicariate and left. I was owed rent for six [the notary adds: _correction, four_ ] months, and he had broken a ceiling of mine in the said house, so I had obtained a mandate... to take the things that were left in the house, giving a security in the form of the deposit, which I did. Because of this he broke my shutters in order to spite me. There were three others in company with him. So I am making this complaint, and demand that they be punished in conformity with justice...\n\nFour days later the magistrate examined two of the landlady's neighbours, a woman called Francesca Bartoli and a lady called Lucretia, who was the widow of a certain Ferdinando, from Perugia. Each separately denied that she had seen or heard a thing on the night in question. But as Caravaggio's recent neighbours, they of course knew what he was like.\n\nPrudentia Bruni had referred to a damaged ceiling in the rented house. Might it have been caused by the painter's unorthodox working methods? Caravaggio's proto-cinematographic fondness for powerfully directed downlighting must have involved some ingenious studio set-ups. As we have seen, Bellori wrote that he placed 'a lamp high so that the light would fall straight down'. Sandrart echoed Bellori's remark, saying that Caravaggio liked to work in a dark space with a single source of light from above. In practice this might have involved a powerful flame, perhaps a torch made of pitch, the light from which might have been directed by the use of one of the mirrors in the studio. That would certainly have been enough to char the studio ceiling. Or Caravaggio may simply have taken advantage of the powerful, raking sunlight beating down on the roofs of the houses in his street. Perhaps he had got the effect he wanted just by blacking out his windows and smashing a hole in the ceiling to let the sunlight in.\n\nThe painter's latest prosecution did nothing to lighten the mood of Cesare d'Este's agent. On 7 September he sent yet another gloomy missive to his master in Modena. Neither of the two required pictures had even been started. There was no hope of getting anything from Annibale Carracci, who was completely incapable of working because of his depression. As for Caravaggio: 'last Saturday, his contempt of court for wounds given to a notary was settled, but now there's some other affair he's involved in.'\n\nFive weeks later, on 12 October, in a desperate bid to stir Caravaggio into action, Masetti gave him an advance of 12 scudi. By that time the painter had managed to find a new place to live, and had probably retrieved his possessions from Prudentia Bruni (though we do not know how the case between them was settled). He had moved into the house of Andrea Ruffetti, a lawyer with an interest in art and literature, in the Piazza Colonna, almost next door to the palace of Caravaggio's very first protector, the Marchesa di Colonna.\n\nThe new lodging brought about no more ordered a life. Towards the second half of October, Caravaggio was injured in a fight with a person or persons unknown. The affair was serious enough to warrant investigation. But when the law came calling on him, the bedridden painter was decidedly incommunicative. The investigating officer's report is dated 24 October 1605:\n\n> I, the notary of warrants, etc., visited the painter Michelangelo Caravaggio who was lying in bed in the house of Sr Andrea Ruffetti in Piazza Colonna, wounded in the throat and left ear. Because of the bandages placed on it, this wound could barely be seen, but it is noted here. He was sworn to tell the truth and interrogated by me as to where, by whom and for what reason he was wounded. He replied: 'I wounded myself with my own sword when I fell down these stairs, I don't know where it was and there was no one there.' Although I exhorted him several times to tell the truth, he replied, 'I can say no more.' And I got no other response from him.\n\nThroughout the winter, the Este agent continued to chase Caravaggio for the duke's painting. On 5 November 1605 he reported that 'Caravaggio says the picture is almost ready and that he needs money; I replied that once the appointed thing has been done there will be no want of the money.' But by 16 November, Masetti had capitulated to Caravaggio's demands. On that day he noted paying the artist another 20 scudi 'because the painting will definitely be finished by this coming weekend'.\n\nBut it was not ready by the coming weekend. Nor the next. Nor the one after. After a long silence Fabio Masetti wrote one more exasperated letter on 18 January 1606: 'I have given Caravaggio 32 scudi for this thing. He goes red when he sees me.' Cesare d'Este never would get his painting.\n\n#### 'SO MUCH TROUBLE'\n\nCaravaggio is unlikely to have felt any regret over the unfinished and most probably unstarted picture for the ducal palace of Modena, or any embarrassment at taking money for it. By the beginning of 1606 he had already begun work on a far more prestigious commission. He had finally been asked to paint an altarpiece for St Peter's, the central church of Catholic Christendom.\n\nThe wheels of papal influence had turned in the painter's favour. Scipione Borghese, pleased with his new picture _St Jerome_ Writing, had praised Caravaggio to the pope. According to Bellori, the papal nephew personally 'introduced Caravaggio to Pope Paul V, whom he portrayed seated, and by whom he was well rewarded'. That portrait is lost, although a hamfisted copy of it still survives in the collections of the Palazzo Borghese. With papal favour came papal preferment. Paul V had plans for St Peter's. Caravaggio now became part of them.\n\nIn September 1605 the new pope had ordered the final demolition of the ancient nave of Old St Peter's, which still survived beneath the great dome of the new cathedral begun by Bramante and completed by Michelangelo. Seven altars lost in the destruction of the old basilica were moved to the new transept. One of these was owned by the Confraternity of the Palafrenieri, or 'papal grooms', whose patron saint was Anne. By the end of October the members of the confraternity had resolved to commission an altarpiece for their 'altar of St Anne in St Peter's'. Within a month they had been steered towards Caravaggio.\n\nOn 1 December 1605 Antonio Tirelli, deacon, gave the painter a down payment of 25 scudi. Caravaggio would receive only another 50 scudi in total, a low fee for such an important work, but the painter was in no position to bargain. He was recently evicted, deeply in debt, scarred by a swordfight and in trouble, yet again, with the law. The commission must have seemed like a God-given chance for him to paint his way out of trouble. The altarpiece was finished and delivered in less than four months.\n\n_The Madonna of the Palafrenieri_ , sometimes known as _The Madonna of the Serpent_ , is an unsettling picture. Monumental in scale, almost ten feet tall and more than six across, it shows three figures in a tall room, absorbed in a confrontation with pure evil. The Virgin and the infant Christ together crush the head of a serpent beneath their feet. As the foul creature writhes in its death agonies, St Anne, frail and bent by age, looks on in solemn contemplation. By God's grace, the devil is defeated.\n\nRaven-haired Lena, ' _donna di Caravaggio_ ', was required once again to play the part of the Virgin. Wearing a coral-coloured dress with a deep d\u00e9colletage, she leans to support her son as he steps forward, his foot upon hers, hers upon the snake. He is a curly-haired, red-headed boy of about four years old. Were it not for the presence of the animal, they might just be mother and son playing a game of walk-on-my-feet as grandmother watches.\n\nThe mood of the picture is still and strange. There is no sense of drama, because instead of telling a story Caravaggio was obliged to embody an allegory. The result is like an image from an emblem book staged as a _tableau vivant_ by flesh-and-blood human beings. The voluptuously full-breasted Virgin holds her smooth-skinned son under his arms. St Anne, half lost in the shadows, has corded sinews around her neck and collarbone, while the skin of her lined face looks as dry as autumn leaves.\n\nThe theme prescribed for the picture was calculated to make a specific theological point. Its origin lay in a much debated passage in the biblical Book of Genesis, in which God curses the serpent that has tempted Eve to eat from the Tree of Knowledge: 'I will put enmity between thee and the woman, and between thy seed and her seed; it shall bruise thy head, and thou shalt bruise his heel' (Genesis 3:15). There was a long tradition of regarding this as a prophetic reference to the Virgin Mary, the so-called 'Second Eve'. By giving birth to Jesus Christ, she would redeem mankind from Original Sin and undo the evil done by the treacherous snake in the garden of Eden \u2013 bruising the head of the serpent, as had been predicted in Genesis. But Protestants, suspicious of the cult of the Virgin Mary and concerned that it detracted from the proper worship of Jesus Christ, disputed this interpretation. Martin Luther declared that Christ, and Christ alone, could redeem mankind. The Catholic Church had reaffirmed its position, in a papal Bull of 1569 that proclaimed 'the Virgin crushed the head of the serpent with the aid of him to whom she had given birth.'\n\nCaravaggio's picture was intended to translate word into image, to embody this article of Catholic faith as a vivid picture that all could understand. He was careful, at every point, to emphasize the underlying significance of his allegory. The serpent writhes in uneven, broken coils, while Christ forms a perfect circle with the thumb and forefinger of his outstretched left hand, a circle mirrored by the floating haloes of his mother and grandmother. The serpent is death. Christ is eternal life, perfection incarnate. The humble figure of Anne is there not only because her presence was decreed by the spiritual allegiance of the Confraternity of Palafrenieri, but to reinforce the idea of the Immaculate Conception, the belief that her daughter, Mary, was preserved from Original Sin. In Caravaggio's painting, Anne is shrouded in darkness, while her daughter is bathed in light. That is because Anne's virtue, great as it had been, was only a dim prefiguration of Mary's radiance.\n\nThe Virgin and Christ child seem tense and alert, as they concertedly crush the serpent. Caravaggio himself seems to have approached his task of painting in a mood of wary circumspection, deliberately curbing the aggressive side of his originality and softening the rougher edges of his style: there were no horses' rumps here, no grimy feet thrust in the face of the viewer, no red rags to conventional piety or decorum, or so he hoped. He did his utmost to produce an unimpeachably correct endorsement of the Marian orthodoxy laid down by the Counter-Reformation Church \u2013 which can only have made what happened next all the more painful. The story of the picture's reception is told in three prosaic documents in the archives of the Palafrenieri.\n\nOn 8 April, Caravaggio delivered the painting and gave a certificate to the deacon of the confraternity. It is the only known example of a statement by the artist written in his own handwriting: 'I, Michelangelo da Caravaggio, am content and satisfied with the picture that I have painted for the Company of St Anne, in faith I have written and underwritten this 8th day of April 1606.' On 14 April the picture was put on display in the confraternity's chapel. The record shows that 1 scudo was paid on that day to a carpenter named Pierfrancesco, for installing the painting on the altar of St Anne in St Peter's. On 16 April, two days later, the picture was removed. Orders were given that it should be taken away and stored in Sant'Anna dei Palafrenieri, the church of the papal grooms. The confraternity records 'payment to two porters to carry the painting of St Anne from St Peter's to their church'. On a spring morning, Caravaggio's monumental altarpiece was loaded into a mule-driver's cart and drawn slowly along the cobbled streets of the city.\n\nTo a painter so sensitive about his honour, the humiliation of this sudden reverse must have been deeply wounding. Why was the painting rejected? At around the time when Caravaggio delivered his picture, a dispute had arisen over the Palafrenieri's rights to the altar in St Peter's, but even after its resolution in early May the Palafrenieri made it clear that they still did not want the painting. By the middle of June 1606 they had sold it to Scipione Borghese for 100 scudi. The arrangement suited both parties: the Palafrenieri disposed of the picture that displeased them, clearing a small but tidy profit on their original outlay, and Borghese acquired a new work by the painter he most admired at a knockdown price.\n\nIt is possible that the Palafrenieri had simply taken exception to Caravaggio's portrayal of their beloved patron, St Anne, as a withered old lady thrown into deep shadow. The theology behind it allowed her to represent all the ancient generations before the coming of Christ, who had lived in darkness \u2013 but the Palafrenieri still might not have liked the overall effect. Their main objections, however, probably centred on the portrayal of the other two figures. The most plausible account of the picture's rejection is given by Bellori, who baldly states that it was taken out of St Peter's 'because of the offensive portrayal of the Virgin with the nude Christ child'.\n\nThe infant Christ's nudity may have been thought improper but a wisp of drapery could easily have been added. It was surely Caravaggio's embodiment of the Virgin as Lena in a low-cut dress that really caused the difficulty. Appealing once more to the mass of ordinary Catholics \u2013 and especially women, among whom the cult of Mary was strongest \u2013 Caravaggio had painted her as the kind of mother with whom real mothers might identify. He had stressed her tenderness, leaning down over the child with gentle solicitude, but in the process he had revealed quite a lot of her cleavage. It is not difficult to see why such a voluptuous Virgin Mary might have caused misgivings. Cardinal Gabriele Paleotti, whose _Discourse on Sacred and Profane Images_ was a widely consulted book of rules for the Counter-Reformation artist and patron, wrote that a picture of the Madonna with even the slightest hint of lasciviousness made him 'sick to my stomach'.\n\nThere is no reason to doubt Caravaggio's pious intentions. He probably called attention to the Madonna's full breasts to stress her maternal aspect and posed her as he did to impart the touching awkwardness of actual life. But, if so, he miscalulated. The woman in red, leaning forward with her skirts hitched up, was just too real to be allowed into St Peter's. In the eyes of the Counter-Reformation Church, Mary was pure and perfect, the Queen of Heaven. Caravaggio's Mary was just not like that. As Roberto Longhi memorably remarked, she might almost be 'a peasant woman killing a viper in a barn'.\n\nThe hellfire Dominican preacher Savonarola had once declared that artists should depict the Virgin as a pauper, not a queen, but that had been in Florence a hundred years before Caravaggio's time, when collective repentance was in the air along with smoke from Savonarola's bonfires of the vanities. In Rome under Pope Paul V such views were not widely held. The Borghese papacy was characterized by a return to pomp and magnificence, a decisive rejection of the austerity that had marked the age of Carlo Borromeo and, to a lesser degree, that of Clement VIII. Caravaggio, whose approach to religious painting had been shaped so powerfully by Borromean ideals of piety, found himself in a difficult position. In one sense his work was favoured by those in power. But in another and more important sense it was deemed entirely unacceptable.\n\nScipione Borghese, who ended up buying _The Madonna of the Palafrenieri_ , clearly liked Caravaggio's powerfully dramatic style. But he did so as a connoisseur. As a cardinal, he looked at it differently. Caravaggio may have had friends among the elite clerics of the Borghese papacy, but they were not prepared to put the weight of the Church behind his visions of holy poverty. The rejection of his altarpiece for St Peter's, and its acquisition for the Borghese collection, fundamentally altered its nature as a work of art. It was secularized, and in the process was also neutered.\n\nThe same thing had happened to him once before, in 1602, when Vincenzo Giustiniani had stepped in to buy the first _St Matthew_. But on that occasion the picture had been for a burial chapel in the church of the French and Caravaggio had been invited to paint another version. This time the picture was for St Peter's and he was given no second chance. It was a watershed in his career. Thereafter he became an increasingly isolated figure \u2013 an artist whose work would be tolerated, even admired, in private, or at the provincial margins of the Catholic world, but not at its centre.\n\nDespite this enormous setback Caravaggio refused to change his approach. Shortly after delivering _The Madonna of the Palafrenieri_ , he finally completed his long overdue altarpiece of _The Death of the Virgin_. This huge and deeply moving picture is stark evidence of the painter's reluctance to compromise, and of his moral resilience.\n\nNever before in the history of Christian painting had Mary, mother of God, been made to seem as poor and frail and vulnerable as this. Wearing a simple red dress, unlaced at the bodice to make her more comfortable in her last moments, she lies stretched out on the makeshift bier of a plank of wood. She looks shockingly dead. The apostles have gathered around her lifeless form, to pay their last respects. They are grave and serious men in the winter of their lives, each expressing pain and sorrow in his own different way. Those nearest the body are the most convulsed by grief. One man cries and rubs at his tears. Another covers his eyes and holds himself by the throat as if to choke off his own sorrow. Two others stare intently at her prone body, as if rapt in contemplation of the miracle that once grew within this mortal flesh.\n\nCaravaggio suggests that the Virgin's own last thoughts had been of that miracle, and that even now she might be dreaming of it. Her right hand rests gently on her own slightly swollen stomach, remembering the sacred baby that once grew in the blessed womb. Standing slightly to one side, St John the Evangelist, his head propped on one hand, is the picture of melancholy reflection. Mary Magdalen sits shuddering with grief on a chair pulled right up to Mary's bed. She must have been the last person to hold the dead woman's hand. As some crowd round the body, others must wait. At the back of the room, more men can be seen, talking quietly among themselves or simply thinking their own grave thoughts. Perhaps they have just come in. Once more, Caravaggio evokes the messiness of actual life. People have always mourned their dead like this, and always will.\n\n_The Death of the Virgin_ is the most bleakly mundane of Caravaggio's sacred dramas, the deathbed scene of a poor and ordinary woman. It drew another of Longhi's pithy metaphors: 'a scene from a night refuge', he called it. The Virgin's dwelling is certainly poor and humble, with its rough plastered wall and simple ceiling of coffered wood. Her feet, bare like those of the apostles, poke out straight and stiff from the folds of her dress. There is perhaps a hint that _rigor mortis_ has begun to set in. The copper basin on the floor of the room adds a final note of pathos. The body of the Virgin, too, is an empty vessel, and there is little hint of transcendence.\n\nThere is a stratagem behind the painting's apparent mood of hopeless bereavement: it invites the viewer into the darkness and doubt of death. It even dares to suggest \u2013 the deepest fear of all, in an age of faith \u2013 that perhaps this meagre life is all that there is. But peer into the gloom and all is not as it seems. Just as he had done in _The Supper at Emmaus_ , with its mystical shadowplay, Caravaggio weaves a sense of the miraculous into hard and ordinary reality. The signs of salvation have to be looked for, even if at first sight they appear to be lacking. The Virgin's face is much younger than those of the apostles, which indicates that she has been spared by God the ravages of age. The thinnest of haloes, shining in the dark air, encircles her head. Above her a great swag of drapery hangs from the ceiling of the room. Literally, it is the canopy of the Virgin's bed, but spiritually it is a sign from above. Its colour relates to her body, while its form tells the story of her soul. It is being drawn upwards, whirled to heaven by unseen energies.\n\nThe church of Santa Maria della Scala, for which the painting was intended, belonged to the order of the so-called Discalced Carmelites, the shoeless Carmelites. This may have encouraged Caravaggio to believe that his uncompromisingly severe depiction of the Virgin and apostles as shoeless paupers might find favour there. But he was once again disappointed. No sooner was his painting delivered than he learned that it too had been rejected.\n\nGiulio Mancini watched the whole situation unfold and even took the trouble to talk to the Fathers of the Carmelite order about why they had rejected the picture. In his biography of Caravaggio, he baldly states that 'the fathers of that church had it removed because Caravaggio portrayed a courtesan as the Virgin.' Had they simply got wind of the fact that the painter had modelled his Madonna on a prostitute, and found it scandalous? Caravaggio would certainly not have publicized his method, since the practice had been explicitly condemned in Cardinal Paleotti's _Discourse on Sacred and Profane Images_. Maybe one of the Carmelite fathers simply recognized the girl in the painting as a local streetwalker, or perhaps one of the painter's enemies helpfully pointed it out to them. She is not Lena, who had modelled for _The Madonna of Loreto_ and _The Madonna of the Palafrenieri_. Mancini seems to have known her identity, although he does not give her a name. In marginal notes to the manuscript of his life of Caravaggio, he elaborates tantalizingly on the bare bones of the story: 'the fathers rejected it because he had painted, in the person of the Madonna, the portrait of a courtesan whom he loved \u2013 and had done so very exactly, without religious devotion.' It is impossible to establish the true nature of Caravaggio's relationship with the girl \u2013 lover, pimp or simply employer.\n\nBut the model's identity cannot have been the sole reason for the rejection of the painting. One painted face can easily be substituted for another, a detail that could have been altered in less than a day's work. It seems it was Caravaggio's fundamental approach to the subject \u2013 essentially, his blunt portrayal of the Virgin as an actual dead woman \u2013 that the fathers could not bear. In the autumn of 1606 Mancini talked to the Carmelite fathers and subsequently wrote a letter to his brother in Siena in which he alluded to the picture being 'compromised by its lasciviousness and lack of decorum'. Later in the same document he reiterated that it was 'well made but without decorum or invention or cleanliness'. To say a picture had been created 'without invention' was shorthand for saying that it had been painted from reality rather than the imagination. The other two objections, about cleanliness and decorum, were versions of the same criticism. This was the heart of the fathers' objections. The Madonna had been made to look dirty and indecorous. She had been made to look real.\n\nThe best evidence for this is the picture that eventually ended up on the altar of the church. Having sacked Caravaggio, the church fathers passed the commission on to an artist called Carlo Saraceni. Taking his cue from images of the Virgin as the Queen of Heaven, such as Annibale Carracci's _Assumption of the Virgin_ in the Cerasi Chapel, he depicted an ecstatic Mary being translated to heaven at the moment of her death. But even that was not a sufficiently happy ending for the Madonna. The Carmelites of Santa Maria della Scala wanted a choir of angels to waft her to heaven, so Saraceni had to cook up a second version of his own sweet confection, adding a topping of cherubs. His picture, finally completed in 1610, can still be seen in the church today. Caravaggio's painting is in the Louvre.\n\nComing so soon after the rejection of his altarpiece for St Peter's, this second disappointment must have cut Caravaggio to the quick. Looking back on it years later, Mancini wondered if the refusal of _The Death of the Virgin_ might not have been the tilting point of the painter's whole life. 'Perhaps consequently Caravaggio suffered so much trouble,' he wrote. It is just an aside, but it should not be taken lightly. Mancini was there at the time. He had seen what happened next. In the immediate aftermath of the two rejections, Caravaggio committed the darkest of his many crimes, the crime that would blight the rest of his life. He killed a man.\n\n#### DEATH ON A TENNIS COURT\n\nFor several years Caravaggio and Ranuccio Tomassoni had been heading obscurely towards their final confrontation on the streets of Rome. Exactly what happened, and why, has been the subject of much speculation, but one thing is certain. On 28 May 1606 Caravaggio killed his enemy in a swordfight.\n\nThe earliest account of the murder is contained in a document in the Roman archives, which dates to the day of the killing itself. It was a Sunday, and the anonymous author saw Caravaggio's crime as part of a sinister pattern, as rowdy festivities across the city threatened to spiral dangerously out of control:\n\n> The celebrations began for the [anniversary of the] coronation of the Pope... towards evening at Ripa Grande there were celebrations and fighting with boats. In the midst of the festivity and the contest, someone gave somebody else a knock, and was stabbed to death. In Campo Marzio the same evening the painter Michelangelo Caravaggio wounded and killed Ranuccio da Terni with a sword-thrust through the thigh; he had barely confessed before he died, and was buried in the Rotonda [the Pantheon] the next morning. After that his brother, Captain Giovan Francesco, unsheathing his sword, killed another soldier (formerly a captain) of the Castel Sant'Angelo. The above-mentioned Giovan Francesco, Michelangelo and one other were also wounded in the same quarrel.\n\nUntil quite recently the only known accounts of the murder were those given by Caravaggio's three principal biographers. They were written long after the event itself, and give only the sketchiest sense of what might really have happened, but each contains vestiges of a complicated truth.\n\nMancini insinuates, as we have seen, that at the time of the killing Caravaggio was even touchier than usual because he had been upset by the rejection of _The Death of the Virgin_. He also implies that the painter was provoked, and he places the perenially hot-headed Onorio Longhi at the scene of the crime: 'Finally, as a result of certain events he almost lost his life, and in defending himself Caravaggio killed his foe with the help of his friend Onorio Longhi and was forced to leave Rome.'\n\nBaglione moralized the murder, describing it as the predictable outcome of Caravaggio's innate criminality. He also explained its cause. An argument over a tennis match had got out of hand:\n\n> Michelangelo was quite a quarrelsome individual, and sometimes he looked for a chance to break his neck or jeopardise the life of another. Often he was found in the company of men who, like himself, were also belligerent. And finally he confronted Ranuccio Tomassoni, a very polite young man, over some disagreement over a tennis match. They argued and ended up fighting. Ranuccio fell to the ground after Michelangelo had wounded him in the thigh and then killed him. Everyone who was involved in this affair fled Rome...\n\nBellori echoed Baglione's account, adding a colourful account of the fight itself: 'during a tennis match with a young friend of his, they began hitting each other with their rackets. At the end he drew his sword, killed the young man, and was also wounded himself.'\n\nThe idea that the fight was in some way connected to a game is seemingly confirmed by two _avvisi_ , small booklets that were the rudimentary forerunners of the modern newspaper. They were sold on the streets of the city, especially around the statue of _Pasquino_ , to the cry of ' _Nove e Avvisi!_ ', or 'News and Notices!'\n\nOne of these _avvisi_ , written on 3 June 1606, six days after the murder, establishes the scene of the crime. It also confirms the involvement of the two other men who had been mentioned in the very first report of 28 May. According to the _avviso_ of 3 June, Ranuccio Tomassoni's brother, the former soldier and _caporione_ Giovan Francesco Tomassoni, had indeed joined the fight, drawing his sword on another soldier. But this _avviso_ contradicts the earlier document's statement that the other man had been killed, saying instead that he had been seriously wounded and was now in prison awaiting trial. It also provides his name, and specifies that he was a companion of Caravaggio:\n\n> because of a game near the palace of the Grand Duke [i.e. the Palazzo Firenze] an argument arose between the son of the late Colonel Lucantoni da Terni, and Michelangelo da Caravaggio, the famous painter; Tomassoni was killed by a blow given to him while, retreating, he fell on the ground. Then his brother, Captain Giovan Francesco, and Petronio the Bolognese, Caravaggio's companion, entered the fray; Giovan Francesco seriously wounded Captain Petronio, and wounded Caravaggio in the head. Caravaggio saved himself by running away, and Petronio was put in prison, where he remains.\n\nThis would appear to confirm Baglione's account of an argument over a tennis match. The _avviso_ mentions a game near the Grand Duke of Tuscany's palace. There were indeed tennis courts directly opposite the Palazzo Firenze: although they have long since disappeared, the street where they once stood is still the Via di Pallacorda, i.e. 'Tennis Street'.\n\nThe other _avviso_ that mentions the murder was written on 31 May 1606. It does not name Caravaggio's wounded companion, simply describing him as a Bolognese captain serving in the papal fortress of the Castel Sant'Angelo. It confirms that he had been wounded rather than killed, and had now been put in prison. This report also blames the fight on a game, on which money had been wagered. But it also makes the fight itself sound more like an outbreak of gang warfare than a chance fracas. A total of eight people are now said to have been involved, two bands of four:\n\n> On the aforesaid Sunday night a serious quarrel took place in the Campo Marzio, with four men on either side. The leader of one side was Ranuccio of Terni, who died immediately after a long fight; and of the other Michelangelo da Caravaggio, a painter of some renown in our day, who reportedly received a wound, but his whereabouts [are] not known. Severely wounded, however, and taken to prison, was one of his companions whom they call the Captain, from Bologna, and who was a soldier of Castel Sant'Angelo. The incident is alleged to have been caused by a dispute over a game involving 10 scudi which the dead man had won from the painter.\n\nA number of other documents found in the Roman archives confirm many elements of the accounts given in the two _avvisi_. On 29 May 1606, the notary responsible for the registry of births and deaths in the parish of San Lorenzo in Lucina recorded that Ranuccio Tomassoni had been murdered in the Via della Scrofa. Since the fatal blow had actually been struck on a tennis court in the nearby Via di Pallacorda, this reference must be to Tomassoni's place of death \u2013 presumably at the shop of a barber-surgeon, who was unable to stem the flow of blood from the stricken man's wounds. The mortal thigh wound mentioned by several sources is consistent with this. Caravaggio must have caught Tomassoni high in the leg, near the groin, severing or at least seriously rupturing the femoral artery. It is very difficult to stop the bleeding from such injuries, which make the tying of an effective tourniquet all but impossible. Tomassoni would have died quickly, as the sources indicate, but it is unlikely that he would have had time to confess, as the author of the first report of 28 May optimistically suggested.\n\nWhile Ranuccio Tomassoni's companions were taking him and his brother Giovan Francesco to the barber-surgeon's in the Via della Scrofa, Caravaggio's friends were tending to Captain Petronio Toppa from Bologna. They took him to another barber-surgeon, a man called Pompeo Navagna, who treated him for a cut in his left arm so deep that seven pieces of bone had to be removed before it could be dressed. He had eight stab wounds in his left thigh, one in his left shin, and another in his left heel. Taken altogether, Navagna concluded, these were life-threatening injuries, and despite them Toppa had subsequently been taken to the prison of Tor di Nona for questioning.\n\nMeanwhile, Fabio Masetti was still keeping his eye on Caravaggio and reporting the latest developments back to Cesare d'Este in Modena. In a letter of 31 May he confirmed that Caravaggio had been wounded, and that he had fled Rome. According to Masetti's spies, the painter was on his way to Tuscany, a logical destination, given his links with Cardinal del Monte and the Medici. Masetti even found cause for a certain grim optimism in this sudden turn of events: 'The painter Caravaggio has left Rome badly wounded, having killed a man who provoked him on Sunday evening. I am told that he is heading in the direction of Florence, and perhaps will also come to Modena, where he will give satisfaction by making as many paintings as are wanted.'\n\nOn the same day, another letter was written by another representative of the Este in Rome, Pellegrino Bertacchi. He too had heard that a game of tennis had been the cause of all the trouble: 'the fight was over the question of a penalty, while we were playing at racquets, near the [palace] of the Ambassador of the Grand Duke [i.e the Palazzo Firenze].' He had also heard that the painter 'lay down his head, mortally wounded' and that 'two others were dead.' Clearly all kinds of wild rumours were flying about.\n\nBut a month later some of the smoke had cleared and the _sbirri_ had begun to get to the bottom of the whole murky business. As the _avviso_ of 31 May had stated, eight men had been involved. By the end of June the authorities had established the names of everyone on Ranuccio Tomassoni's side. He had been accompanied by his two brothers-in-law, Ignazio and Federigo Giugoli, as well as by his brother Giovan Francesco. Between 28 June and 8 July, summonses were issued to all three, instructing them to appear before the court and remain resident at their customary addresses. Caravaggio's partners in crime were Petronio Toppa, another Bolognese soldier by the name of Corporal Paulo Aldato and \u2013 just as Mancini would later report \u2013 his old friend Onorio Longhi. There was no need to call Toppa, who was in jail already, still recovering from his injuries. No one seemed to know anything much about Paulo Aldato, save for the fact that he had only one eye. So just two further summonses were sent, to Caravaggio and Longhi.\n\nCaravaggio, by then long gone, would never appear in court to answer the charges against him. But, as Baglione would later write, everyone else involved in the affair had run away from Rome too \u2013 everyone else except for the unfortunate Petronio Toppa. Onorio Longhi had fled to Milan. Giovan Francesco Tomassoni was nowhere to be found. Nor were the Giugoli brothers, whose father, Flaminio, paid caution money to the court on their behalf on 27 July.\n\nThe continued absence of so many of the participants casts considerable doubt on the story that the fight between Caravaggio and Ranuccio Tomassoni had been sparked by an argument over a tennis match. If that had been so, why would at least three apparently innocent bystanders, namely Longhi and the two Giugoli brothers, have defied court orders and gone into hiding? It made no sense.\n\nThe known facts of the case point to a very different explanation of the fight. The pattern of the evening's events could hardly be clearer. Four men on one side, four on the other: two combatants, two seconds, four witnesses. An encounter on a tennis court, a flat field that was often also used as a fencing arena \u2013 as on the day back in 1600, when Onorio Longhi watched a fencing match take place on the French tennis court at Santa Lucia della Tinta. The fight between Caravaggio and Ranuccio Tomassoni was no chance row. It was a prearranged duel. The stories about a tennis match, a bet, a disputed call \u2013 they were all fabrications, tall tales put about by the participants themselves to hide what had really happened. It was an expedient pretence: duelling was illegal in papal Rome, and punishable by death.\n\nBy the end of June, when the first summonses were issued, Judge Angelo Turchi and his fellow investigators had rumbled the cover-up of a tennis match. By the second week of July, even some of the participants had given up pretending that it had been anything other than a duel. On 11 July 1606, a notary recorded Mario and Giovan Francesco Tomassoni's acknowledgment of the writ served against Giovan Francesco. Writing in judicial Latin, he recorded their joint undertaking to do nothing in breach of the peace, in effect a vow not to take the law into their own hands \u2013 there were perhaps concerns that a vendetta might develop. He also recorded their plea for the conclusion of the investigation into Giovan Francesco, in 'distant parts'. But the most crucial elements of this document are a couple of scraps of vocabulary. Not once, but twice, Mario and Giovan Francesco referred to the dispute between Caravaggio and their late brother as 'a duel'.\n\nBy the start of August, Petronio Toppa was well enough to undergo questioning. On 6 August 1606 Toppa called two witnesses in his defence. The first was Captain Francesco Pioveno, of Vicenza, who testified that he had known the Bolognese soldier for about twelve years. He gave a ringing endorsement of his former comrade in arms: 'Captain Petronio, who's been in the wars and has been a soldier with me in these two garrisons, in Lucca and Rome... I've known him as a soldier, and I've always considered him an honourable soldier.'\n\nThe second witness was Francesco fu Menici of Lucca. He gave his profession as a gentleman's valet, although before that he had been a soldier. He had known Petronio Toppa for about eight years. They had fought together in the Hungarian campaigns of the 1590s. Unlike the first witness, Francesco Pioveno, Menici had been in the vicinity of the tennis court on the evening of Ranuccio Tomassoni's death. He said he had not seen the fight itself, but he gave an account of the prelude to it.\n\nOn the night in question, Menici said, he had seen his friend Petronio sitting\n\n> in front of the Florentine ambassador's, in front of the tennis court. He was with another Bolognese, who had only one eye, but I don't know his name. I think they call him Paulo, but I don't know his name and I don't want to say what I don't know [for sure]... I don't remember exactly when the argument was, but it was a Sunday, and it could be about a month and a half or two months ago. I wasn't present at the fight and I didn't see who was in it or what happened. I passed through there because I was coming alone from the French ambassador's house, and in passing I saw Captain Petronio and said to him, 'At your service' [this was possibly a deliberate irony, given Menici's profession as a valet] and he returned the greeting and said, 'Where are you going?' I replied, 'I'm going home,' and he replied that he wanted me to wait, because he was waiting to perform a service, and that afterwards he would come too, but he didn't tell me what service he wanted to do, and I replied that I couldn't wait and was in a hurry.\n> \n> So I left and went towards Campo Marzio, and the man who was with him left him and came with me up to Piazza Campo Marzio past the Manescalco, and said that he wanted to go and see a whore of his nearby. Then I went home. I don't know if that man without an eye, who came with me up to Campo Marzio, returned from there to Captain Petronio. When I passed the captain I saw that there were others around him, besides the one I said, and they were armed with swords...\n\nToppa's own testimony and his eventual fate are unknown. But the evidence given by the second witness called in his defence confirms that the contest between Caravaggio and Tomassoni was indeed a duel.\n\nThanks to the nature of Rome's judicial processes there exist, in addition, four statements by those who saw and acted in the duel itself. Apart from Petronio Toppa, all the men involved had run away from Rome immediately after the swordfight. Having been subsequently summoned, to no avail, all were presumed guilty and sentenced to mandatory exile. Over the following months and years, each sought to bargain the terms of a return. As they did so, they were obliged to account for their actions on the night in question. The resulting evidence is patchily informative, but it does at least clarify the circumstances in which the second swordfight, between Giovan Francesco Tomassoni and Petronio Toppa \u2013 the duel within the duel \u2013 had started.\n\nRanuccio Tomassoni's brothers-in-law, Ignazio and Giovan Federico Giugoli, revealed little as they submitted to the due process of law. In their petition for an end to their exile, they admitted that they had been present at the fight in which their kinsman had been killed, but said no more than that. The reason they gave for wanting to return to Rome was that their father, Flaminio Giugoli, who had paid the caution money for them, had died while they were away. They needed to sort out his affairs, or the family would fall into ruin.\n\nOnorio Longhi, from his native Milan, protested his total innocence in the killing. He had witnessed the fight but asserted that he had been there simply to keep the peace (hardly likely, given his record of inflammatory remarks, provocative behaviour and incitement to assault). He too said little of any substance about the duel itself and he finished, like the Giugoli brothers, by invoking his family:\n\n> Onorio Longhi in all humility declares to Your Holiness that in 1606 he was banished from Rome, as can be seen in the trial records of the Tribunal of the Governor of that city... because he was present at the murder committed by Michelangelo da Caravaggio on the person of Ranuccio Tomassoni, in which deed the speaker was not at fault. On the contrary, he accompanied Caravaggio as his well-wisher, so that no disorder should occur and to exhort him to make peace, as God and his conscience are witnesses. Thus, he has remained conscious of his own innocence and has obtained peace, and at this time is retained in Milan in the service of His Imperial Majesty and desires to return to his fatherland and to his wife and five children in order to serve the Holy Church and Your Holiness.\n\nGiovan Francesco Tomassoni's plea for his own exile to be revoked was more informative. He acknowledged having intervened in the fight between his brother and Caravaggio, and accounted for his own actions in some detail:\n\n> When the speaker saw his brother injured, bleeding and thrown to the ground, [any] obligations to keep the peace or pledges not to offend were entirely dissolved. He and the said Michelangelo standing beside each other, he wounded him [Caravaggio] in the head with a sword and would perhaps have killed him in the presence of others, save that the aforementioned Captain Petronio, and others, were present. The said Captain Petronio defended Caravaggio with a naked blade, and he [Giovan Francesco] wounded him several times.\n\nFrom this patchwork of biographies, letters, _avvisi_ and witness statements, a clear picture of the fight can now be established.\n\nBecause it is a matter of honour between Caravaggio and his long-standing enemy, they must be allowed to settle it alone. According to custom, the duellists' seconds must promise not to intervene, while Onorio Longhi, the one-eyed Bolognese soldier Paulo Aldato and the Giugoli brothers must undertake to attend simply as witnesses. Once these formalities about 'keeping the peace' have been agreed, the duel can be arranged.\n\nOn the evening chosen for the settling of scores, the air is thick with foreboding. Toppa, the painter's appointed second, is ready and waiting in front of the tennis court. As the evening wears on, he is joined by one man and then another. Having briefly wandered off, the one-eyed soldier from Bologna returns to complete the group. Everyone concerned is trying hard to look casual, but they emanate a powerful sense of menace none the less. All are armed with swords, not a tennis ball or racket in sight. Somewhere nearby, Ranuccio Tomassoni is meeting his brother and his two brothers-in-law. As nightfall approaches, the vendetta is about to be settled.\n\nThe duel does not last long. Real swordfights are short and sharp, nothing like modern fencing matches. Tomassoni and Caravaggio are wearing no helmets or body armour, because that would have made their story about an argument over a tennis match completely implausible. They use the full width of the court, fighting in a channel formed by the two lines of their witnesses and seconds. At the climax of the duel, Caravaggio seizes the initiative and the tiring Ranuccio Tomassoni stumbles in his retreat. Caravaggio lunges at the groin of his fallen opponent, piercing his femoral artery. Blood spurts in jets from the wound. Caravaggio withdraws his sword and prepares to strike again, but at this moment Giovan Francesco Tomassoni steps out of line to help his 'injured, bleeding' brother. As luck would have it, the rhythms of the fight have placed him right next to Caravaggio at this critical moment. He draws his sword in a flash and strikes the painter in the head, preventing him from inflicting further damage on the stricken Ranuccio. Seeing this violation of 'the peace or pledges not to offend', Petronio Toppa draws his sword and saves Caravaggio's life, at grave danger to his own. As he and Giovan Francesco engage, Onorio Longhi and the one-eyed Bolognese intervene to prevent further injury on both sides.\n\nMeanwhile, Federico and Ignazio Giugoli do what they can to help their brother-in-law. Caravaggio, stunned by his injury, can fight no more. At this point the carnage stops and everyone disperses into the twilit streets. As Ranuccio's friends carry his ominously still body towards the barber-surgeon's on the Via della Scrofa, they unconsciously re-enact Caravaggio's great altarpiece of _The Entombment_ in the nearby Chiesa Nuova \u2013 solemn depiction of men struggling under the weight of a heavy corpse, stilled mirror-image of the scene in the street outside.\n\n#### BANDO CAPITALE\n\nNone of the witnesses said anything to the investigating magistrate about the causes of the duel. Who had challenged whom, and why?\n\nThere are possible answers to those questions too in the extensive but partial dossier of archival evidence about the killing. Fabio Masetti, in his letter to Cesare d'Este of 31 May, had said that Caravaggio had 'killed a man who provoked him', which implies that it was Tomassoni who had challenged the painter. Mancini, the only other source with anything to say on the matter, spoke of Caravaggio 'defending himself', which also suggests that Tomassoni was the initiator of the fight.\n\nThe most telling clue to the nature of Tomassoni's grievance may lie in the identity of his chosen witnesses. He chose his brother, a soldier, as his second, and the other men there were his two brothers-in-law. It may be that Tomassoni challenged Caravaggio over a question of family honour \u2013 a question, specifically, involving the honour of Ranuccio Tomassoni's wife. Her name was Lavinia. The painter had already stolen or tried to steal one of the pimp's whores, Fillide Melandroni. Had he compounded that insult by starting something with Lavinia Tomassoni too? If so, that would have made Ranuccio a cuckold \u2013 a _becco fotuto_ , to use one of the painter's favourite phrases. Since nothing has been found in the archives to connect Caravaggio directly with Lavinia Tomassoni, a verbal provocation is more likely to have been the cause of the trouble. Perhaps Caravaggio had heard that Lavinia Tomassoni was being unfaithful to her husband, and had taunted him by repeating that rumour to his face. We may never know exactly what lay behind the duel but some kind of insult concerning Lavinia is the most likely explanation. This would explain why Tomassoni wanted Lavinia's brothers watching when he exacted his revenge \u2013 or so he hoped \u2013 on the troublesome painter who had dared to cast aspersions on his wife.\n\nWhatever the precise truth, another chain of archival evidence suggests that Lavinia Tomassoni was hardly a model wife and mother. Less than a fortnight after Tomassoni's death, arrangements were set in train for a close friend of the family, the lawyer Cesare Pontoni, to look after the couple's only daughter. Her name was Felicita Plautilla Tomassoni, and she was still only a baby. Tomassoni's widow, Lavinia, made the excuse that she was too young to bring up a child on her own. She said that she wanted to remarry (which she did, as another document in the archive reveals, within less than a year). Lavinia's mother-in-law, Tomassoni's mother, claimed that she was too old to look after the little girl. On 10 October 1606 the legal guardianship of Felicita was ratified and she became Pontoni's ward. Only one other document has been found concerning her, the will of a relation who died on 17 August 1615. This reveals that the girl had by then dropped her first name, Felicita, which means 'happiness' in Italian, and had entered a nunnery. The document refers to her as Sr Plautilla of the convent of S. Silvestro in Urbe.\n\nOne other detail suggests that the cause of the fight may have been some kind of sexual insult. Ranuccio Tomassoni bled to death from the femoral artery. Caravaggio had struck him a low blow, aiming perhaps at the groin and missing by just a fraction. Was the artist using his sword as if it were a paintbrush, attempting to mark out the most graphic of sexual insults on the body of his enemy? Wounds were meaningful, as Fillide Melandroni had graphically indicated when threatening to cut the face of her own love-rival, Prudenza Zacchia. A cut to the face was a _sfregio_ , but it was by no means the only form of symbolic, premeditated injury that vengeful Italians inflicted upon their enemies.\n\nThe practice was sufficiently common to be mirrored in the provisions of the law, where widely differing penalties were specified for different forms of revenge wound. The fourteenth-century statutes of Florence set a fine of 50 lire for the loss of members including the foot, hand, tongue and eye \u2013 but for both eyes the penalty was much steeper. The mid sixteenth-century statutes of Caravaggio's native Lombardy valued teeth at 50 lire apiece, and set a fine of 500 lire for the amputation of a hand. The loss of a single testicle was assessed at the same rate as four teeth or a tongue, namely 200 lire. The penalty for castration was understandably more than double that, at 500 lire. It is entirely possible that Caravaggio was not actually trying to kill Ranuccio Tomassoni, but attempting to make mincemeat of his testicles with a duelling sword.\n\nLike many other aspects of the Roman judicial system, sentencing was irregular and inconsistent. All those involved in the duel were sentenced to exile, but the precise sentences are not known and can only be guessed at by the different dates on which the various convicted men petitioned for their return. On this evidence, it seems that those on Caravaggio's side were dealt with more harshly than the supporters of Tomassoni: Giovan Francesco Tomassoni's plea to return, duly granted, was filed on 9 December 1606, and that of the Giugoli brothers less than two years later, but Onorio Longhi felt able to seek his own return only in the spring of 1611.\n\nThe most serious penalty was reserved for Caravaggio. As well as being sentenced to indefinite exile from Rome, he was condemned as a murderer and made subject to a _bando capitale_ , a 'capital sentence'. This meant that anyone in the papal states had the right to kill him with impunity; indeed there was a bounty for anyone who did so. The phrase meant exactly what was indicated by the etymology of its second word, derived from the Latin _caput_. To claim the reward, it would not be necessary to produce the painter's body. His severed head would suffice.\n\nCaravaggio's sword and dagger, drawn by a policeman (see p. 287).\n\n## PART FIVE  \nThe Alban Hills, Naples, Malta, Sicily, Naples, Porto Ercole, 1606\u201310\n\nA Knight of Malta being Defrocked by Wolfgang Kilian (detail). The ceremony of _privatio habitus_ took place directly beneath Caravaggio's altarpiece, which can just be made out here at the far end of the oratory.\n\n#### ON THE RUN\n\nCaravaggio had been seriously injured in the swordfight, but he needed to get out of Rome quickly. After having his wounds dressed, he returned briefly to his lodgings in the house of the lawyer Andrea Ruffetti to gather a few necessary possessions \u2013 clothes, painting materials, whatever money he could lay his hands on. But it was not safe to stay at Ruffetti's overnight because the _sbirri_ knew to look for him there. So, accompanied by Cecco, Caravaggio went to the neighbouring Palazzo Colonna and threw himself on the mercy of his family's first protectress, Marchesa Costanza.\n\nBleeding, bedraggled, wild-eyed with adrenalin, he confessed to the murder and asked for her help. Despite the seriousness of his crime, she gave it. For all his sins, perhaps in her eyes he was still the lucky child \u2013 the boy whose birth on the feast day of the Archangel Michael had once seemed like such a good omen, and whose very name was like a prayer invoking her father's famous victory at the Battle of Lepanto. Caravaggio and Cecco were given a bed for the night. Early next morning the injured painter and his boy left the palace in the marchesa's coach and four, bound for the safe haven of a remote Colonna fiefdom in the Alban Hills. As the carriage clattered through the streets of the city, its blinds were firmly drawn.\n\nNo actual account of Caravaggio's flight from the city survives, so all of the above is speculation. But something much like it must have happened. The fact of the matter is that within a day or two of the murder the painter had indeed been spirited out of Rome, deep into Colonna territory.\n\nHe probably went first to Zagarolo, and moved between there and Palestrina, both small towns owned and controlled by the Colonna, some twenty miles from Rome and suitably off the beaten track. The Colonna Palace at Zagarolo still looms today over thickly wooded hills, a forbidding fortress in a wild and remote landscape. It is exactly the sort of place where a man in fear of his life might choose to take refuge. Mancini stated categorically that this was, indeed, Caravaggio's first stopping place on his flight from Rome: 'He first reached Zagarolo, where he was secretly housed by the prince.' Bellori echoed Mancini, adding the detail that the painter was being pursued: 'Fleeing from Rome, without money and being followed, he found refuge in Zagarolo under the protection of Duke Marzio Colonna.'\n\nWe do not have much information about his first few months of exile. All three early biographies refer to a picture of Mary Magdalen that the artist supposedly painted while he was in the Alban Hills, but it has never come to light. Mancini and Bellori also mention a _Supper at Emmaus_ from the same period, which does survive. A solemn and introverted work, it now hangs in the Pinacoteca di Brera in Milan. This second _Supper at Emmaus_ is strikingly different from the painting on the same subject in London, created just five years earlier. It seems to announce a change within Caravaggio himself, and certainly marks the transformation of his style. With this troubled picture begins the last phase of the painter's life and work.\n\nThe older Caravaggio would often revisit themes and motifs that he had painted before. But only on this occasion did he rework the entire composition of a picture from earlier in his career. The second painting is almost identical in size to the first, the figures are the same scale, and virtually repeated \u2013 with the addition, in the Brera version, of the innkeeper's wizened wife, waiting to serve a rack of lamb. The tablecloth and the Turkish rug over which it has been laid are almost the same. But in this later painting it is as if someone has turned off the lights, so deep are the shadows.\n\nChrist is no longer the beardless youth of five years before, the Apollonian judge calmly looking forward to the end of time. He is the conventional type of Jesus, with light beard and shoulder-length hair, but pushed to the point of exhaustion. He is a pained and troubled figure, a Man of Sorrows who has suffered much and struggles even to raise his hand, poised just inches above the table, in the revelatory gesture of blessing.\n\nThe first _Supper at Emmaus_ , a spotlit drama of sudden recognition, has blurred to an image from a dream. The theatre of Caravaggio's early Roman painting has contracted to a space that seems more like the inside of the artist's mind, a space of memory or mental projection. That some of the figures in the picture almost certainly _were_ painted from memory, rather than from life, enhances the effect. The innkeeper resembles the innkeeper in the earlier version of the picture, but seen at one remove or through half-closed eyes. The figure of his wife, so beaten down by existence, was surely based on Caravaggio's recollections of the old woman who had recently modelled for St Anne in the _Madonna of the Palafrenieri_.\n\nThe lamb on the dish that she holds is a scrap of meat so shrivelled and inconspicuous that it barely performs the iconographic task required of it \u2013 the scantest of allusions to Christ's sacrifice and the death of all flesh. Even the still life on the table has been reduced to a bare, eucharistic minimum, just some broken loaves and a chipped majolica jug. Darkness surrounds the huddled figures seated at this simple meal, but there are no shades of transcendence here: no halo is cast on the wall behind Christ, no pattern of the divine is suggested in the shadows that fall on the drab white tablecloth. The invigorating light of a miraculous dawn has weakened to the feeble gleams of the end of the day.\n\nThe paint has been applied thinly and the colours muted to earths and ochres. The faces of all the figures are less sharply differentiated than they are in any of Caravaggio's earlier pictures. Many of the technical departures of the artist's later work are related to his circumstances: he stops painting from models, in all but a few cases, because he has no time to find them or money to pay them, and he paints quickly because he has to move on.\n\nThe disciple sitting with his back to the viewer is seen only as a silhouette, a few stray curls of his tousled hair picked out against the folds of Christ's blue-green robe. His hands express surprise but also uncertainty, as if he cannot quite believe the miracle to which he is a witness; his right hand is a shadowy form set against shadows, light glimmering in the interstices between the fingers. This recalls similar passages in the darkest paintings of Tintoretto, and indeed an eloquent Venetian indistinctness enters Caravaggio's painting at this time.\n\nThe wiry, sunburned disciple seated to Christ's left is fiercely intent. He grips the table hard with both hands, grasping for a sense of reality. Can it really be true? Can he really be performing this one last miracle? Can he really have come back from the dead? The tendons in his neck stand out as he stares with desperate intensity at the half-lit face of Christ. But there is a stoop in his shoulders, a defeated weariness about him, suggesting that in his heart of hearts he still cannot quite bring himself to believe in the miracle, that it would be too much to hope for. Christ himself seems about to disappear into the surrounding blackness of the inn \u2013 as indeed he does, in the gospel of Luke, at the very moment when the disciples realize who he is. This dark and occluded picture has the quality of a confession. How much harder Caravaggio now finds it to see the possibility of salvation.\n\nOne other painting survives from the early months of Caravaggio's exile, a depiction of _David with the Head of Goliath_ , which has traditionally been misdated to the end of his life. Its subject is David's well-known act of giant-slaying, recounted in the Old Testament (1 Samuel 17:48\u201351): a familiar story, but treated by Caravaggio in a strikingly unfamiliar way. The sombre young hero is intriguingly unexultant in his moment of triumph. He holds his grisly prize at arm's-length, staring down almost absently at the trails of blood still pouring from the severed neck of his vanquished foe. Mild disgust is mingled, in David's complicated and contemplative expression, with gentle sadness. Cecco modelled for this figure, as he had for the exuberant _Omnia vincit amor_. But what a change has come over him. He looks older, more drawn. His brow is furrowed and there are bags under his eyes. Exile and flight had taken their toll on him too.\n\nThe disembodied head of Goliath seems still to be screaming, in an extension of his death agony. Light glints on his irregular row of front teeth and is reflected in the wetness of his lower lip. The extreme tenebrism of Caravaggio's technique isolates these few charged details, distilling the drama to a compelling vignette while casting everything extraneous into darkness. Having reduced the story to an apparent bare minimum of incident, the painter deepens the meaning of his picture by deftly weaving in other layers of association. David's earlier act of hurling his shot at the giant's head is subtly implied by the way his white shirt has been looped through his belt to shape a kind of sling. His vulnerably naked torso and softly compassionate, almost Christ-like expression hint at the larger perspective of theological meaning in which the slaying of Goliath was to be understood.\n\nDavid evokes the youthful Christ, because the story of David slaying Goliath was often seen as an Old Testament prefiguration of Christ subduing Satan. The inscription on the blade of the sword held by David spells out the letters 'H.OC.S'. This is the acronym of a phrase from St Augustine's commentary on Psalm 33, in which he remarks that 'As David overcame Goliath, this is Christ who kills the Devil.' The Latin phrase used by Augustine is _humilitas occidit superbiam_ : 'humility kills pride'.\n\nThe most insistent of the picture's meanings is carried by its most blatant detail. The death's head of Goliath is a self-portrait, a depiction of Caravaggio himself _in extremis_. There is a terrible, ambiguous intensity behind his fixed stare. He seems, horribly, half dead and half alive, his right eye glazed over and closing while his left eye is still bright with outrage and pain. He is like one of the damned souls glimpsed by Dante in the _Inferno_ , an outcast moaning forever in torment.\n\nThe last piece in the puzzle of this haunting picture is furnished by the identity of its intended owner. Caravaggio painted the _David and Goliath_ for Scipione Borghese, papal nephew and the chief administrator of papal justice \u2013 the man who, more than any other, had the power of life and death over Caravaggio himself. The _David and Goliath_ was Caravaggio's darkly ingenious plea to the one man who could save him: his way of saying that Borghese was welcome to have his head in a painting, if only he would let him keep it in real life.\n\nThanks to the help of his protectors, Caravaggio was able to despatch his pictures to Rome. The second _Supper at Emmaus_ was sold to the banker Ottavio Costa; the _David and Goliath_ , a precious gift to Scipione Borghese, may have arrived in Rome in the same Colonna carriage. It was likely to have been well appreciated: the papal nephew already owned Caravaggio's severe _St Jerome_ _Writing_ , which the painter had probably also given to him as a gift, in exchange for helping to resolve the affair of his assault on the lawyer Pasqualone; and within less than a year he would sequester the entire art collection of the unfortunate Giuseppe Cesari, largely in order to get his hands on two early pictures by Caravaggio, the _Boy with a Basket of Fruit_ and the moonlit _Self-Portrait as Bacchus_.\n\nNews of the _David and Goliath_ 's arrival at the Palazzo Borghese was kept quiet. Scipione Borghese did not actually hang the picture for several years, perhaps because he did not want the artist's death's-head petition to him to be too widely known. But as the summer of 1606 turned to autumn, it seems that he was indeed working behind the scenes on Caravaggio's behalf. News of the painter's presence in the Alban Hills had spread to Rome, where it was rumoured that there were plans for Caravaggio to make a swift return. On 23 September the Este agent Fabio Masetti wrote to his masters in Mantua that 'Caravaggio, having committed the murder previously reported, is staying at Pagliano with the plan of coming back soon. I will get repayment from him of the 32 scudi...'\n\nBut though Caravaggio had support in Rome, he also had enemies. Bellori's brief comment about his 'being followed' on his flight from the city is a reminder that certain people were determined to see him brought to justice. The Tomassoni clan may have sent men after him. Within Rome itself their voices must have been raised against an early pardon for Caravaggio. Whatever deal was being brokered on his behalf, by the end of September it had fallen through and the painter had resigned himself to a lengthy period of exile.\n\nCaravaggio probably used the proceeds of the sale of the second _Supper to Emmaus_ to pay his way to Naples. Certainly by early October he was living and working there, where he felt safe enough to show his face in public. But the fear of reprisals stayed with him. He was careful to remain under the protection of the Colonna family, who maintained a powerful presence in the city. With their help, he would attempt to repair his damaged and disordered life.\n\n#### IN THE CITY OF BEGGARS\n\nNaples at the start of the seventeenth century was the largest city in southern Europe. Its population was 300,000, three times that of Rome, and would soon grow to half a million. Founded by the Greeks in ancient times, and built around the crescent of a natural bay, Naples had always been a port town. Its lifeblood was maritime commerce. Although Muslim corsairs and Barbary pirates continued to make predatory forays from their bases along the African coast, the seas had become safer for Neapolitan traders since the victory of the Christians over the Turks at Lepanto. Ships from Naples travelled to Flanders, Holland, England and Germany, as well as to Sicily, Spain and northern Africa.\n\nThe sharp-eyed English traveller George Sandys visited Naples in 1611, just after Caravaggio's time there. He was impressed by the sheer range of foods, fabrics and other materials on sale in the city's many markets:\n\n> The concourse of sundry nations to this haven, doth adde an overabundance to their native plenty. _Apulia_ sends them almonds, oyle, honey, cattell, and cheese. _Calabria..._ silke, figges, sugar, excellent wines, minerals, and matter for the building of ships. _Sicilia_ releeveth them with corne, if at any time their own soile prove ungrateful... _Africa_ furnisheth them with skinnes; _Spaine_ with cloth and gold; _Elba_ with steele and iron; and we with our countries commodities: so that nothing is wanting.\n\nThe city's traders dealt not only in goods but also in people: there were 10,000 slaves within the Neapolitan population.\n\nAccording to the phlegmatic and worldly Giulio Cesare Capaccio, long-time secretary of the city's administration, Naples was living proof that industry rather than piety was the key to a city's prosperity. 'It is not fate or the stars that determine the greatness of cities,' he proclaimed, 'but commerce and the concourse of people as in Antwerp, Lisbon, Seville, Paris, and Naples.' In his drily patriotic book about the city, the _Guida de' forestieri_ , Capaccio anticipated the later Romantic adage 'See Naples and die', asserting that 'there is nobody who does not desire to see it, and who does not desire to die here. Naples is the whole world.' That world included distinct Neapolitan communities of Pisans, Catalans, Ragusans, Germans, Flemings and French. The French and the Ragusans had their own consulates in the city. So too did the English, who ran the city's textile trade.\n\nLike the painter's home province of Milan, Naples was under Spanish rule. The city was the capital of the so-called Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, another part of the immense Spanish empire, which had passed from Philip II to his son, Philip III, in 1598. Travellers approaching from the sea were impressed by the scale and density of the town. Tier after tier of buildings rose up from the half-moon of the bay's shoreline, stretching into the hills and towards distant Mount Vesuvius, smoking ominously on the horizon. The seaward limits of Naples, like all its boundaries, were marked by high walls of stone. Massive fortifications dominated both skyline and waterfront, embodying Spanish naval and military might. Naples had three castles: the Castel Sant'Elmo, built in the shape of a six-pointed star on the top of the hill above the centre of the city; the Castel Nuovo, which stood beside the shore and was home to the Spanish viceroy; and the Castel dell'Ovo at the south-east corner of the city, so named after the egg-shaped rock on which it was perched.\n\nNaples was a bastion of Habsburg rule over the southern Mediterranean. An army of Spanish soldiers was stationed in its garrisons, a navy of Spanish galleons moored in its harbour. The policy of the city's rulers was driven by two overriding aims: to safeguard the territories of the Spanish empire and subjugate the Neapolitan aristocracy to the will of the Spanish monarch. Under a succession of sternly autocratic viceroys, those aims had been ruthlessly pursued. The old structures of Neapolitan society had been systematically eroded, as the aristocracy, who had been a thorn in the side of Neapolitan rulers for centuries, were stripped of their powers and forced to renounce their ancient rule as despots on their rural estates. Most had been persuaded to leave their fiefdoms in the countryside and move to Naples itself, where they were compensated for the loss of real power with the sybaritic rewards of life at the court of the Spanish viceroy. The Italian historian Benedetto Croce encapsulated their decline in a single, acerbic sentence of his _History of the Kingdom of Naples_ : 'Idleness, luxury, rivalry in conspicuous display, the construction of huge palaces, the attendance of large numbers of servants, the abandonment of family and the frequenting of courtesans (a custom copied, apparently, from the Spaniards) led the baronial families, in the course of a few generations, to ruin.'\n\nAs the power of the barons dwindled, a new class of professionals and entrepreneurs flourished: lawyers, tax advisers, importers and exporters of grain, moneylenders, traders in luxury goods. Many came from Genoa, others from Tuscany, traditional breeding ground of merchants and financiers. Regardless of background, those involved in trade and finance were routinely referred to as 'Jews' by the habitually anti-Semitic Neapolitans. The actual Jewish population had been decimated by a systematic campaign of expulsions begun a hundred years before.\n\nThe rich dressed in the Spanish manner and travelled through the streets in carriages or covered litters. George Sandys remarked that there were as many litter-bearers touting for work on the streets of Naples as there were boatmen on the busy wharves of London. But the city's most striking feature was its ubiquitous crowd of beggars and paupers. In every street and in every alley thronged a seething, jostling mass of the poor. 'Nowhere in the world,' wrote Capaccio, 'is there anything so obtrusive and undisciplined, the result of the mixture and confusion of so many races... miserable, beggarly and mercenary folk of a kind such as to undermine the wisest constitution of the best of republics, the dregs of humanity, who have been at the bottom of all the tumult and uprisings in the city and cannot be restrained otherwise than by the gallows.' He likened the Neapolitan crowd to a constant swarm of insects. Wherever he went, he heard 'a murmuring... as if it were the buzzing of bees'.\n\nDespite the city's prosperity, there was work for only a fraction of its ever-growing population. Every day, every week, every year, an unstoppable flood of rural migrants poured into its already close-packed mesh of streets. They came to escape the harshness and uncertainty of life on the land, where petty banditry was rife and where the failure of one crop could doom an entire family to starvation. Their plight had been further exacerbated by new and punitive royal taxes, exacted by the Spanish from the rural peasantry, who abandoned their smallholdings in droves.\n\nAs its population climbed inexorably, Naples became caught in a vicious circle that made mass unemployment and grim poverty inevitable facts of life there. The authorities lived in continual fear of social unrest, with good reason. There had been brief, bloody rebellions in 1508 and 1547. To avert the threat of revolution, the viceregal government guaranteed food and provisions even in times of scarcity or famine. Grain was stockpiled in vast quantities to ensure that corn and bread would always be available, at state-controlled prices, to all the inhabitants of the city. Such measures had the inevitable effect of attracting yet more immigrants, thus exacerbating the very crisis the government had intended to alleviate.\n\nIn a vain attempt to check the city's growth, the authorities introduced restrictive building ordinances, which prohibited the construction of new dwellings outside the city walls; the intention was to stem the tide of immigrants by the simple expedient of depriving them of anywhere to live. But workers from the countryside continued to flow into Naples, so the new regulations simply meant that living conditions became ever more cramped. It has been estimated that some 21,000 people were squeezed into every square mile of the city.\n\nEven the physical appearance of the population was transformed by this wrenching demographic shift. Pressure on the food supply meant that for the majority pasta replaced vegetables and fruit as the staple diet. Despite the best efforts of the government, many people lived in a state of permanent semi-starvation. Neapolitans became shorter in height and notably more prone to the illnesses and deformities caused by malnutrition: goitres in the throat, rotten teeth, rickets and scurvy. The ragged and homeless were themselves seen as a kind of disease afflicting the body politic. The poorest citizens were known as the _lazzari_. The term literally means 'lepers', but in Spanish-controlled Naples it was used to encompass an entire social underclass, a subproletariat of the destitute. At night they huddled under market stalls, in courtyards, beneath porticoes, anywhere shelter could be found. By day they sought refuge in churches or took to the streets to beg. They were everywhere, complained Capaccio, clogging the very arteries of his city. 'Nothing is more difficult than getting about in Naples, wherever I go and at whatever time.'\n\nThe chronic shortage of housing was made yet more acute by the city's many churches and monasteries, by the grand scale of its civic buildings and by the determination of the authorities to maintain large areas of park and orchard in the urban centre. Because space was so precious, it was rigorously exploited. Houses in Naples commonly rose to six storeys, twice as tall as those in any other Italian city. The streets were narrow and they were still arranged in the same tight grid-plan formation that had been laid down by the Greek founders of the settlement more than two thousand years earlier. The centre of the city was dark. Overshadowed by unbroken lines of tall buildings, its congested lanes and alleys were rarely penetrated by direct sunlight. Despite the sunshine of southern Italy, most daily life took place in deep shadow, in a form of civic space not unlike the bottom of a well.\n\n#### THE SEVEN ACTS OF MERCY\n\nLittle is known about Caravaggio's first visit to Naples. The archives of the city have not even yielded his address. He may have stayed on the Via Toledo, in the palace of Luigi Carafa Colonna, Costanza Colonna's nephew. But it is more likely that he and Cecco were given rooms in Costanza's own residence at Chiaia, a grand fortified block of a building on the edge of town, close to the sea. He is securely documented as having stayed there during his second visit to Naples, three years later.\n\nAccording to Bellori, Caravaggio was deluged with work from the moment he arrived in the city, 'since his style and reputation were already known'. Within days of his arrival he had been commissioned by Niccol\u00f2 Radolovich, a rich grain merchant from Ragusa, to paint a large altarpiece of 'the Madonna and child, surrounded by choirs of angels, with St Dominic and Francis embracing below, with St Nicholas on the right and St Vitus on the left'.  On 6 October he received 200 ducats in advance payment and later the same day opened an account at the Banca di Sant'Eligio, where he deposited the money. Radolovich wanted his picture as soon as possible: the contract specified that the altarpiece was to be delivered by December.\n\nThe Radolovich altarpiece has been lost, if it ever existed. None of the artist's early biographers mention the picture, so perhaps it was never painted. Might Caravaggio have had second thoughts about taking on the type of stiff, static and rather old-fashioned composition prescribed by the contract? The Virgin Mary wafted to heaven in clouds of cherubim: hardly a subject to bring out the best in him. Less than three weeks after agreeing the deal with Radolovich, Caravaggio cashed a money order for 150 ducats drawn on his new bank account. Perhaps he took the money out to give his client a refund.\n\nAt around the same time, late October or early November, he took on a more prestigious commission: to paint a monumental picture for the high altar of a new church in the heart of Naples. The church was the Chiesa del Pio Monte della Misericordia, close to the cathedral, on the corner of the Via dei Tribunali and the narrow Vico dei Zuroli. The subject of the altarpiece was to be the Seven Acts of Mercy, the good works encouraged by the Christian spirit of charity, such as feeding the hungry and giving shelter to pilgrims. It was a topical theme in Naples, where the plight of the poor was so brutally visible.\n\nThe pauperist strain of Counter-Reformation piety, to which Caravaggio had given such uncompromising expression in his Roman altarpieces, was especially strong in southern Italy. The Pio Monte della Misericordia was a lay confraternity devoted to the care of the sick and the needy, an institution at the front line of attempts to alleviate the urban crisis gripping seventeenth-century Naples. It had been founded in 1601 by seven idealistic young noblemen who were dissatisfied with the narrowness and superficiality of life at the court of the Spanish viceroy. Moved by the plight of the _lazzari_ , they would meet every Friday at the Hospital of the Incurables, 'to serve and succour those poor invalids with food and sweetmeats'. As their confraternity grew and flourished, they broadened its activities to encompass all seven of the traditional Christian acts of mercy. They also built a church. It had been consecrated in the middle of September 1606, a mere fortnight before Caravaggio's serendipitous arrival in Naples.\n\nThe original statute of the Pio Monte had been written in 1603. The document placed great emphasis on the practice of 'corporal mercy', by which was meant hands-on charity, as opposed to the spiritual offering of prayer. It also expressed the confraternity's fiercely independent spirit, insisting on its freedom from ecclesiastical control: 'finally we wish that our Monte be not subject to the ordinary [i.e. the Archbishop of Naples], but that the workings of the Monte be autonomous and free from the jurisdiction of this ordinary.' The papal authorities made the concession, although they insisted on keeping it secret for fear of setting an undesirable precedent.\n\nCaravaggio's new patrons were powerful and persuasive men, with deep pockets. They offered him 400 ducats, twice the fee that had been proposed for the Radolovich altarpiece. They were evidently determined to get their man. Caravaggio had come to Naples in their time of need, at the exact moment when they were looking for a painter to give permanent visual expression to their sense of charitable mission.\n\nThe prime mover of the commission was probably Giovanni Battista Manso, the Marchese di Villa, one of the seven founding members of the Pio Monte. Manso was interested in the arts, especially poetry. He was a patron of Giambattista Marino, a poet famous for his restless and unruly nature, who had himself struck up a friendship of sorts with Caravaggio in Rome, and had possibly cast an eye over the scurrilous verses addressed to 'John Baggage'.\n\nManso was sharp and open-minded, with a keen and speculative intelligence. He was a friend of Galileo and regularly visited Tommaso Campanella, freethinking cleric and author of _The City of the Sun_ , during his 27-year imprisonment by the Inquisition. Manso was also friendly with Costanza Colonna's nephew, Luigi Carafa Colonna. Together, in 1611, they would found the Accademia degli Oziosi, one of the leading literary academies of Naples. Manso liked to entertain poets and other writers at his villa in coastal Puteoli, a place he fondly described in his biography of the poet Torquato Tasso: 'on a most beautiful sea-shore... a beautiful house somewhat elevated above all the others and encompassed all around by very beautiful gardens'. Many years later Manso would play host to the English poet John Milton on his visit to Naples. Milton described him in a Latin epigraph as 'a very noble and authoritative man'.\n\nTolerant of outsiders and misfits, interested in intellectual innovators, close to the Colonna family \u2013 all this indicates that Manso is likely to have been well disposed to Caravaggio. He was first and foremost an author, a connoisseur of literature rather than painting, but this too points to his involvement in the commission, which seems to have reflected a very literary conception of the subject of the acts of mercy. All seven acts were to be depicted on a single canvas, together with the figure of the Madonna della Misericordia, the 'Virgin of Pity', descending from heaven to give her blessing. Caravaggio would rise to the challenge of this busily elaborate iconography with one of the most compellingly humane pictures of the seventeenth century.\n\nThe painter was deeply responsive to the different worlds through which his stormy life would take him. He had an unerringly keen sense of milieu, a sharp eye for all that sets one place apart from another, whether architecture or mood, the quality of light or the quality of human behaviour. That responsiveness was one of the foundations of his art. It was the means by which he made holy legend seem real and true to those who looked at his pictures, embodied in a painted world that looked and felt like _their_ world. When in Rome, he had brought the Bible and its stories to Rome. When he moved to Naples, he shifted his visions of the sacred past there too.\n\n_The Seven Acts of Mercy_ is set at the bottom of the crowded well of a Neapolitan street corner. It is night-time, but the street is full of people. In the foreground a beggar half kneels and half crouches, light flaring off his pale naked back. His skin is stretched tightly across his shoulderblades, over the curve of his vertebrae and the cage of his ribs. A young man in silk and velvet clothing, wearing a feather in his cap, looks down at the half-naked pauper with an expression of troubled compassion. They are just two in the midst of a throng. Beside them, an innkeeper gives the nod to a sad-faced pilgrim and a sunburned man looks skyward with pained relief as he slakes his thirst with a trickle of water.\n\nTo their right, someone really has seen Naples and died. The corpse is being carried away. Only the dirt-ingrained soles of the cadaver's feet are visible. The face of the dead person's pallbearer is lost in deep shadow. Behind, a swarthy and bearded sexton in plain white vestments is reciting the funeral office. There is a flickering, mobile quality to the light, especially where it falls on the folds of the priest's cassock, which has an almost phosphorescent glitter. Its source is the pair of candles that the priest holds aloft, a torch against the blackness of night. A more mysterious light also falls from above, its source hidden.\n\nSmoke rises from the coarse tallow and the priest chants in a deep, melancholy voice. Next to the departing corpse, a dull-eyed woman bares her breast and gives succour to an old man through the grille of his prison cell. Above, a contemplative Virgin Mary cradles her son and looks down on the scene. The Madonna and child are wrapped in the embrace of two intertwined angels.\n\n'For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in: Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me.' The different groups in Caravaggio's painting represent the different forms of charity listed in the gospel according to Matthew (25:36\u20137). To the six biblical acts of mercy the medieval Church had added one more: the burial of the dead. It was traditional to represent each of the acts separately. But, having been asked to combine them all in one picture, Caravaggio turned an apparent handicap to his own advantage. For a dark and desperately overcrowded town, he created a dark and desperately overcrowded altarpiece.\n\nWith the exception of the burial of the dead, which is implicitly set in the present, each of the acts of mercy is enacted by a figure from history or legend. The sunburned man with a desperate need for water is Samson, whose thirst was miraculously quenched from the jawbone of an ass (Judges 15:18\u201319). The bearded traveller sheltered by the stolid innkeeper is Christ the pilgrim. The young _bravo_ with a plumed hat, who evokes bittersweet memories of the finely dressed ne'er-do-wells in Caravaggio's first Roman pictures, is a representation of St Martin of Tours. He has drawn his sword to cut his cloak in half, as the medieval saint had done, to clothe a pauper, in the most frequently recounted episode of his life. The unclothed wretch at the saint's feet has already been given his piece of cloth, which the pauper grasps in his left hand as if to begin covering his nakedness. The blade of St Martin's sword glints in the darkness to the left of the beggar's face. Half lost in the shadows, virtually under the innkeeper's feet, another curly-headed figure squats with his hands clasped in supplication. The solemn and melancholy saint may be about to give away the second half of his cloak to this second beggar. He gives his charity to two people and is presumably meant to embody two different acts of mercy, not only clothing the naked but visiting the sick. Of all the charitable figures, he has been placed closest to the picture plane, and therefore closest to the congregation in the church of the Pio Monte. Literally, he represents St Martin, but he is also an alter ego for the seven young Neapolitan noblemen who had founded the Pio Monte. Like them, he is an aristocrat helping those who have been struck down by sickness and poverty.\n\nThe two figures at the right, the half-undressed woman and the greying old man behind the bars of his cell, are drawn from the legends of ancient Rome. They also embody twin acts of charity, namely feeding the hungry and visiting prisoners in jail. The imprisoned Cimon was starving to death when his daughter, Pero, came to him and nourished him with milk from her breast. The subject was known as the _Caritas Romana_ , 'Roman Charity', and seen as a classical prefiguration of the Christian spirit of mercy. Since Caravaggio had visited the Palazzo Doria, in Genoa, on his brief flight to the city in the summer of 1605, he must have known Pierino del Vaga's fey Mannerist version of the same subject, in which an elegantly dressed young woman in a windswept cloak smuggles her left breast through the grille of a prison cell with a gesture of improbable grace. Caravaggio's interpretation is harsher, darker, gratingly realistic. Looking around her furtively, as if wary of detection, the dark-haired young woman performs her act of mercy with a troubled and anxious air. The old man who suckles at her breast has been reduced by his plight to a second infancy. Her dress is folded up under his chin like a bib. Two viscous drops of milk are caught in the strands of his beard.\n\n_The Seven Acts of Mercy_ is a picture that collapses time and space, drawing the whole world and all the world's history into its dark centre. Classical antiquity, the Old Testament, the New Testament, the Middle Ages and the present day \u2013 every epoch is symbolically represented in the different episodes that crowd the canvas. 'Naples is the whole world,' Capaccio wrote, and in Caravaggio's painting a corner of the city has been transformed into precisely that. This one dark street, this scene of desperation and pain and death, is the painter's microcosm for the brutality of existence itself. Briefly, it has been blessed and transfigured, made other than cruel experience normally proves. Here, the thirsty drink, the homeless are given shelter, and a sword is used not to kill a man but to put clothing on his back.\n\nThe embracing angels, themselves a celestial vision of fraternal love, descend earthwards in a rush, bearing the Madonna and Child with them. The leading angel's hand reaches down and into the world of fallen humanity \u2013 the highest reaching towards the lowest, the hand of the angel extended towards its visual rhyme, the left hand of the wretch at the very bottom of the painting, itself pressed down on the hard and unyielding ground. But a gulf of darkness and confusion separates the angel from the wretch. In that darkness there is space for the shadow of a doubt.\n\nThe tumbling angels and Madonna of Mercy are unusually heavy and corporeal, so emphatically realized that the wings of one angel cast the clearest of shadows on the prison wall. Yet the sense of hectic, jostling movement that ripples through the entire composition has the effect of making everything in it seem unsettlingly provisional. At any moment the celestial vision might disappear, the lights that flare gutter and go out, and the world plunge back into impenetrable night.\n\n#### THE MECHANICS OF EVIL\n\nCaravaggio painted the monumental altarpiece at breakneck speed, in little more than seven weeks. He received the balance of his fee on 9 January 1607, by which time the painting was probably installed on the high altar of the church of the Pio Monte. The confraternity soon came to see it as one of their greatest treasures. At a group of meetings held in the summer of 1613 the congregation decided that the painting could never be sold at any price. By then, several offers of 2,000 scudi or more \u2013 five times the original fee for the work \u2013 had already been turned down. One of the would-be purchasers was the Spanish poet Juan de Tassis y Peralta, Conde de Villamediana, but he was forced to content himself with a copy painted from Caravaggio's original. In the 1650s, when the complex of the confraternity's buildings was remodelled, a new centrally planned Baroque church was created with the specific aim of giving Caravaggio's altarpiece yet more prominence, space and light \u2013 a rare instance of an entire building being constructed around a single picture.\n\nThe _Seven Acts_ guaranteed further commissions and more work for Caravaggio. Sometime in the early months of 1607 he agreed to paint another altarpiece, on the subject of Christ's flagellation, for a chapel within the courtyard of a Dominican monastery in Naples. The picture was finished by 11 May 1607, when a final payment of 250 ducats was made. It has remained in Naples ever since, although it is no longer in the chapel for which it was commissioned, but in the Museo di Capodimonte.\n\nWith _The Flagellation of Christ_ , Caravaggio resumed his old rivalry with Michelangelo. The most celebrated earlier version of the subject had been for the Roman church of San Pietro in Montorio, painted by Sebastiano del Piombo but to Michelangelo's designs. Sebastiano's High Renaissance Christ is sorrowful but withdrawn. He is an idealized victim enduring the blows of a group of animated, mildly grotesque tormentors, in the setting of a grand apsidal chapel supported by marble columns with finely carved Corinthian capitals.\n\nCaravaggio took the same basic composition but made it his own by giving yet more emphasis to the cruelty and suffering implicit in the subject. He moved the viewer much closer to the grim act of torture, enlarging the figures and narrowing the complex architecture of the earlier painting to the truncated shaft of a single pillar in a darkened space. To that shadowy pillar, a reduced cast of torturers strive to bind the spotlit figure of Christ. Naked save for a loincloth and a crown of thorns, he is a strikingly statuesque figure. Just like the Christ of Michelangelo and Sebastiano, he might almost be a sculpture come to life. But he is more beaten down, more nakedly vulnerable. His exhaustion is conveyed by the line of his neck, the way he has wearily allowed the weight of his head to sag on to his shoulder. Too tired to hold himself upright, he has stumbled forward from the base of the pillar.\n\nResponding to their victim's state of collapse with angry determination, two of his tormentors are kicking and yanking him back into place. The torturer at the right, whose face is half hidden by shadow, is tightening the cords with which Christ's arms are bound. The man on the left is pulling his hair to straighten his body for the first blows. He snarls bestially, brandishing a makeshift whip in his other hand.\n\nA third torturer kneels at Christ's feet, binding a sheaf of twigs into a flay. He goes about his work with care, only looking up to see how soon the work of flagellation need begin. Just as he had done in _The Crucifixion of St Peter_ for the Cerasi Chapel, Caravaggio focused on the grim mechanics of evil. The kneeling man's shadowed profile is shown in silhouette against Christ's left thigh and bright white loincloth. Placing such emphasis on the proximity of one man's body to another is Caravaggio's way of heightening the horror of the scene. Torture is a misbegotten form of physical intimacy.\n\nHis new audience was impressed but also startled by Caravaggio's intense and troubling realism. The shock of their initial reaction can still be sensed in an account of _The Flagellation_ , written more than a hundred years later, by the Neapolitan art historian Bernardo de Dominici: 'This work when it was shown to the public attracted much attention, in particular the figure of Christ which was taken from a common and not a noble model as is necessary for the representation of God made Man: everyone, from the amateurs to the professors, was shocked by his new manner: the use of deep and terrible shadows, the truth of the nakedness, the cold light without reflections.'\n\nApart from his irrelevant complaint about the supposedly ignoble Christ \u2013 actually one of the painter's most gracefully sculptural figures \u2013 de Dominici's remarks epitomize the Neapolitan response to Caravaggio's art. Pictures such as the _Seven Acts_ and _The Flagellation_ were greeted with stunned admiration, bordering on bewilderment. They created a sensation and transformed Neapolitan painting virtually overnight. Caravaggio's extreme chiaroscuro and his brutal sense of reality were the catalyst for the birth of a new school of tenebristic painting in Naples. And through this city at the crossroads between Italian and Spanish art, Caravaggio's starkly powerful new style was transmitted to Spain itself. There it would have an even deeper transformative effect on native traditions. The work of the greatest Spanish religious painters of the seventeenth century, Ribera and Zurbar\u00e1n, is unimaginable without the influence of Caravaggio. The gruesome particularity of Baroque Spain's polychrome statuary, so bloodily realistic in its conjurings of saints martyred and Christ crucified, is also deeply Caravaggesque in spirit. The painter's years of exile and displacement are reflected, obliquely, in the westward spread of his influence.\n\nTwo further altarpieces survive from this period. _The Crucifixion of St Andrew_ , which now hangs in the Cleveland Museum of Art, may have been even more directly responsible than the _Seven Acts_ or _The Flagellation_ for the dissemination of Caravaggio's influence in Spain. Bellori records that the picture was acquired by the Spanish viceroy in Naples, Don Juan Alonso de Pimentel y Herrera, Conde de Benavente, and taken by him to Valladolid on his return home to Spain in 1610. Its presence is confirmed by an entry in an inventory of the contents of the palace of the counts of Benavente drawn up in 1653, where it is described as 'a large painting of a nude St Andrew when he is being put on the cross with three executioners and a woman, with an ebony frame' and attributed, in a marginal annotation, to 'micael angel caraballo[ _sic_ ]'.\n\n_The Crucifixion of St Andrew_ was almost certainly commissioned directly from Caravaggio by the Conde de Benavente himself. The viceroy had a special devotion to the saint, having played a significant role in the early seventeenth-century renovation of the crypt of St Andrew in the cathedral of Amalfi. In 1610, the year of his departure from Naples, he is reported to have made a special pilgrimage to Amalfi, 'moved by devotion to visit the tomb of St Andrew'. It seems highly probable that he commissioned Caravaggio's painting as an aid to his own prayers, and that it was destined from the start for the private chapel of his palace in Spain.\n\nThe picture is a harsh and daringly abbreviated depiction of a withered old man dying the cruel death of a martyr. Its true subject is not actually 'St Andrew when he is being put on the cross', as the writer of that Spanish inventory understandably assumed, but the miracle that occurred when his would-be executioners attempted to take him off it. According to _The Golden Legend_ , the saint met his death in Patras, in Greece, after incurring the wrath of the Roman proconsul Aegeas. To prolong his agony, Aegeas ordered that Andrew be tied rather than nailed to the cross. For two days he hung there in the scorching sun, continuing to preach his forbidden Christian message to a crowd of twenty thousand. On the third day, the people grew restless and threatened Aegeas with death unless he put an end to the sufferings of 'an old man full of gentleness and piety'. But the saint prayed to God to be allowed to die on the cross, just as Christ had done. When Roman soldiers tried to unbind him, 'they could not touch him, for instantly their arms fell back powerless... a dazzling light came down from Heaven and enveloped him... and when the light vanished, he breathed forth his soul.'\n\nThis is the moment that Caravaggio chose to depict. As the flash of divine light fades, the old man stops breathing and his eyes begin to roll up into his head. This is the parody of a deathbed scene, with the dying man forced to expire, against nature, in an upright position. His livid yellow skin is stretched tight across his ribcage. Wizened and pathetically shrunken, he exhales his last breath. The painter captures that moment when a man does indeed give up the ghost, when he suddenly becomes strange and unfamiliar, no longer like _himself,_ as the life slackens out of him and death takes over his mouth, his eyes, his limbs, twisting them into unfamiliar forms.\n\nMight the painter have observed his model, this very man, at the moment of his death? Might he have used his contacts in the Pio Monte della Misericordia to gain access to the Hospital of the Incurables \u2013 not to 'serve and succour' the terminally ill, but to paint one of their number? It is an image that reeks of mortality. The dead man's face and neck are sunburned, the rest of his emaciated body pale. He looks just like an actual human being at the end of an actual hard life, a malnourished _lazzaro_ who has swapped the hardships of the land for the brutality of the city.\n\nThe odour of the geriatric ward hovers too about the figure of the old woman in the bottom-left-hand corner of the painting. Sun-scorched like the saint himself, with a face heavily lined and wrinkled and a goitre in the neck, she frowns with fellow feeling. Her strong and sad eyes are full of pity. Gazing up towards the dying martyr, she plays the part of a chorus of one, standing in for the twenty thousand who had listened as Andrew preached.\n\nThe party of Roman soldiers sent to untether the saint from his cross has also been reduced to a solitary figure, a man teetering on a ladder. He struggles to free his arms from the invisible force that has paralysed them. As he does so, he arches away from the saint. The two bodies perform a kind of dance, its symmetry shaping a contrast between life and death. One is curved in tension, balanced against the possibility of a fall. The other is curved involuntarily, by the sideways sag of its own dead weight. Below, the lightly bearded figure of Aegeas looks up wonderingly at the miracle. His armour gleams darkly, evoking memories of the malign armoured soldier in Caravaggio's _Betrayal of Christ_. Two other figures loiter, their faces obscured by darkness. Landscape and sky have been reduced to a cursory smear.\n\n#### CARAVAGGIO AND RUBENS\n\nThe other picture by Caravaggio to surface during his first visit to Naples was a large altarpiece of _The Madonna of the Rosary_. It was first mentioned by Frans Pourbus the Younger, a painter at the court of Mantua who was in Naples in the autumn of 1607. He had seen it for sale along with another painting by Caravaggio, a _Judith andHolofernes_ that has since disappeared. On 15 September he wrote to his master, Vincenzo I Gonzaga, the Duke of Mantua, to inform him that 'I have seen here two most beautiful paintings from the hand of Michelangelo da Caravaggio. One is a _Rosary_ and was made as an altarpiece; it is 18 palmi high and they are asking no less than 400 ducats for it. The other is a painting of medium size with half figures and is a _Judith and Holofernes_ ; they will not let it go for less than 300 ducats. I did not want to make an offer because I did not know the intentions of Your Highness; however, they have promised not to let the painting go until they have been informed of the wishes of Your Highness.'\n\nIn the same letter Pourbus implied that the picture had been painted by Caravaggio in Naples, but its tight, dry, highly finished style is utterly at odds with the brusquely abbreviated technique that characterizes the known works of the first Neapolitan period, such as the _Seven Acts_ or _The Crucifixion of St Andrew_. Poised and somewhat theatrical, with its crowd of anxious paupers clustered in supplication at the feet of the Virgin and Child, _The Madonna of the Rosary_ must have been painted considerably earlier in Caravaggio's career. Figures and forms are clearly delineated, the play of light and shade in the drapery far more sharply defined than such passages in any of the painter's later works. The red drapery bunched above the head of Mary is more precisely described even than the similar swag of red cloth in Caravaggio's last Roman altarpiece, _The Death of the Virgin_.\n\nCaravaggio was an artist compelled to be true to himself, incapable of stretching to the ventriloquistic impersonation of his own earlier manners. As he grew older, his style moved inexorably towards simplification, abbreviation, occlusion. _The Madonna of the Rosary_ is closest in spirit and appearance to _The Madonna of Loreto_ and _The Entombment_. It breathes the same air of unclouded popular piety as those pictures of 1604.\n\nGiven the prominence of St Dominic in the legend of the Rosary, this large and imposing work was perhaps commissioned as the altarpiece of a Dominican church somewhere in or near Rome. Its appearance in Naples can best be explained by another of the rejections that occurred so frequently during the painter's years in Rome. The naked and conspicuously dirty feet of the kneeling paupers in the foreground were probably to blame. Caravaggio may have taken the large and valuable canvas with him when he fled from Rome after the killing of Ranuccio Tomassoni.\n\nWorship of the Rosary had begun in Italy in the early years of the twelfth century. According to tradition, the Virgin appeared in a vision to St Dominic one night in 1208, holding a string of beads in her hand. She showed him how to use the beads in prayer and instructed him to preach the technique to Christians everywhere. Each bead represented a different mystery in the life of the Virgin or of Christ. As the worshipper moved the beads along the string, one by one, he or she was to visualize one particular mystery at a time, to bring it forth in the mind's eye and focus devotion upon it, while reciting the _Ave Maria_ and the _Pater Noster_. Protestants disapproved of the Rosary, but during the second half of the sixteenth century the cult went from strength to strength. At a time when the Church was actively seeking to strengthen its hold on the mass of ordinary believers, the distribution of Rosary beads was recognized as a cheap and effective way of encouraging prayer and piety at every level of society.\n\nCaravaggio stressed the inclusive nature of the cult by giving great prominence to the huddled crowd of the poor, reaching out in unison for the strings of beads held out by Dominic in both hands. In most depictions of the subject, the saint is shown himself receiving the Rosary from the Madonna. But here she acts the part of a heavenly overseer, supervising its distribution to the people. Supporting a plump Christ child on her knee, she points down towards the bottom-left-hand corner of the picture, in the direction of a mother who, like herself, is accompanied by her young son. The Virgin seems gently concerned that they should not be forgotten in the clamouring press of people.\n\nOn the other side from St Dominic stands St Peter Martyr, distinguished by the head-wound of his martyrdom. He was a Dominican friar, who had been killed by a stone thrown by a heretic. Accompanied by another darkly cowled and inscrutable member of the order, he gestures towards the Madonna and child and looks out at the viewer with a yearning, soulful expression on his face.\n\nOne other figure also looks at us. With the bearing and demeanour of an aristocrat, dressed in black and wearing a fine lace ruff, he kneels at Dominic's elbow and stares meaningfully out from the picture. He is presumably its donor, the man for whose chapel it had been commissioned in the first place. Who is he? There is perhaps a clue in the painting's composition. He has been aligned with a massive fluted column. The column was a symbol of the Colonna dynasty, strongly associated with the Madonna of the Rosary ever since the Battle of Lepanto, at which Costanza's father Marcantonio had played a pivotal role. In Rome in the early 1570s, Filippo Neri had attributed victory there to the prayers of the faithful to the Madonna of the Rosary. Various names have been proposed for the donor, including that of Don Marzio Colonna, who had sheltered Caravaggio after his flight to the Alban Hills. But since the commission of the painting remains entirely undocumented, his precise identity remains a mystery.\n\nFor whatever reason, the picture had disappointed the man in the lace ruff. Whoever he was, he had turned it down, and so it appeared on the open market in Naples in the autumn of 1607. By that time it was in the hands of two minor painter-dealers, Abraham Vinck and Louis Finson, whose stock also contained the now lost _Judith and Holofernes_. It is not clear whether they had purchased these works or whether they were selling them on commission on the painter's behalf. It was Finson and Vinck who told Frans Pourbus that _The Madonna of the Rosary_ would cost the Duke of Mantua 400 ducats, which happens to be exactly in line with the fee Caravaggio had received for the _Seven Acts_. But the deal must have fallen through, because in the end the dealers themselves kept hold of the painting. Finson subsequently took it to Aix-en-Provence and then Antwerp, where he died in 1617. _The Madonna of the Rosary_ would eventually become part of the royal collection of the Viennese Habsburgs, and is nowadays to be seen in Vienna's Kunsthistorisches Museum. It is a key picture in the transmission of Caravaggio's style to northern Europe. But one particular chapter in its history introduces the crucial role that would be played in that process by another great artist.\n\nIn 1620 or shortly afterwards the picture was bought from the heirs of Finson and Vinck and donated to the principal Dominican church in Antwerp by a group of painters and connoisseurs. It would remain there for more than a hundred and fifty years. The archives of the Dominican Fathers of Antwerp record that the most celebrated Flemish painter of the seventeenth century, Peter Paul Rubens, was a driving force behind the bequest: 'The large painting... now in the chapel above the altar, is a work of Michelangelo da Caravaggio and was given by various art lovers, including among others, Rubens, Bruegel, Van Bael, Cooymans. Seeing that they could acquire this extraordinary great work of art for a good price, they bought it out of affection for the chapel and to have in Antwerp a rare art work...'\n\nRubens was a middle-aged man in the early 1620s, but he had been deeply impressed by Caravaggio's work from the start of his career. Like many other artists from northern Europe, he had travelled to Rome in his youth, forty years before, to study the art of classical antiquity and the Renaissance. While he was there he had been struck, as if by the force of revelation, by Caravaggio's Roman altarpieces. The violence and drama of the works of Rubens's early maturity, such as _The Massacre of the Innocents_ , would be deeply touched by Caravaggio's influence. Through Rubens, that influence would be transmitted to Flanders and Holland, where an entire school known simply as 'the Caravaggisti' would come into being. The development of Rembrandt's subtle, shadowy realism would be part of the same story, which can ultimately be traced all the way back to the time of Caravaggio's first visit to Naples, and Rubens's early encounter with his pictures in Rome. In 1607, within just a few months of Pourbus's negotiations on behalf of the Gonzaga to buy _The Madonna of the Rosary_ \u2013 the very picture that Rubens, over a decade later, would help donate to the Dominicans in Antwerp \u2013 Rubens himself was acting for the Duke of Mantua in regard to another painting by Caravaggio that was for sale on the open market in Rome.\n\nThe picture in question was _The Death of the Virgin_ , another rejected altarpiece from Caravaggio's Roman years. Laerzio Cherubini, who had commissioned the work only to reject it in the summer of 1606, wanted to recoup his outlay. He had put it on the market in January 1607 and it had been snapped up by Caravaggio's future biographer, Giulio Mancini. The fragmentary evidence of Mancini's correspondence suggests that he paid 200 scudi for it, and that he intended to sell it to an unnamed purchaser in his home town of Siena. His letters to his brother, who was helping him with the negotiations for the sale there, show that he was concerned that Caravaggio's indecorous depiction of the Virgin might cause a stir. 'Someone knowledgeable will reprove us, but as it is for the service of God and the embellishment of the city, I will pay no attention to complaints.'\n\nBut by the middle of February, Mancini was considering other options. The Duke of Mantua, one of Rubens's most valued patrons, had shown interest in buying the picture. His agent in Rome, Giovanni Magno, had opened negotiations with Mancini and was taking advice about the painting from, among others, Rubens. It seems likely that it may have been Rubens's idea to acquire the picture for Mantua in the first place.\n\nOn 17 February, Magno wrote a cautiously encouraging letter to the duke's secretary, Annibale Chieppio, about the potential acquisition. While he himself found _The Death of the Virgin_ rather difficult and unpalatable, it had been greatly praised by the experts and connoisseurs: 'Last Sunday I saw the painting by Caravaggio, proposed by Signor Peter Paul Rubens who, when he saw it again, was still more satisfied by it... It pleased me to a degree corresponding to the concordant judgement of the professionals. However, because people of little experience desire some pleasure to the eyes, I was more impressed by the testimony of the others than by my own feeling which is not sufficient to understand well certain occult artificialities which place this picture in such high esteem. The painter, however, is one of the most famous for the collectors of modern things in Rome, and the picture is held to be one of the best paintings he has ever made. Thus, presumption is in favour of this painting in many respects, and really one can observe in it certain very exquisite parts...'\n\nIn Magno's next letter, of just a week later, he told the duke's secretary that the price for the painting had been agreed by Rubens at 280 scudi. Mancini would make a profit of 80 scudi on the deal. He was content with that, and at this point the prospective purchaser in Siena disappears from the story. By the end of March, Magno was writing to confirm that he had taken possession of the picture on behalf of the Duke of Mantua.\n\nWithin a week, the painters of Rome had heard about the purchase and were clamouring to be allowed a sight of Caravaggio's painting before it left the city. It had been removed so quickly from its intended altar in Santa Maria della Scala in the summer of 1606, just before the murder of Ranuccio Tomassoni, that almost no one had had a chance to view the work. On 7 April 1607 Magno reported to his masters in Mantua that\n\n> I found it necessary, in order to gratify the painters' guild, to let the purchased picture be seen all week long. Many of the most famous painters have been flocking there with a good deal of curiosity because this picture was the talk of the town, but scarcely anybody had been allowed to see it. It has certainly been a great satisfaction to me to let it be enjoyed by the public because it has been commended for the exceptional art with which it was done. It will be forwarded next week.\n\nIn the event, despatch of the painting was delayed because Rubens wanted to be sure that it survived the journey. On 14 April, Magno wrote to say that 'The purchased picture is at Sr Peter Paul Rubens's disposal, ready to be forwarded. But he, in order to preserve it from injuries, is having I know not what sort of case constructed, which will necessarily delay the shipment until after the holidays.' By May, _The Death of the Virgin_ had reached Mantua.\n\n#### FLIGHT FROM NAPLES\n\nClearly Caravaggio was held in deep regard by his fellow painters in Rome, despite being under capital sentence for murder. But he still had his enemies there. All had not been forgotten and forgiven. There were those who claimed that Caravaggio was still up to no good, still making trouble in the city even though he was in exile from it. Within days of his arrival in Naples, he had been accused, _in absentia_ , of another attempted murder back in Rome. It was said that an assassin named Carlo Piomontese, working to Caravaggio's orders, had tried to kill a man who was on his way into church to hear Mass. Carlo Piemontese was a painter, a man also known as _il Bodello_ , a nickname for sodomites. The victim of his alleged assault was none other than Caravaggio's old adversary Giovanni Baglione.\n\nBaglione's accusations are to be found in a series of depositions recorded by a notary in a Roman court of law at the beginning of November 1606:\n\n> Last Sunday at the 14th or 15th hour I was walking to mass at Trinit\u00e0 de' Monti. I was alone, and wearing a sword and a cape. I was walking down the stairs toward the Medici gardens when, as I set foot on the last step the said Carlo, who was hiding behind a pilaster on the stairs, attacked me with an unsheathed sword and struck me a blow that hit me on the shoulder, and tore my cloak and coat, as Your Lordship can see when I show you here... [ _Then I, the notary, saw a black cloak with a cut on the left shoulder, and a coat with a similar cut_ ] Then he aimed a blow at my head, which struck me on the arm with the flat of the sword. Seeing myself attacked in this way I put my hand to my sword also. In grasping it he wounded me in the said right hand, as you can see... [ _Then I, the notary, saw a little scar on the index of the right hand_ ] Then we exchanged some blows and my sword broke, because I think that he was wearing a breastplate, or something else of iron. Then some people came up, and we separated.\n\nUntil this attack, things had gone well for Baglione in the autumn of 1606. In September he had been knighted as a Cavaliere di Cristo. In October he had received the further honour of being voted _principe_ , or 'head', of the Accademia di San Luca. Baglione believed that his success in the elections for that post had provoked the attempt on his life. Three weeks before the attack, he said in his evidence, Carlo Piemontese had come to the academy and attempted to disrupt the vote: 'As he was not one of the Congregation, was under twenty years of age, and had no reason at all for being admitted, I told him that he should go outside until the _principe_ had been chosen. He answered me that he was a painter like the others, and as he was there already he wanted to stay, but he did it in such a way that he was not balloted, and did not vote in the creation of said _principe_ , and nothing else occurred.'\n\nThat earlier incident had passed off without violence, but Baglione believed his election had continued to gnaw at Carlo Piemontese. The would-be assassin was friendly with two other painters, Carlo Saraceni and Orazio Borgianni, who were themselves close to Caravaggio. Baglione believed that the three of them had formed a cabal, to block his campaign and ensure that a member of Caravaggio's faction be elected instead. When their plans were foiled, they resorted to violence. He knew this, he said, because on the day of the vote for _principe_ , his groom had seen Saraceni and Borgianni standing outside the Accademia with Carlo Piemontese, stirring him up into a frenzy. He had also been told \u2013 although he did not say by whom \u2013 that the mastermind of the whole plot was Caravaggio himself:\n\n> My servant told me that, while he was outside holding my horse, there came out the aforementioned Carlo, Orazio and Carlo Veneziano, and that they incited the said Carlo by saying 'that prick' and other insulting words [about me]. They did this because they wish me ill, now and in the past, and are adherents of Caravaggio, who is my enemy. I heard that he gave them something, and someone else another thing, and told them to kill me, and to bring the news to Caravaggio, who would give them a fine reward.\n\nThe final judgement of the case is unknown. Two of the accused, Saraceni and Borgianni, made unusually large donations to the Accademia di San Luca on St Luke's feast day in the following year, which suggests that the affair may have been settled out of court. Baglione's accusation was potentially very damaging for the absent Caravaggio: at the moment of his arrival in Naples, just as he was taking what he hoped would be the first steps on the way to a pardon, his name was once more associated with violence and murderous intent.\n\nBut behind the scenes it seems efforts were being made on Caravaggio's behalf by the Colonna and his other allies. In May 1607, some six months after the assault on Baglione and just as Rubens was packing up _The Death of the Virgin_ for transport to Mantua, it was again rumoured that he would soon be returning to Rome. The Este agent, Fabio Masetti, still fretting about the 32 scudi he had advanced to him sixteen months earlier, had remained alert for new developments. Reporting back to Modena from Rome on 26 May, he sounded a distinctly hopeful note: 'It has not been possible to recover the money because of a homicide committed by the said painter, on account of which he has been banished. However, as the said homicide was accidental and the painter was badly wounded too, a reprieve is being negotiated and a pardon is hoped for. So, when he is back, I shall not fail to recover the said 32 scudi.'\n\n'The said homicide was accidental' and 'the painter was badly wounded too' \u2013 Masetti was no doubt repeating the same arguments, perhaps even the very same phrases, that were being used in Caravaggio's defence. By the start of June, Masetti was sufficiently optimistic to let the painter himself know that he would be waiting for him when he got back to Rome. 'I have written a letter to Caravaggio the painter for the restitution of the 32 scudi,' he informed his superiors in Modena, 'although it was not the first one, and the other time he failed to send a reply.'\n\nYet again the hapless Masetti was to be disappointed. Caravaggio, painting _The Crucifixion of St Andrew_ , once more failed to reply. By the end of June, unpredictable as ever, he had left Naples by boat and was travelling ever further away from the city of Rome. His destination was the island of Malta, southernmost bastion of the Christian faith against Turks and Corsairs, and home to the military Order of the Knights of St John.\n\nJust why Caravaggio took the extraordinary decision to go to Malta is one of the many puzzles of his later years. Piecemeal clues in the historical archive suggest that he went in the hope of finding freedom and forgiveness. He appears to have believed that by allying himself with Malta's formidable militia of warrior knights he might win permanent redemption for his crimes. But in the tough world of the Christian soldier he would be undone, once again, by his own volatility.\n\n#### THE FRIARS OF WAR\n\nTo become a Knight Hospitaller of the Sovereign and Military Order of St John of Jerusalem, Rhodes and Malta, Custodian of the Poor of Jesus Christ and Servant of the Sick, was to join one of the most venerable and powerful organizations in the Christian world. The order's roots lay deep in the medieval past, when the religious zeal of the pilgrim and the aristocratic ethos of chivalry became closely interwoven. In the year 1070 a group of noblemen from Amalfi, in Italy, founded a hospital in the city of Jerusalem to care for fellow Christians weakened by the long pilgrimage to the Holy Land. After the First Crusade, and following the capture of the Holy City, they were formally constituted as a nursing and military order. 'The Friars of War', as they became known, were dedicated both to the service of the sick and to the defence of the Christian faith against the threat of Islam.\n\nWithin less than a century, the Knights of St John had established a vast network of hospitals and fortifications along the pilgrim routes leading from Europe to Jerusalem. Over the next two hundred years, they developed into a formidable army of aristocratic Christian warriors, building and defending a long chain of castles to safeguard the land frontiers of the Holy Land, from Asia Minor to Egypt. The Knights of St John were the crack troops of Christendom, but they also bore the brunt of wave after wave of attacks from the armies of Islam. By the end of the thirteenth century they had been made to relinquish almost all of their hard-won possessions. When the Christians were finally forced out of the Holy Land altogether, the knights were the last to leave, finally defeated at the Siege of Acre in 1291.\n\nThe history of the order over the next three centuries would be no less bloody and no less embattled. The knights found a new home on the Greek island of Rhodes, a strategically vital maritime base at the crossroads of Europe, Asia and Africa. Having captured the island, they fortified it and set about creating a fleet of fighting ships. From that time on, they were no longer an army of Christian footsoldiers but a naval force. From their base on Rhodes they mounted raids on Turkish shipping and vulnerable coastal settlements, taking slaves and capturing hostages for ransom.\n\nIn the Islamic world they were regarded as brutal and pitiless marauders. In their monastic uniform of black robes, proudly emblazoned at the chest with a white eight-pointed cross, the Knights of St John represented a militantly aggressive form of Christianity. Their activities inevitably attracted reprisals. In 1480 a Turkish fleet laid siege to Rhodes, only to be repelled with crippling losses. Forty years later, in 1522, Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent once more sent a flotilla of ships to conquer Rhodes. After six months of attack and counter-attack, the knights were finally defeated and expelled from the island.\n\nIn 1530 the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V gave them another new home, on Malta, part of his Two Kingdoms of Sicily. His motives were part religious, part strategic. Charles V wanted to protect the southern flank of Europe and ultimately Rome itself against the might of Islam. His reasoning was that if anyone could hold Malta, the Knights of St John could. He ceded it to them in exchange for an annual tribute of a single falcon.\n\nThirty-five years later, in 1565, the Turks once more laid siege to an island garrisoned by their most hated adversaries. The Siege of Malta lasted for months and would forever be remembered, both for the ferocity of the fighting and for the atrocities committed on both sides. The official historian of the Order of St John, Giacomo Bosio, included a harrowing account of it in his three-volume _Dell'Istoria della sacra religione_ , the last part of which was published in 1602, five years before Caravaggio arrived on Malta. At the height of the siege, Bosio recounted, having captured Fort St Elmo, the Turks proceeded to massacre their Christian captives. The day allotted for the killing was 24 June, the feast day of St John and therefore one of the two most holy days of the year for members of the order (the other being 29 August, the day that marked the saint's decapitation at the whim of Salome). Making grim play of the significance of the date, the Turks turned the killing itself into an obscene parody of a Christian religious festival: 'All the cadavers which by their clothing could be recognized as knights or men of importance were gathered up; and it was ordered that they be stripped nude, decapitated, and that their hands be severed. Then, out of disresepect for the Holy Cross and to make sport of the knights' military overgarments, on each corpse four huge incisions were made with scimitars, making the sign of the Cross on both the fronts and the backs.'\n\nOn a later occasion, in a similar spirit of vengeful parody, the Turks crucified a number of headless knights' corpses and floated them into the harbour at Birgu. Bosio wrote that 'after having had them lashed to various pieces of wood with their arms spread apart so as to form, similarly, the sign of the Cross, and bound in such a manner as to make one body tow the other in a long chain, they were then tossed into the sea. The water, it was thought, would carry them and this truly horrible spectacle over to our brethren at Birgu, and it in fact did so.' The intention was to strike terror into the last remnants of Malta's Christian garrison. But the Grand Master of the Order of St John, a doughty Frenchman named Jean de la Valette, responded to the Turks' flotilla of death with a fusillade of his own. He ordered his Turkish captives to be decapitated and had their heads fired from cannons at the Turkish soldiers occupying Fort St Elmo. In the end the knights held firm, despite their crippling losses, and the Turks were forced to withdraw. By the end of the siege just 50 Knights of St John survived. More than 7,000 defenders had lost their lives, but the last great effort of the Ottoman Turks to seize control of the western Mediterranean had been successfully repulsed.\n\nOver the decades that followed there was a surge of new recruits to the Order of St John, lured to Malta by the dream of emulating the exploits of the heroes of 1565. Just six years after the siege, that other famous Christian victory, at the Battle of Lepanto, had fanned the flames of such enthusiasm yet further. Hundreds of young noblemen from the leading families of Europe travelled to Malta to seek knighthood, honour and glory. They wanted to fight, and if necessary die a martyr's death, at the front line of conflict with the forces of Islam.\n\nAccording to Bellori, Caravaggio too nurtured the dream of becoming a Knight of St John. He was 'eager to receive the Cross of Malta', in the words of the biographer. But why? His art had electrified Naples. According to sources in Rome, steady progress was being made in the negotiation of his pardon. It would seem like an odd moment to travel yet further south, to a barren and rocky island at the farthest frontier of Christendom. It is possible that the fantasy of becoming a knight had long been with him \u2013 after all, he was a keen and talented swordsman, who had been brought up in the immediate aftermath of the Battle of Lepanto. Or perhaps he still felt vulnerable to attack or apprehension by a bounty hunter, aware of the price on his head. By papal dispensation the Knights of St John were above the law, subject to their own unique legal code. In Malta, Caravaggio would be safe. Furthermore, if he could win a knighthood he would, _de facto_ , have gained pardon for his crimes.\n\nBut there was probably more to it than that. Caravaggio had always been extremely touchy about status. At his trial for libel, he had contemptuously dismissed the rank and file of Rome's artists by saying that hardly any of them deserved the title of _valent'huomo_ , literally, a 'worthy man'. Caravaggio took pride in his own worth. The poems attacking Giovanni Baglione, in which he certainly had had a hand, made much of the gold chain awarded to his rival. The perceived injustice of the honour clearly rankled with Caravaggio as much, if not more, than anything Baglione had actually said or done. But by the summer of 1607, nearly a year after the murder of Tomassoni, Baglione had just been knighted and his stock had risen yet further. Caravaggio, by contrast, was still a fugitive from justice. Even if he were pardoned and allowed to return, he would be going back to Rome as a man in disgrace. But to return, himself, with a knighthood \u2013 and not just an honorific papal knighthood but a knighthood in the Order of St John, proudly wearing the eight-pointed cross on his chest \u2013 that would be very different. If he could manage that, he could face his rivals down.\n\nJoachim von Sandrart tells an undoubtedly apocryphal tale about the cause of Caravaggio's decision to go to Malta, which, for all its evident fancifulness, may contain a kernel of truth. In Sandrart's story, Caravaggio's former employer Giuseppe Cesari, on horseback, passes him one day in the streets of Rome. Caravaggio challenges Cesari to a duel and tells him to dismount from his horse so that they can fight. But he is rebuffed:\n\n> Giuseppe answered... that it was not fitting for a knight, named by the Pope, to duel with someone who was not a knight. With this politely cutting answer, he wounded Caravaggio more than he might have with his sword, for this talk so stunned and confused Caravaggio that he immediately (as he did not intend to defer the matter) sold all his belongings to the Jews for whatever he could get, and set out for Malta and the Grand Master with the purpose of soon himself becoming a knight...\n\nThe tale is clearly a fiction, because Caravaggio was nowhere near Rome when he decided to go to Malta. But it has the ring of psychological truth. The unpalatable thought of lesser painters being dubbed knight may well have impelled him on his Maltese adventure.\n\nMalta was not, however, a place where someone could simply turn up unannounced. The whole island was a fortress, and security was tight. No one was allowed in from the mainland without a passport and papers prepared by the order's network of receivers. The receiver in Naples was a high-ranking official named Giovanni Andrea Capeci. Capeci would have had to gain approval from the Grand Master of the order on Malta itself before completing the necessary paperwork, and such permissions, especially for a fugitive from papal justice, were no simple matter. One of Caravaggio's friends in high places would have been needed to broker the arrangement with the Knights of Malta. Who helped him? There are a number of possibilities, because several people in the painter's network of patrons and protectors turn out to have had links with the Order of St John.\n\nIn the summer of 1607, at exactly the same time as Caravaggio chose to go to the island, two cousins of the noble Giustiniani family \u2013 avid collectors of Caravaggio's work in Rome \u2013 were on their way to Malta to offer the Grand Master a family property in Venosa, near Naples, as a naval base for the knights on the mainland. Perhaps they were prevailed on to put in a good word for the talented artist with a criminal record.\n\nOttavio Costa, the banker who had recently bought Caravaggio's second _Supper at Emmaus_ while the artist was in hiding in the Alban Hills, also had connections with the Knights of the Order of St John. His wife's uncle was Ippolito Malaspina, an illustrious member of the heroic old guard of Malta, and something of a living legend. A veteran of the great Siege of 1565, Malaspina had gone on to captain one of the Maltese galleys at the Battle of Lepanto, in the year of Caravaggio's birth. In 1603 he had been appointed commander of the papal fleet, as a result of which he temporarily delegated his responsibilities on Malta and moved to Rome for two years \u2013 years during which Caravaggio painted some of his most highly acclaimed Roman altarpieces. Malaspina would certainly have known of the painter's work and may even have met him. By the summer of 1607 he had been reappointed to a number of senior posts in the order, including Prior of Naples. He was very close to the Grand Master himself, a Frenchman named Alof de Wignacourt, having played an important part in Wignacourt's election in 1601. The possibility that Malaspina's advocacy might have been instrumental in Caravaggio's acceptance on Malta is strengthened by the fact that one of the first pictures the artist painted when he got there \u2013 another depiction of _St Jerome Writing_ \u2013 was done for Malaspina himself: the Malaspina family crest is prominently painted into the right-hand edge of the canvas.\n\nThis was not the total of Caravaggio's contacts with the upper echelons of the order. The idea of going to Malta, to seek redemption for crimes committed, almost certainly emanated from his most constant guardians and protectors, the Colonna dynasty. A prominent member of the Colonna family had recently done exactly the same thing himself.\n\nIn 1602 Costanza Colonna's second son, Fabrizio Sforza Colonna, had been convicted of crimes considered so shameful that their precise nature was left unmentioned in the reports of the day. Following his arrest, he was taken to Rome and imprisoned while the pope considered his case. Costanza Colonna pleaded for mercy on her son's behalf. In deference to his rank, the pope decided to give the noble prisoner a second chance. He was sent to Malta in 'privileged exile', on condition that he remain on the island for at least three years, placing himself at the service of the Christian faith. By 1605 this black sheep of the Colonna family was deemed to have expiated his sins, and had been elected co-Prior of Venice, a post that he shared with his uncle, Ascanio Colonna. The following year he was made a member of the governing Venerable Council of the order and elevated to the rank of General of the Galleys. There could hardly have been a better way for the grandson of Marcantonio Colonna, hero of Lepanto, to complete his return from disgrace and exile.\n\nA less exalted version of the same process of redemption seems to have been planned for Caravaggio. Costanza Colonna, who had seen things go so well for her son on Malta, may well have been the driving force behind the whole scheme. She had long taken a virtually maternal interest in Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, who was close to the same age as her own Fabrizio. What had worked for one difficult young man might work for the other.\n\nA number of recently discovered documents place Fabrizio and Costanza Colonna in Naples in the summer of 1607. In fact they both arrived in the city just a matter of days before Caravaggio embarked for Malta. It has also emerged that he made the journey to the island in one of a flotilla of galleys commanded by none other than Fabrizio Sforza Colonna himself.\n\nOn his first voyage as General of the Galleys, Fabrizio Sforza Colonna had travelled to Barcelona to take delivery of a new flagship and a large number of slaves and convicts donated to the order by the Spanish crown. Discovering that the new Spanish flagship was poorly constructed, he had a replacement fitted out in the shipbuilding port of Marseilles. By the early summer of 1607 he was back in Italian waters, collecting his mother, Costanza, from the Torre del Greco near Naples, the spectacular seaside residence of the princes of Stigliano. The two of them carried on to Naples itself, where the final arrangements for Caravaggio's journey to Malta would soon be concluded.\n\nSo it was that on 25 June 1607, bearing with him the good wishes of his protectress, Caravaggio embarked for the island fortress of Malta. It is not known whether his faithful assistant and rumoured lover, Cecco, accompanied him. Probably, he did not: Cecco appears in no more of Caravaggio's paintings after this date.\n\n#### THE ISLE OF ST JOHN\n\nThe voyage to Malta was fraught with tension. The flotilla's first stop was Messina, in Sicily, where Fabrizio Sforza Colonna received an urgent warning from Grand Master de Wignacourt. Seven large galleys from the Barbary Coast had just been sighted in the waters off Gozo, Malta's sister island. Five of them had disembarked soldiers and mounted an unsuccessful attack on the order's garrison there. Wignacourt suspected that the enemy had received intelligence about the imminent arrival of the flotilla from Naples and intended to engage them in battle. He was concerned about 'the advantage that the enemy has because of the larger number of vessels and because our galleys are burdened and with provisions in tow'.\n\nBy the beginning of July, the enemy vessels were still in Maltese waters, so Fabrizio Sforza Colonna continued to delay his departure for the last leg of the journey. Meanwhile, Grand Master Wignacourt sent a frigate from Malta to reinforce the flotilla. On 10 or 11 July the galleys of the order left Sicily. All on board would have been in a state of alert, fully armed for combat. In the event, the journey passed without incident. On 12 July, in the fierce heat of midsummer, Caravaggio arrived in the harbour of Malta's capital city, Valletta.\n\nTo a man in search of renewal and redemption, it must have been an inspiring sight. An entirely new city, built of honey-coloured limestone that glowed pink in the sun, Valletta had been constructed at breakneck speed in just forty years. After the turmoil of the Great Siege, the knights realized that they had to fortify the narrow headland known as the Xiberras Promontory, which connected the island's two principal harbours. The construction of the new capital by an army of slaves, on the steepest incline of the headland, had been an immense undertaking but once complete it meant that the knights' principal garrison was all but impregnable. It was named in honour of Jean de la Valette, Grand Master during the siege. The pope's best military engineer, Francesco Laparelli, was responsible for the plan. The sheer stone fortifications of the citadel rose directly from the craggy outcrop of the island itself, with the sea acting as a moat on both sides.\n\nWithin its walls, Valletta was laid out on the Renaissance model of the ideal city. The principal architect responsible for the buildings was Girolamo Cassar, who was from Malta but had studied in Rome. His palaces and churches were designed to reflect the knights' ideals of Christian sobriety and military discipline, with long, severe fa\u00e7ades of rusticated stone. The streets were laid out in a grid, with nine thoroughfares running across the peninsula and twelve running from top to bottom. Their strict geometry was softened by gardens and fountains, providing shade and water. Getting from the harbour end of Valletta, up the steep hill to the centre of town, and to the grand Cathedral of St John, was hard work even for the fittest. (Centuries later, the club-footed English poet Byron would bid farewell to Malta with the words 'adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs'.)\n\nApproaching Malta for the first time, Caravaggio was surrounded by symbols of the island's fierce rule of law. On the first promontory on the left of the harbour was the forbidding spectacle of a gallows. Within the harbour itself, prominent on the left-hand side, was the Castel Sant'Angelo, where many of the most famous events of the siege had taken place. By the time of Caravaggio's arrival, it had become a prison for disorderly knights. Another hallowed site from the recent Maltese past was the Castel Sant'Elmo, where so many members of the order had lost their lives in 1565. A late sixteenth-century German visitor to Malta, Hieronymus Megiser, noted that some of the rocks there were still visibly sprinkled with gore. The stains were pointed out with pride by his Maltese hosts, as the glorious blood of Christian martyrs.\n\nMalta was a remote and harsh place, rocky and sun-parched, unlike anywhere Caravaggio had ever known. But it was also fertile, having been famous since antiquity for the quality of its cotton \u2013 Cicero had had his clothes made on Malta \u2013 as well as for the sweetness of its honey and its bounteous quantities of almonds, olives, figs and dates. As Megiser noted, the island encompassed two utterly distinct societies, 'Malta Africana' and 'Malta Europeana'. The world of the indigenous islanders had remained unchanged for centuries. Its people were dark-skinned, spoke a language incomprehensible to Europeans and lived in humble settlements much like the tribal villages of nearby coastal north Africa. Cosmopolitan Valletta was utterly different, a flammable blend of extreme Christian piety, simmering military aggression and barely contained sexual dissipation.\n\nTo the English poet and adventurer George Sandys, who unknowingly followed in Caravaggio's footsteps four years later, the two Maltas were indeed worlds apart:\n\n> The _Malteses_ are little lesse tawnie than the _Moores_ , especially those of the country, who go halfe-clad, and are indeed a miserable people: but the Citizens are altogether Frenchified; the Great Maister, and major parts of the Knights being _French_ men. The women wear long blacke stoles, wherewith they cover their faces (for it is a great reproch to be seen otherwise) who converse not with men, and are guarded according to the manner of Italy. But the jealous are better secured, by the number of allowed curtizans (for the most part _Grecians_ ) who sit playing in their doores on instruments; and with the art of their eyes inveagle these continent by vow, but contrary in practise, as if chastitie were only violated by marriage. They here stir early and late, in regard of the immoderate heat, and sleep at noone day.\n\nIt is not known where Caravaggio lived during his time on the island. Prospective knights on their first tours of duty were given accommodation in the auberge belonging to their particular Langue, or country. Altogether there were eight Langues, of Italy, Provence, Auvergne, England, France, Aragon, Castille and Germany. The Italian auberge, with its long fa\u00e7ade decorated with trophies and escutcheons, was close to the main city gate of San Giorgio. But Caravaggio is unlikely to have lodged there with the other Italian novices, because when he first arrived no one other than his Colonna protectors seems to have known of his plan to be elevated to a knighthood. It appears from the archive that his desire for the Cross of St John was not communicated to the highest levels of the order until the winter of 1607. So he probably lived in the household of Fabrizio Sforza Colonna, at least during the first months of his stay.\n\nCaravaggio was swiftly made aware of the sharp divide between public morality and the private behaviour of the knights and their companions. On 14 July, two days after his arrival on the island, a welcome party was thrown for him and a number of other new arrivals by a Sicilian knight named Giacomo Marchese. Marchese was overheard joking about a Greek painter who kept two wives. But for at least one of the other guests, it was no laughing matter. Judge Paolo Cassar, a doctor of civil and canon law, promptly denounced the unnamed painter to the Inquisition. On 26 July, Caravaggio was called by the Inquisitor, Leonetto Corbiaro, to answer questions about the identity of the alleged bigamist. He answered with his customary reticence, learned in the courts of Rome:\n\n> About that which you ask me, most Reverend sir, I know nothing except that in the house of the Knight Fra Giacomo de Marchese there was staying a Greek painter who arrived with the galleys, but about the rest I have nothing to say concerning the said knight nor about anything which concerns the Holy Office [of the Inquisition] also I know nothing of the name of the said painter nor of which country he claims as his homeland.\n\nThe case fizzled out, but it was a clear sign of how easy it could be to get into trouble with the law on Malta. Even more fearsome than the Inquisition was the Grand Master, Alof de Wignacourt, whose rule on the island was absolute. 'This man is a Pickard borne,' Sandys would write, 'about the age of sixtie, and hath governed eight years. His name and title, _The illustrious and most reverent Prince my Lord Frier Alosius of Wignian-court, Greate Maister of the Hospitall ofSainte Johns of Jerusalem: Prince of Malta and Goza_ [ _sic_ ]. For albeit a Frier (as the rest of the knights) yet is he an absolute Soveraigne, and is bravely attended on by a number of gallant young gentlemen.' Like all Knights of Malta, Wignacourt was bound by vows of poverty and celibacy. But he lived in grand style none the less, in the Grand Master's Palace, an elegant building constructed around a courtyard garden, with walls frescoed with scenes of the Great Siege by a minor Italian artist named Matteo Perez d'Aleccio \u2013 who, like Caravaggio, had fled to Malta after getting into trouble in Rome. Wignacourt surrounded himself with young page boys, the flower of the European aristocracy. On his death, he bequeathed to the order more than 200 slaves and a fortune in ransom money.\n\nAs supreme authority on Malta, Wignacourt was answerable only to the pope. He presided over the Venerable Council of the order, composed of the eight Conventual Bailiffs \u2013 one for each Langue \u2013 and the Grand Priors. The Venerable Council framed the order's statutes. Wignacourt was also in charge of the Criminal Council, which had the often demanding job of ensuring that those statutes were obeyed. As the leader of an all-male elite fighting unit, especially trained in privateering, pillage and kidnap, one of his main priorities was simply to preserve order. This was by no means easy, and a blind eye was diplomatically turned to certain habitual misdemeanours. Wignacourt made no attempt to close down Valletta's many brothels: in 1581, when one of his predecessors had attempted to eliminate prostitution on Malta, the result had been a full-scale riot. But other offences were dealt with swiftly and ruthlessly, on a sliding scale of punishment.\n\nThe list of prohibitions and mandatory penalties is itself a testament to the difficulty of maintaining order among several hundred proud Knights of Malta. Punishment for the offence of being incorrectly dressed, without the eight-pointed cross of the order, was the 'quarantaine', which insisted that the miscreant be confined to his auberge for forty days, during which time he was to fast in penitence and submit to regular public floggings by the vice-prior in the conventual church. Repetition of the same offence brought a three-month prison sentence. The penalty for rowdy behaviour inside the auberges was deprivation of seniority within the hierarchy of the knights. Insults traded between brother knights in the Grand Master's presence meant the loss of three years' seniority. More serious crimes were punished by defrocking, the permanent deprivation of a knight's habit. This was the penalty ordained for a variety of offences, including assault on a fellow knight, heresy, apostasy, theft, duelling and the abandonment of comrades in battle. If a knight killed in anger, he was sentenced to a traditional Maltese death. The procedure was described by George Sandys: 'If one of them be convicted of a capitall crime, he is first publicly disgraced in the Church of Saint John where he received his Knight-hood, then strangled and thrown into the sea at night-time.'\n\nIt would be harder to enter the brotherhood of Malta than Caravaggio had perhaps imagined. Knights of Justice were the elite of the order, from whose ranks the Grand Crosses who sat on the Venerable Council were drawn, but to be considered for such a knighthood the candidate had to be able to prove unbroken noble lineage of two hundred years. Below Knights of Justice came Knights of Grace, but they too had to prove a high degree of nobility. Considering his humble origins, Caravaggio could only aspire to the still lower Knighthood of Magistral Obedience, which was reserved for men of merit \u2013 _valent'huomini_ , to use his own favoured terminology \u2013 and awarded at the discretion of the Grand Master. But just before Caravaggio's arrival on the island, Wignacourt had introduced a statute putting an end to the conferment of such knighthoods. He had grown irritated by the number of applicants for them and felt they were cheapening the status of the brotherhood as a whole. Honorific knighthoods were viewed as being open to corruption, tradeable awards akin to a form of simony. On his travels in Palestine, Sandys was contemptuously amused by the sight of an apothecary from Aleppo being dubbed a knight in exchange for hard cash.\n\nIf Caravaggio were to become a Knight of Malta, special arrangements would have to be made by the Grand Master himself. Little is known about the artist's activities during his first several months on the island. But on the evidence of three pictures that he painted during the second half of 1607, he was working hard to impress those in the upper echelons of the order. With each new commission, he moved closer to the centre of power.\n\n#### SIGNED IN BLOOD\n\nSoon after establishing a workshop on Malta, Caravaggio painted a sombre devotional picture for Ippolito Malaspina. _St Jerome Writing_ had the same subject as the picture painted for the papal nephew, Scipione Borghese, two years earlier. The image of the saint, this time, is less a generic old man and more the portrait of an actual individual. Spotlit in the gloom of his study, Jerome has wispy grey hair scraped across the sunburned crown of his head, deep wrinkles, a slightly cauliflowered right ear \u2013 emphasized by the raking light \u2013 and a dimpled, beak-like nose. In contrast with his coppery, weathered face, his bare torso is pale and white. His physique is lean, although the skin at his ribs and belly has begun to sag with age.\n\nThe saint looks down at the pages of the book in which he is writing. In his right hand he holds a quill, in his left an inkpot. On the desk before him lie three symbolic objects: a stone the colour of a bruise \u2013 the stone with which, according to his legend, he used to beat his breast; a tip-tilted skull, eyes gaping and teeth glinting; and a crucifix on which a stretched figurine of the agonized Christ is represented in shadowy foreshortening.\n\nTo the saint's right, his red cardinal's hat hangs from a rudimentary peg. All else is in shadow. Semi-nude, swathed up to the waist in a sheet of red drapery, Jerome the scholar-saint looks more like a military man sitting up in bed before first light, writing out the orders of the day. The sinews at the juncture of neck and shoulderblade are taut with nervous energy. Did Caravaggio model him on Malaspina himself? One of Wignacourt's closest advisers, Malaspina had been away from Malta for four years, and had returned on the same flotilla that had brought the artist to the island. Now in his late sixties, he had chosen to rededicate himself to the Order of St John, and to God. Caravaggio's picture was perhaps intended to commemorate that decision.\n\nWith its skilful foreshortenings, dramatic light and shade and compellingly lifelike depiction of dignified old age, the picture was a virtuoso performance and a demonstration of just what Caravaggio could do for the Knights of the Order of St John. Malaspina would eventually bequeath the _St Jerome Writing_ to the chapel of the Italian Langue \u2013 it now hangs in the co-cathedral of St John in Valletta, having survived a heist in 1985, during which it was cut out of its frame with a Stanley knife \u2013 but originally he hung it in his house. Because Malaspina was in Wignacourt's immediate circle, the painting would soon have been seen by all the right people. More commissions followed.\n\nIn the autumn or winter of 1607 Caravaggio was approached to paint the likeness of one of the most senior and distinguished Knights of Malta, Fra Antonio Martelli. The picture, which now hangs in the Pitti Palace in Florence, is one of the most impressive of all seventeenth-century portraits. This depiction of an obdurate and forceful man, in lean old age, rheumy eyes gazing off into the distance, anticipates the mature portraiture of Rembrandt by some half a century. In the darkness of Caravaggio's Maltese studio, the air feels dense with thought. The old warrior, mouth set in an expression of habitual determination, looks out and away \u2013 but it is really as if he is looking _within_ , sifting his own memories and remembering his old battles. His left hand rests on the pommel of his sword, a swiftly painted tangle of finely wrought metal, while in his right hand he holds a string of Rosary beads. These are the twin attributes of the Friar of War, dedicated at once to God and the profession of arms. Caravaggio has painted the hands so cursorily they seem unfinished. It was the sitter's face that fascinated him.\n\nMartelli was seventy-four years old when Caravaggio painted him and had been a Knight of Malta for almost fifty, a doughty veteran of the Great Siege and numerous other battles and engagements. He had served, for many years, as Ferdinando I de' Medici's _consigliere di guerra_ , his 'councillor of war'. He was a canny and gifted diplomat, the scion of an ancient Florentine family that had made the mistake of opposing the Medici earlier in the sixteenth century, and had paid the price. Martelli had undone the damage and re-established the influence of his family in the Grand Duchy of Florence. In the portrait he is dressed for winter, in a thick black monastic habit with a white long-sleeved shirt underneath. A large, eight-pointed cross of the Order of St John gleams on his chest in the half-dark. The habit marks him out as a Grand Cross of the order, the highest rank to which an elite Knight of Justice could rise. Martelli was indeed a member of the Venerable Council, an ally of Wignacourt and Malaspina. He had been appointed the order's Prior of Messina in 1606, and was regarded in Medici circles as something of a phenomenon: as late as 1618, when Martelli was in his eighty-fifth year, the Grand Duke of Florence would appoint him General of Artillery in Tuscany. There is a strong sense of his formidable character in Caravaggio's portrait, even a hint of hero-worship about it. As a child, thanks to the plague, he had known few men on whom to model himself. A man like Martelli may have awoken in him not only admiration, but something resembling the emotion of filial respect.\n\nBy November or December, Caravaggio was painting the Grand Master himself. According to Bellori he depicted Wignacourt both seated and standing with a page, but only the second picture survives. It can be seen in the Louvre. The painting is somewhat damaged but remains none the less an impressive essay in a type of grand manner portrait originally pioneered by Titian in his work for the Spanish royal family more than half a century earlier. It is a more old-fashioned, stiff, conservative work of art than the portrait of Martelli, which may be a reflection of Alof de Wignacourt's unbending sense of his own importance. Instead of a monastic habit the Grand Master wears an ornate suit of mid sixteenth-century armour, a deliberate anachronism intended to evoke the glorious past, and in particular the heroism of the Great Siege. Bellori says the portrait was actually hung in the knights' armoury, where the similarly ornate armour of Jean de la Valette was also displayed, which must have reinforced the association. He holds the baton of high office in his gauntleted hands.\n\nWignacourt had a prominent wart on the left side of his nose, which Caravaggio has been careful to shroud in shadow. The Grand Master looks off to one side, but his look, unlike that of Martelli, is neither introspective nor retrospective. He looks to the future with necessary vigilance, the guardian of Christendom's frontline with Islam. While Wignacourt strikes a slightly creaking pose of authority, his adolescent pageboy enters the scene, stage right, with an expression of cool wariness in his wide and curious eyes. He holds the Grand Master's helmet against his downy cheek, allowing its plumes to caress the side of his face. The pageboy's identity is unknown, but a possible candidate is Alessandro Costa, son of Caravaggio's patron Ottavio Costa. He had travelled to Malta on the same flotilla as the artist, entering Wignacourt's entourage of pages on his arrival. Within the conventions of state portraiture, he represents innocent youth, in contrast with Wignacourt's wise old age. But his presence also adds an irregular, unexpected frisson of eroticism to the scene. Caravaggio's evident interest in the boy threatens to unbalance the composition.\n\nBy all accounts, Wignacourt was delighted by the portrait. The artist's biographers are unanimous in asserting that Caravaggio received the cross of the Order of St John as a direct reward for the Grand Master's portrait. Wignacourt may even have discussed the matter with him during sittings for the picture. If so, he would have made Caravaggio aware that there was a considerable stumbling block to the conferment of the honour. Having abolished the Knighthood of Magistral Obedience, the only kind for which Caravaggio might have been eligible, Wignacourt would have to appeal directly to Pope Paul V for permission to reinstate it: he was obliged to seek papal support whenever going beyond the letter of the order's statutes. That is exactly what he did.\n\nOn 29 December 1607 the Grand Master wrote to his ambassador in Rome, Francesco Lomellini. He briefed Lomellini on his desire to bestow knighthoods of Magistral Obedience on Caravaggio and one other person. He did not name the painter, simply referring to him as 'a person of great virtues, honourable, and respectful', and explaining that he wanted to give him a knighthood in order so as 'not to lose' him \u2013 ' _per non perderlo_ '. Wignacourt wrote separately to the historian of the Order of St John, Giacomo Bosio, who was then in Rome, urging him also to lobby for papal favour in the matter. In addition, Wignacourt's secretary, Francesco dell'Antella, wrote in support of the petition to grant the two knighthoods. The message was duly passed on to the pope himself:\n\n> Most Holy Father, the Grand Master of the [Order of the] Hospital of St John of Jerusalem wishes to honour some persons who have shown virtue and merit and have a desire and devotion to dedicate themselves to his service and that of the [Order of the] Hospital and does not have at the present moment any more suitable way of doing so; he therefore humbly begs Your Holiness to deign to grant to him, by a Brief, the authority and power for one time only to decorate with the habit of a Magistral Knight two persons favoured by him and to be nominated by him; despite the fact that one of the two had once committed homicide in a brawl and despite that it is prohibited by the Chapter General of the Order that the habit of a Magistral Knight can be conceded any further. He begs to receive this request as a very special favour, because of the great desire he holds to honour such persons who have shown virtue and merit. And may the Lord preserve you for a long time.\n\nThe request was granted at once. Papal permission was given in a missive of 7 February 1608, spelling out that 'It has pleased the Most Holy Father to approve for Aloph de Wignacourt Grand Master of the [Order of the] Hospital of St John of Jerusalem authority to present the habit of a Magistral Knight to two persons favoured by him despite the fact that one of the two committed homicide in a brawl.' On 15 February the letter reached Malta. Wignacourt had secured for Caravaggio his much coveted knighthood.\n\nThere were two conditions. Like any other novice, he could not be dubbed knight until he had spent a full year on the island, so he would have to stay until mid July to receive the honour. He would also have to pay a tribute known as the _passaggio_ before he could be allowed to enter the brotherhood. Being a fugitive from justice, Caravaggio had little money, but Wignacourt had a solution to that as well. The Oratory of St John, attached to the co-cathedral of St John in Valletta, had only recently been completed. It was one of the most important buildings in Malta's new capital. But it had no altarpiece. If Caravaggio would supply one, the picture would be accepted in lieu of his _passaggio_.\n\nThe subject specified for the work was _The Beheading of St John_ , which also meant a deadline before the end of summer. Wignacourt wanted to unveil the work on the Feast Day of the Decollation of St John \u2013 the day that marked his beheading \u2013 which was 29 August. Ideally the artist would have finished the work by July, so he could receive his knighthood exactly a year after his arrival on the island.\n\nIt is intriguing that Wignacourt should have omitted Caravaggio's name from his letter to the pope. Perhaps he had been tipped off that there were those in Rome who would lobby against the petition if they knew that it was to benefit Caravaggio; or perhaps he worried that Paul V might himself object, because conferment of a Maltese knighthood automatically commuted a capital sentence to one of exile. The reference to a man 'who had once committed homicide in a brawl' was a smokescreen: the phrase made it hard for anyone in Rome to connect the candidate for a Maltese knighthood with Caravaggio, who had killed a man not in a brawl but in a premeditated duel, which was a very different matter. It is possible that Caravaggio himself had lied about the murder to Wignacourt \u2013 duelling was banned on Malta and greatly frowned upon by the Grand Crosses of the order. Whether he did so or not, the Grand Master himself was being economical with the truth. It seems he was absolutely determined that the deal should go through.\n\nWignacourt was a dynamic and formidable Grand Master, with great aspirations for Malta. Caravaggio's portrait shows him as the proud absolute ruler of a brand-new city, founded on the monastic ideals of Christian chivalry. But he must have been conscious to a degree that Valletta was something of an artistic desert. Wignacourt had tried once before to address that deficiency, attempting but failing to lure an unnamed Florentine painter to Malta in 1606. the Grand Master knew that it would be hard to tempt any truly sought-after artist to faraway, provincial, sun-baked Malta, in the shadow of the threat of Islam. But now fate had brought Caravaggio to the island. He had even come of his own accord.\n\nThe Grand Master's ambitions and the painter's needs might appear to have dovetailed perfectly: Wignacourt would get his great altarpiece, while Caravaggio would get his knighthood, and the death sentence that had hung over him for nearly two years would be lifted. But the painter may not have understood the true nature of the deal being dangled in front of him. That phrase in Wignacourt's first letter to his Roman ambassador Lomellini, in which he talks of knighting Caravaggio in order 'not to lose him', is telling. Not to lose him carries a further implication, which might seem obvious but has gone largely overlooked: to keep him. By giving Caravaggio a knighthood, Wignacourt would automatically acquire the power to do just that. Under the statutes of the order no Knight of Malta was allowed to leave the island, even for a day, without the Grand Master's permission. For Caravaggio, his knighthood was a short-cut back to Rome. But there is nothing to indicate that Wignacourt viewed it like that at all. It was just as likely his way of laying a trap. Having got a great painter to Malta, why should he ever let him go?\n\nThere was no reason why any of this would have dawned on Caravaggio until his actual arming as a Knight of Magistral Obedience. Only then need he be informed about the extent of the obedience required of him. Meanwhile, in the spring and summer of 1608, he concentrated on planning and painting the largest altarpiece of his entire career, _The Beheading of St John_. The daunting scale of the work, which was to be over ten feet high and more than fifteen feet across, meant that he probably had to change workshop. In addition, models would have to be found and a few necessary props sourced: a butcher's knife, a gilded plate, a sheepskin and a length of rope.\n\nThe story of St John's martyrdom is told in the New Testament books of Matthew (14:3\u201312) and Mark (6:17\u201328). King Herod had thrown John into prison because he had dared to reprimand him for his illicit marriage to Herodias. Herod's consort plotted with her daughter, Salome, to bring about John's execution. At the king's birthday feast, Salome danced so seductively for Herod that he granted her anything she desired. She asked for the head of John the Baptist. An executioner beheaded the saint in his prison. The severed head was laid on a platter and given to Salome at the feast.\n\nThere were two main conventions for artists painting John's martyrdom. Either they depicted the moment when the dish was served up to a gloating Salome, or they depicted the instant before the beheading, with the executioner poised to strike. Caravaggio painted his own version of the latter subject, but imagined something even darker taking place. The scene is set in the gloomy courtyard of an oppressively harsh prison, beside a gateway built of massively heavy stone quoins and a barred window at which two prisoners huddle pathetically for a glimpse of the killing. The executioner is another in the line of Caravaggio's impassive, workmanlike killers. He leans over the body of his victim, whose hands are trussed cruelly behind his back. The executioner has laid down his sword, the cold steel of its blade glinting on the dull earth.\n\nShockingly he has made a botch of the job, cutting deep into the saint's neck, deep enough to sever the jugular, but leaving the head still attached to the trunk. Now he reaches behind him for the sharpened knife in the scabbard at his belt, which he needs to cut the last flap of flesh connecting John's head to his body. He grabs the saint by his hair so that he can get at the place he needs to with his knife. He might be a butcher working at his slab.\n\nDoes the saint still live? His pale face seems animated, as if he were in his last death agonies, recoiling from the gurgled, choking rush of his own blood. In the frozen world of Caravaggio's painting, he must wait forever for the _coup de gr\u00e2ce_. A swathe of red drapery has been thrown carelessly across his otherwise naked body. This sudden shock of colour in the prison gloom emphasizes the atrocious nature of what is taking place. It is like a pictogram or symbol of bloodletting in the dark. The martyr lies on a sheepskin, which symbolically makes of him a blessed Christian lamb, brought to sacrifice. The painter has contrived to pick out the martyr's naked left foot with a stray shaft of light. Surrounded by pools of darkness, placed next to some twisting coils of rope, it is almost like a still life detail \u2013 separate from the rest of the scene and yet emblematic of the poor and painfully solitary death which the saint endures.\n\nThe novices of the Order of St John listened to sermons and received instruction in the oratory for which Caravaggio's painting was destined. The place was both a school for the martyrs of the future and a burial ground for the martyrs of the past \u2013 the bones of the knights who had died at the Great Siege were interred beneath its stone-flagged floor. Within the oratory, novices were trained in the hard ways of the Knights of Malta and made to understand that they too might have to face death in a distant land at the hands of unbelievers. Caravaggio's altarpiece was designed to make sure that they could be under no illusions about what that might mean. A martyr's death brought the reward of eternal glory with the saints in heaven, but there would be nothing glorious about the death itself. It could be a death much like this one, a sordid act of butchery in a dark and lonely place. The picture is like a catechism, an asking of questions. Are you sure you have it in you to be a Knight of the Order of St John? Are you ready to die? To die like this?\n\nNext to the executioner, underscoring Caravaggio's transposition of John's legend to a cruel present, stands the figure of a Turkish jailor with heavy black keys dangling at his belt. He directs operations with an air of weary impatience, pointing unnecessarily at the richly chased and gilded plate onto which the severed head must be placed. Beside him stands an old woman with her head in her hands, distraught at the spectacle of the martyrdom. She is another version of the goitrous peasant woman gazing piteously at the crucified body of the saint in _The Crucifixion of St Andrew_. She stands for Christian pity and prayer. The main group of five figures is completed by that of the serving girl who has been sent to collect the head. Her pose has an eloquent woodenness about it. She is trying her best to carry out a task that appals her, affecting a mechanical workaday demeanour that the expression on her face belies. She stares fixedly down at the plate in her hands, pursing her lips like somebody desperately stifling the impulse to puke.\n\nWhat she cannot bear to look at is the spurting of the saint's blood from the deep gash in his nearly severed neck. It is so thick that it resembles a skein of red wool laid on the ground. Beneath the main pool of coagulating gore, there lie some thinner threads of blood. Anyone looking closely at the picture sees that they have been made to spell out the letters of Caravaggio's own name: 'F. Michelangelo'. Inscribed in the blood of St John the Baptist himself, this is the only example of the artist's signature. He had never signed a painting before, and would never do so again.\n\nThis boldly idiosyncratic gesture has been subjected to a variety of anachronistic modern interpretations. It has been read, for example, as the veiled retrospective confession of Caravaggio, the murderer; and as a proto-Freudian token of his fetishistic obsession with violence and death. But the true meaning of the signature in blood is clear and unambiguous. The key to it lies in a tradition of Christian symbolism to which Caravaggio had already alluded earlier in his career. Years before, when painting _The Martyrdom of St Matthew_ for the Contarelli Chapel in Rome, he had evoked the ancient link between martyrdom and baptism by having Matthew's blood flow into a baptismal pool. The blood signature alluded to the same association, although its meaning was subtly different. In _The Martyrdom of Matthew_ , it was Matthew and Matthew alone who had been reborn into immortality through his own martyrdom. In _The Beheading of St John_ , it is not only the martyr who gains eternal life. Caravaggio himself has been symbolically reborn, through his acceptance into the ranks of those dedicated to the martyred John the Baptist.\n\n_The Beheading of St John_ was Caravaggio's gift to the Knights of Malta, a due paid in lieu of his _passaggio_ into the Order of St John. Its completion, therefore, marked his entry into the brotherhood of knights. Hence that prominent 'F' before his name. It stands for 'Fra', or 'Brother', the official prefix of any Knight of St John. The artist's signature, written in John the Baptist's blood, was a public proclamation. It was Caravaggio's way of asserting that his own mortal sin, the murderous letting of a man's blood, had been washed away by the blood of his new patron saint. Now he could return to Rome, not as a criminal but as a proud Christian soldier.\n\n#### COMPETING WITH MICHELANGELO\n\nCaravaggio must have added his signature to the work some time shortly after 14 July 1608; because it was on that date, exactly a year and two days after his arrival on Malta, that he was invested with the habit of a Knight of Magistral Obedience and given the title 'Fra Michelangelo Merisi'. The address given by the Grand Master at the ceremony of the investiture can only have increased the artist's pleasure in his newfound status. In the Bull of his reception, Wignacourt went so far as to compare Caravaggio with Apelles of Kos, the celebrated painter of ancient Greece:\n\n> Whereas it behooves the leaders and rulers of commonweals to prove their benevolence by advancing men, not only on account of their noble birth but also on account of their art and science whatever it may be, so that human talent, hopeful of obtaining reward and honour, might apply itself to praiseworthy studies:\n> \n> And whereas the Honorable Michael Angelo, born in the town Carraca, in the vernacular called Caravaggio, in Lombardy, having been called to this city, burning with zeal for the order, has communicated to us his fervent wish to be adorned with our habit and insignia.\n> \n> Therefore, as we wish to gratify the desire of this excellent painter, so that our island of Malta, and our order, may at last glory in this adopted disciple and citizen with no less pride than the island of Kos (also within our jurisdiction) extols her Apelles; and that, should we compare him to more recent artists of our age, we may not afterwards be envious of the artistic excellence of any other outstanding man of equally important name and brush... and as we wish to comply with the pious wish of the aforesaid Michael Angelo, we receive and admit him, by the grace of God almighty and by a papal authorization especially granted to us for the purpose, to the rank of Brethren and Knights known as Brethren and Knights of Obedience...\n\nThis pretty sequence of tributes pays the greatest compliment of all to Wignacourt himself, because if Caravaggio is a new Apelles, the Grand Master is by implication a second Alexander the Great. The author of the encomium, with its flowery phrases and polished rhetoric, was almost certainly Wignacourt's erudite secretary, Francesco dell'Antella, who had also played a part in lobbying for Caravaggio's knighthood some months earlier. Dell'Antella was a learned Florentine, who for a Knight of Malta prided himself on his sophistication and classical learning. He also took an unusually strong interest in art. He was himself a gifted amateur draughtsman, who produced an impressively detailed drawing of Valletta as one of the illustrations for his friend Giacomo Bosio's history of the Order of St John. Dell'Antella would eventually become an official member of the Accademia del Disegno in Florence, the first Italian art academy, founded by Giorgio Vasari in the mid sixteenth century. Like Caravaggio, dell'Antella was a proud and stormy man with a tendency to violence. He had even killed Wignacourt's own nephew in a swordfight, but had been magnanimously forgiven by the Grand Master on the grounds that he had been unjustly provoked. This similarity of temperament and history may have given the two men some affinity.\n\nPerhaps as a gesture of gratitude to dell'Antella, perhaps to commission, Caravaggio painted a wry and learned cabinet picture for him, _Sleeping Cupid_. The mischievous and malign child-god lies sleeping, one wing folded beneath him, the other reduced to the barely perceptible rim of a feathery arc. In his left hand he limply holds a bow, of Indo-Persian design, and a feathered dart of love. A dim light illuminates the scene, suggestive of the first glimmers of dawn. The picture is a darker, drowsier, dreamlike version of the _Omnia vincit amor_ painted in 1602 for Vincenzo Giustiniani. This time the Cupid is not an adolescent boy but a child, with the plump, fleshy body and heavy, lolling head of a toddler.\n\nThe painting is close in spirit to a poem about a statue of sleeping Cupid in Giambattista Marino's _La_ _Galeria_ , an anthology of verse inspired by works of art both real and imaginary. Marino was a close contemporary of Caravaggio, and had been a friend of his in Rome, so it is possible that the painter had the poet's verses in mind when he painted his picture.\n\nMarino begins by warning the prospective visitor to his poetical museum against waking the image of the sleeping child:\n\n_Gu\u00e0rdati Peregrino_\n\n_non gli andar si vicino,_\n\n_nol desar, prega, ch'egli_\n\n_dorma in eterno pur, n\u00e9 mai si svegli._\n\n_Se tu'l sonno tenace_\n\n_rompi al fanciul sagace,_\n\n_desto il vedrai pi\u00f9 forte_\n\n_trattar quell'armi, ond'\u00e8_\n\n_e peggior che Morte_.\n\nLook out, Pilgrim\n\ndo not get so close,\n\ndo not rouse him, pray that he\n\nsleeps forever and never wakes up.\n\nIf you break the clever boy's sleep,\n\nright away you will see him yet more strongly\n\ntake up those weapons that make him\n\nworse than death.\n\nMarino's sleeping child is lost in cruel dreams of deceptions, massacres and sufferings. Dawn is breaking and he will soon awake to visit more miseries of love on his countless victims. The poem ends with a question, and a joking reminder that the subject of all these fears and fantasies is after all merely a work of art:\n\n_Qual tu ti sia, che 'l miri,_\n\n_temi non vivi e spiri?_\n\n_Stendi securo il passo:_\n\n_toccal pur, scherza teco, egli \u00e8 di sasso_.\n\nWhoever you are, who gaze upon him,\n\ndo you fear lest he live and breathe?\n\nLengthen your stride with confidence, do not tiptoe,\n\nTouch him even \u2013 I was teasing you \u2013 he is made of stone.\n\nCaravaggio's painting also plays teasingly on the boundary between art and reality. The sleeping boy is an image, but of a disconcertingly lifelike kind. His teeth can be seen glinting behind his half-closed lips. The abandon with which his head is thrown back and the look of absorption on his face powerfully conjure the illusion of a real child caught up in a vivid dream. But there are other ways of looking at this picture too. Like Marino's poem, Caravaggio's painting looks back knowingly to the world of antiquity. Not only does it evoke the myth of Cupid; it also calls to mind the many ancient Greek legends about images of art so deceptively convincing that they seemed real \u2013 the painted grapes of Xeuxis which, as Pliny the Elder relates, fooled the birds into pecking at them, or the statue of a woman infused with such love by the sculptor Pygmalion that she actually came to life and stepped down off her pedestal. In painting the _Sleeping Cupid_ , Caravaggio was making his own contribution to the imaginary art gallery of the classical past \u2013 and living up to the classical compliment that had so recently been paid to him at his investiture as a Knight of Malta. He had been dubbed the new Apelles, and now he was wittily acting the part.\n\nThere was yet another layer of allusion for the learned Francesco dell'Antella to enjoy as he contemplated his new possession, this time to a more recent work of art. The subject of Cupid asleep was famously associated with Caravaggio's namesake, Michelangelo Buonarroti. When Michelangelo was young, he had created a sculpture of a _Sleeping Cupid_ so perfectly classical in spirit that he was able to pass it off as a genuine antique work of art. Giorgio Vasari tells the story:\n\n> [He] set himself to make from another piece of marble a Cupid that was sleeping, of the size of life. This, when finished, was shown... to Lorenzo di Pier Francesco [Medici] as a beautiful thing, and he, having pronounced the same judgement, said to Michelangelo: 'If you were to bury it under ground and then send it to Rome treated in such a manner as to make it look old, I am certain that it would pass for an antique, and you would thus obtain much more for it than by selling it here.' It is said that Michelangelo handled it in such a manner as to make it appear an antique; nor is there any reason to marvel at that, seeing as he had genius enough to do it, and even more.\n\nMichelangelo Buonarroti had created a sculpture of Cupid to rival the masterpieces of antiquity. Now Michelangelo Merisi was vying with him by emulating that very act of classical emulation. Implicit in the gesture was the Renaissance conceit of the _paragone_ , a contest between different art forms. Michelangelo, the sculptor, had given tangible form to his _Sleeping Cupid_. Caravaggio, the painter, could not do that. But he could create a greater illusion of flesh and blood, and he could use his mastery of chiaroscuro to evoke the light of approaching dawn.\n\nThe _Sleeping Cupid_ is essentially a _jeu d'esprit_. But it is also a vitally important painting for the understanding of Caravaggio's work as a whole, demonstrating his high degree of erudition and establishing beyond any doubt an explicit spirit of competition with Michelangelo, which had seemed at least implicit in so many of his Roman paintings, from _The Calling of St Matthew_ onwards. Francesco dell'Antella made the comparison overtly when he went out of his way to show the picture to a great-nephew of Michelangelo named Francesco Buonarroti, who was also a Knight of Malta; and he then actually sent the work to Florence in the hope that the most celebrated member of the modern Buonarroti family, Fra Francesco's brother, the poet and dramatist Michelangelo the Younger, would give his opinion of it. Michelangelo the Younger clearly did see this rivalrous homage to his great-uncle's marble Cupid, because on 24 April 1610, dell'Antella wrote to him to say: 'I value now more than before my Cupid, after hearing the praise of your Lordship for which I kiss your hand.'\n\n#### APELLES IN PRISON\n\nThe perennially spiky Caravaggio was celebrated on Malta. In his own estimation he had always been a _valent'huomo_. Now he was truly being treated like one. Alof de Wignacourt was delighted with the painter's work for the order. According to Bellori, he was so impressed by the enormous new altarpiece for the Oratory of St John that 'as a reward, beside the honour of the Cross, the Grand Master put a gold chain around Caravaggio's neck, and made him a gift of two slaves, along with other signs of esteem and appreciation for his work'. Finally, Caravaggio had got his own gold chain.\n\nIt may only have been at this moment of apparent happiness and prosperity that the full implications of being a Knight of Malta finally dawned on him. Not only was he bound to the island by the Grand Master's whim, but obliged to live in strict observance of the statutes of the order. Sexual indiscretions were liable to be tolerated as long as they were committed out of the public eye, but any other disorderly conduct would be ruthlessly dealt with under the knights' code of law. That meant no shouting or trading of insults, no fighting, no duelling with swords. For a man like Caravaggio, that was never going to be easy, especially in a town like Valletta. The city teemed with proud young noblemen from the different national Langues, intensely conscious of the most minute differences in rank and status. As Alof de Wignacourt himself remarked in a letter to the pope, 'It is impossible, in a place where so many are devoted to the profession of arms, and where so much importance is given to points of honour, that there should not be numerous fights and brawls.'\n\nCostanza Colonna and her son, Fabrizio Sforza Colonna, must have known that they were taking a calculated risk when they sent Caravaggio to Malta. Their hope must have been that the ruthless military discipline of the Order of St John would persuade him to keep his temper under control. Everything went to plan for a while, as Caravaggio painted for the central figures of the Maltese establishment. But the gamble did not pay off. The painter's pride in his knighthood came before his greatest fall from grace. Caravaggio's character had always been a volatile compound, an uneasy blend of Lenten piety and the raucous spirit of Carnival. This was never more true than on Malta.\n\nIt is impossible to know what triggered the outburst that undid him. Perhaps it was his shocked realization that Wignacourt indeed wanted 'not to lose him' \u2013 to chain him to the island, perhaps not forever, but for several more years. Whatever the cause, just weeks after admission to the Order of St John, Caravaggio lashed out against its authority. In the space of a few hours he went from hero to villain.\n\nThe early biographers are vague on the subject of what went wrong for Caravaggio on Malta. Mancini does not even mention the incident. According to Baglione, who was better informed, the cause of the trouble was an argument with a Knight of Justice: 'In Malta Michelangelo had a dispute with a Knight of Justice and somehow insulted him.' Knights of Justice were higher ranking than mere Knights of Magistral Obedience. So Baglione may have meant to imply an argument over status, which was just the sort of 'point of honour' liable to cause the frequent fights between brothers of the order mentioned by Wignacourt in his letter to the pope.\n\nBellori's account is similar to Baglione's, except that in his version of the story Caravaggio's mercurial nature is the driving force behind the calamity. Like the hero of a Greek tragedy, he is a man ruinously undone by a fatal flaw of character: 'He lived in Malta in dignity and abundance. But suddenly, because of his tormented nature, he lost his prosperity and the support of the Grand Master. On account of an ill-considered quarrel with a noble knight, he was jailed and reduced to a state of misery and fear.'\n\nCaravaggio certainly committed an offence on Malta, one serious enough to merit imprisonment. But for centuries the exact nature of that offence remained a mystery. Generations of historians combed the archives in Malta, where the great books of statutes, crimes and punishments are still preserved in the library of the Order of St John, but to little effect. One of the volumes stored there revealed much about the aftermath of Caravaggio's crime, but nothing about the crime itself. Tantalizingly, a number of adjacent pages in that same book had been systematically and deliberately painted out with a thick layer of opaque pigment.\n\nIt was only in 2002, after the Maltese scholar Keith Sciberras had taken the initiative of X-raying some of those obscured pages, that the truth was revealed. The painter had indeed become embroiled in an altercation with 'a noble knight', just as Bellori had indicated. Baglione turned out to have been right too. The aggrieved party was indeed a Knight of Justice, Fra Giovanni Rodomonte Roero, the Conte della Vezza. He was seriously injured in the incident.\n\nOne of several documents thus uncovered was a report of the preliminary results of an enquiry ordered by Grand Master Wignacourt and the Venerable Council on 19 August 1608. The purpose of that enquiry was to outline the events of a 'tumult' that had taken place the night before. The incident had involved several knights, some of whom had smashed open the door of the residence of the Organist of the Conventual Church of St John, Fra Prospero Coppini.\n\nAs a result of that preliminary enquiry, a criminal commission was set up to investigate the incident in more detail. The three investigators were Fra Philiberto de Matha, Fra Giovanni Gomes de Azevedo and Antonio Turrensi. They established that a brawl, involving seven knights altogether, had broken out in the house of Fra Coppini, but since he himself had not taken part, he was absolved. The commission found that Fra Giovanni Rodomonte Roero, the Conte della Vezza, had been the victim of an assault by six aggressors, including Caravaggio.\n\nThe artist's companions on the night in question included two senior figures in the Maltese hierarchy, both Knights of Justice like the victim, Roero. One was Fra Giulio Accarigi, who was originally from Siena but who had been a Knight of Malta since 1585. He had a reputation for violence and a criminal record to match, having spent two months in detention for assault in 1595 and a further two years in jail some ten years later. The other Knight of Justice involved was Fra Giovanni Battista Scaravello, from Turin, who had arrived on Malta in 1602 and had entered the Order of St John two years after that.\n\nTwo young novices were also implicated: Francesco Benzi, who had come to the island in 1606; and Giovanni Pecci, from Siena, who had arrived on Malta within a day of Caravaggio himself, on 13 July 1607. Both men would have known the painter as a fellow novice. One of the conditions of entry to the order was a rigorous programme of training in the selfsame Oratory of St John \u2013 also known as the Oratory of the Novices \u2013 for which the artist had painted his altarpiece of _The Beheading of St John_. Benzi and Pecci would have prepared for their knighthoods alongside Caravaggio.\n\nNo eyewitness description of the fight has been found in the Maltese archives, so the parts played by those involved have to be deduced from the punishments each received. Accarigi and Scaravello seem to have taken minor roles. Each would eventually be given six months in jail, a relatively mild sentence in the harsh context of Maltese justice (although it is also possible that they were let off lightly on account of their rank). Benzi and Pecci were condemned to two and four years in prison respectively. The main culprits appear to have been Caravaggio himself and a certain Fra Giovanni Pietro de Ponte, who was a deacon of the church, and another frequent offender. De Ponte was identified by the criminal commission as a prime mover of the assault. On the night of the fight he had been carrying a small pistol referred to as a _sclopo ad rotas_. It was a bullet or bullets from the _sclopo_ that had inflicted serious wounds on Roero. De Ponte would be defrocked, deprived of his habit and denied forever his status as a Knight of Malta. Caravaggio was never sentenced for his part in the assault, for reasons that will become clear. But his crime was clearly deemed to be at least as serious as that of de Ponte, because the first report of the criminal commission into the case recommended that these two \u2013 but none of the others involved \u2013 be arrested immediately.\n\nThat report was submitted to the Venerable Council, whose members included Alof de Wignacourt, Fabrizio Sforza Colonna, Antonio Martelli and Ippolito Malaspina, on 27 August 1608. Present too would have been Wignacourt's secretary, Francesco dell'Antella, for whom Caravaggio had recently painted the _Sleeping Cupid_. But Malta's strict code of discipline, and the seriousness of the assault on the Conte della Vezza, would have given the artist's patrons and supporters no choice but to order his immediate arrest. On 28 August 1608 Caravaggio was seized and imprisoned within the forbidding precincts of the Castel Sant'Angelo.\n\nThe timing of his offence could not have been more perversely precise. Caravaggio had managed to get himself thrown into jail on the eve of one of the most important days in the calendar of the Knights of Malta: 29 August was the Feast of the Decollato, the day on which the order gathered in the Oratory of St John to remember the decapitation of its patron saint. In 1608, it was also the day Wignacourt had chosen to unveil Caravaggio's monumental altarpiece of _The Beheading of St John_. But instead of attending in his knight's robes, the painter now languished in an underground cell.\n\nThe 'tumult' cast a long shadow over the celebrations of the feast of the Decollato. To make matters worse a dispute had arisen between the confraternity responsible for arranging those celebrations, the Compagnia di San Giovanni Decollato, and the musicians of the Conventual Church \u2013 including, coincidentally, Fra Prospero Coppini, the organist whose door Caravaggio had helped to kick in. The musicians were unhappy about their pay and most of them went on strike, so that on the feast day itself neither Vespers nor the solemn Mass was sung in the oratory before Caravaggio's picture. The unveiling for which Wignacourt had planned so carefully could hardly have gone more badly wrong.\n\n#### 'A ROTTEN AND DISEASED LIMB'\n\nCaravaggio spent the entire month of September detained in the _guva_ , an underground cell cut directly into the rock of the Castel Sant'Angelo. It is a bell-shaped chamber, eleven feet deep, sealed by a heavy trap door, and reserved for knights who had been guilty of serious offences. The traces of their presence remain in the form of several melancholy graffiti, one of which records the last-known words of a sixteenth-century Scottish Knight of Malta, one John Sandilands: 'imprisoned forever, victim of evil triumphing over good \u2013 so much for friendship'.\n\nCaravaggio's own thoughts were less mournful and more pragmatic. Few had ever broken out of the Castel Sant'Angelo, while escape from the _guva_ itself was unheard of, but he was determined to do so. Even if he could scale the walls of the rock-cut cell, he would then need to climb the ramparts of the castle itself. After that he would have to lower himself down a sheer 200-foot precipice to the sea. To do all this he would need help.\n\nGetting off Malta itself would pose a whole tangle of other problems. Caravaggio would need a boat, skippered by a brave and corruptible captain. But the boat would be unable to collect him at the bottom of the castle cliff, because the only way to the open sea from there lay through the narrow opening of Valletta's Grand Harbour. Any vessel attempting to escape by that route would certainly have been spotted by the order's patrols. The journey would have to be made from one of the island's many small bays, and by night, to avoid detection. This meant that Caravaggio would have to swim round the promontory on which the Castel Sant'Angelo stood, then make his way to a quieter part of the island by foot, to wait for the vessel skippered by his accomplice. From there, the most logical destination would be Sicily, the nearest part of the mainland, some sixteen hours away with a favourable headwind.\n\nSomehow, Caravaggio did indeed manage all of this. By the end of October 1608 he was in the Sicilian port town of Syracuse, some sixty miles from Malta. Bellori describes the artist's great escape in a single terse sentence: 'In order to free himself he was exposed to grave danger, but he managed to scale the prison walls at night and to flee unrecognized to Sicily, with such speed that no one could catch him.' Baglione adds that a rope ladder was used in Caravaggio's escape, but neither writer makes any suggestions about who might have helped his getaway. He must have had help from someone on the inside in the Castel Sant'Angelo, but who that someone was remains a mystery.\n\nCaravaggio was officially declared missing on 6 October, when\n\n> was heard the complaint of Lord Brother Hieronymus Varays, Procurator for the Treasury of the Order, made against brother Michael Angelo Marresi [ _sic_ ] de Caravaggio who while detained in the prison of the Castle of St Angelo fled from it without permission of the most illustrious and most exalted Lord the Grand Master and departed secretly from the district, against the form of the Statute 13 concerning prohibitions and penalties: the most Illustrious and most exalted Lord the Grand Master and Venerable Council commissioned the Lord Brothers Joanni Honoret and Bladius Suarez that, through the agency of the Master Shield-Bearer, they should see that all due diligence is shown in finding out the said Brother Michael Angelo and in summoning him to appear, and should gather information about his flight...\n\nThere is a strong implication here that an expeditionary force was sent to recapture Caravaggio and render him up to the Maltese court to face sentence both for the assault on the Conte della Vezza and for his defiance in fleeing the island. The Grand Master was known to be extremely severe on knights who transgressed Statute 13 of the order's legal code by leaving Malta without his permission. He insisted that all fugitives be returned to Valletta at once, preferably in secrecy. It was his normal practice in such cases to write to all the order's receivers in the major cities and ports of Europe to demand the immediate detainment of the renegade knight. Yet seven weeks later Caravaggio was still at large in Sicily, having evaded whatever attempts had been made to rearrest him. On 27 November, his trial on Malta went ahead in his absence. The Venerable Council determined that he had escaped from prison using ropes. It decided to disgrace him and deprive him of his habit. At the same time, the council heard and passed judgement in the case of the August assault. Four of the six guilty knights were sentenced to jail terms, while the church deacon, Giovanni Pietro de Ponte, was to be defrocked like Caravaggio.\n\nAccording to Maltese custom, criminal trials and ceremonial punishments were carried out in the Oratory of St John, where Caravaggio's _Beheading of St John_ now hung directly over the main altar. So four days after the trial, on 1 December 1608, the ritual defrocking known as the _privatio habitus_ took place in that very room. The archive records that 'a General Assembly was summoned of the Venerable Bailiffs, the Priors, Preceptors and Brothers in the Church and Oratory of St John our patron, at the sound of the bell, according to the ancient and praiseworthy custom of the Holy Order of St John of Jerusalem... the information inspected and carefully read out against Michelangelo Merisi de Caravaggio...'\n\nWolfgang Kilian's mid seventeenth-century engraving of a criminal trial on Malta conjures up the scene of Caravaggio's _privatio habitus_. On either side of the Oratory of St John sit the massed ranks of the order's Grand Crosses. In December 1608 they would have included not only the artist's most prominent patrons such as Antonio Martelli, but also many other veterans of the great sea and land battles of recent European history \u2013 survivors of the Great Siege, of Lepanto, perhaps even the Spanish Armada. Before this assembly of heroes, Caravaggio's greatest humiliation was to take place.\n\nIn Kilian's engraving (see p. 328), the Grand Master sits, just as Alof de Wignacourt would have done, at the near end of the church. At the far end, the guilty knight kneels, directly beneath Caravaggio's depiction of St John's decapitation. Because Caravaggio was to be defrocked _in absentia_ , a wooden stool draped with the habit of a Knight of Magistral Obedience would have been placed at the altar end of the church \u2013 more or less directly beneath Caravaggio's own signature, flowing in blood from the neck of John the Baptist.\n\nBefore the conclusion of the ceremony, there was one last formality to be gone through: 'The Lord Shield-Bearer... repeated in a loud voice in the Public Assembly so that the said Brother Michael Angelo de Caravaggio being personally summoned once, twice, thrice and a fourth time, an abundant notice, did not appear nor as yet doth he appear...' The oratory fell silent for the brief, necessary moment of Caravaggio's inevitable non-appearance. Then the robe of a Knight of Malta, so proudly but so briefly worn by him, was stripped from the stool by Grand Master Wignacourt himself, and the last damning words were written in the record: 'the said Brother Michael Angelo de Caravaggio was in the Public Assembly by the hands of the Reverend Lord President deprived of his habit, and expelled and thrust forth like a rotten and diseased limb from our Order and Society.'\n\n#### _THE BURIAL OF ST LUCY_ AND A BLACK DOG CALLED CROW\n\nCaravaggio was on the run for the second time in his life. His destination was the port town of Syracuse at the western edge of Sicily, where his old fellow apprentice, Mario Minniti, had established a thriving studio. Minniti had contacts in the town Senate. If they could be persuaded to look favourably on Caravaggio, they had the power to protect him from Maltese law. He had never been in more trouble than now. This time he had managed to alienate his entire network of supporters, not only the Colonna and their allies, who had manoeuvred to get him to Malta, but also the formidable Alof de Wignacourt and his army of knights. Caravaggio desperately needed some new friends in high places.\n\nThere is evidence that he took a deliberately circuitous route, landing at one of the island's smaller and more southerly ports, such as Pozzallo or Scicli, before working his way north-east. En route, he stayed in the little town of Caltagirone, some sixty miles inland from Syracuse. A recently rediscovered eighteenth-century document records that Caravaggio was seen visiting a church there, Santa Maria di Ges\u00f9. He was impressed by the beauty of a sixteenth-century marble Madonna by Antonello Gagini on one of its altars. 'Whoever wants her more beautiful, should go to heaven,' he reportedly said. Caravaggio was continuing to measure himself, as he had done throughout his life, against the standard of Michelangelo and his school: Gagini had been one of Michelangelo's most gifted pupils, and was said to have assisted the sculptor on his final version of the tomb of Pope Julius II, in the Roman church of San Pietro in Vincoli.\n\nAs the painter made his way from Caltagirone to Syracuse, he found himself once more within a realm ruled distantly by Philip III of Spain. The island had been praised for its warm climate and natural abundance since antiquity, but under the Spanish the majority of its people suffered great privations and hardship. Part of the reason was Spain's own economic crisis, caused by the sudden dwindling of its vast revenues from the silver mines of Latin America, under the pressure of competition from other European nations. A succession of Spanish viceroys in Sicily were encouraged to bleed it of its natural resources. The people became poorer as their rulers enriched themselves, concealing the true nature of this unequal transaction behind the grandest of architectural fa\u00e7ades. During the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, cities such as Syracuse, Messina and Palermo became stage-sets for the performance of the rituals of absolute Spanish power. Splendid new churches and palaces were built in an extravagant local version of the Baroque style. Grand axial routes were ruthlessly cut through the fabric of Sicily's medieval cityscapes, distracting attention from the miserable lot of the poor, and allowing the rich to move serenely through each city without ever seeing its warren of slums.\n\nTravelling to Syracuse by land from the southern tip of Sicily was the best way of avoiding the pursuing knights, but Caravaggio exposed himself to other risks. Such was the discontent with Spanish rule that by the early years of the seventeenth century much of the island's interior had degenerated into lawlessness, with many regions at the mercy of competing clans of _banditti_. The Spanish authorities had retaliated against these roaming gangs with a degree of success, but travel in the rural hinterlands of Sicily was still considered dangerous by George Sandys in 1615: 'This Vice-Roy hath well purged the country of Bandities, by pardoning of one for the bringing in or death of another: who did exceedingly, and yet do too much infest it. Besides, the upland inhabitants are so inhospitable to strangers, that betweene them both there is no travelling by land without a strong guard; whom rob and murder whomsoever they can conveniently lay hold on.' Despite the dangers, Caravaggio made it to Syracuse safely around the middle of October 1608.\n\nThe main source of information about Caravaggio's activities in Sicily is a manuscript of 1724 entitled _The Lives of the Messinese Painters_ , written by a priest and amateur painter called Francesco Susinno. Susinno's sources were in the painters' studios of Sicily, where memories of Caravaggio's unprecedentedly emotive style of painting and perplexing personality were still strong more than a century after his death. In Susinno's words, Caravaggio 'was welcomed by his friend and colleague in the study of painting, Mario Minniti, a painter from Syracuse, from whom he received all the kindness that such a gentleman could extend to him. Minniti himself implored the Senate of that city to employ Caravaggio in some way so that he could have the chance to enjoy his friend for some time and be able to evaluate the greatness of Michelangelo, for he had heard that people considered him to be the best painter in Italy.'\n\nA commission from the Senate would mean protection from the Knights of Malta. The knights maintained an active presence in Syracuse, but so long as he was working for them, the city's fathers would look after him. Once again, Caravaggio's predicament would be his patrons' opportunity. Once again, he would be given the chance to paint his way out of trouble.\n\nThe timing of his arrival in Syracuse could hardly have been more opportune. Previously strained relations between the religious authorities and the Senate had improved in the early years of the seventeenth century, as a result of which the city had embarked on a vigorous programme of renovating its churches and monasteries, commissioning new altarpieces and boosting the cults of local saints.\n\nOne of the most actively venerated of those saints was the fourth-century martyr St Lucy, a native of Syracuse said to have met her end during the persecutions of the Emperor Diocletian. In the severe climate of the Counter-Reformation, with so many in the Roman Catholic faith calling for a return to the simple piety of the early Church, the cults of the ancient Christian martyrs were resurgent. A statue of St Lucy had already been placed on the ramparts of Syracuse, and the Senate had agreed to finance the creation of a costly silver reliquary to house some of her supposed remains. Not long before Caravaggio's arrival in the city, the authorities had also decided to restore the church most closely associated with her, the medieval basilica of Santa Lucia al Sepolcro. The church lay outside the city walls, having been built directly above the ancient Christian catacombs where, according to her legend, the virgin martyr had been interred. A local archaeologist and historian, Vincenzo Mirabella, had made a study of the site, re-emphasizing its significance in the sacred history of 'Syracuse the Faithful'. The newly restored church would need a painting telling the story of Lucy's martyrdom for its main altar. Who better to create it than 'the best painter in Italy'? The altarpiece that he produced can still be admired in the Franciscan church outside the old city walls.\n\nThe subject given to Caravaggio was _The Burial of St Lucy_ , the final episode in the story of her martyrdom and one seldom painted. There was a logic behind the choice. The civic and religious authorities of Syracuse were especially keen to reinforce the local cult of St Lucy, which had been severely damaged by the theft of the saint's remains during the Middle Ages. Rival cults of Lucy had been established elsewhere, most notably in Venice, where ownership of her relics was now being claimed. The authorities wanted Caravaggio's picture to remind the world that wherever her bones might have been taken, Syracuse was the original site of Lucy's miracles and the place where she had first been laid to rest.\n\nThe fullest account of her martyrdom is to be found in _The Golden Legend_. Lucy, a virgin of noble lineage, born in Syracuse, resolved to imitate the poverty and humility of Christ. She swore a vow of chastity and steadily gave away her possessions to the poor. Her former husband-to-be, a non-believer, failed at first to realize that she had converted to Christianity and suspected her of courting another man with her wealth. When she informed him that she was now a bride of Christ, he denounced her to a Roman judge named Paschasius. The judge punished the saint by giving her over to 'the ribalds of the town', instructing them 'to defoul her, and labour her so much till she be dead'. But when they came to take her away to a brothel, they could not move her. Paschasius sent for reinforcements, even for a team of oxen, but 'she abode always still as a mountain, without moving.' Then the judge ordered a great fire to be lit around her immobile form, commanding his torturers to pour boiling oil and resin on her. Throughout her ordeal, she prayed to God, so infuriating her tormentors that they thrust a sword straight through her throat. Even then she did not die, or even budge an inch, until Holy Communion was offered to her: 'Lucy never removed from the place where she was hurt with the sword, and died not till the priest came and brought the blessed body of our Lord Jesu Christ. And as soon as she had received the blessed sacrament she rendered up and gave her soul to God, thanking and praising him of all his goodness. In that same place is a church edified in the name of her...'\n\nCaravaggio painted the moment just after St Lucy received communion and died. Having breathed out her soul, she lies on a bare expanse of ground. Her body is small, crumpled, pathetic. Her right arm is outstretched, the foreshortened hand reaching out like the hand of a beggar asking for charity. The other arm rests on her belly. Lucy's skin is pallid with death, her mouth slack. Her head lolls helplessly back. There is a deep gash in her neck, but no sign of burns. Her frail body is framed by the hulking figures of two gravediggers, stooping to plunge their spades into the earth. The contrast between the slight saint and the giants who have come to bury her is extreme and disconcerting. This was Caravaggio's way of continuing to suggest the brutality of Lucy's martyrdom \u2013 the death of a young woman at the hands of thuggish men \u2013 even in the moment of her burial.\n\nThe bull-necked, crop-haired gravedigger to the right, whose tightly draped buttocks have been given such rude prominence, is loutishly absorbed in his task. Were he to stand up, he would tower over all the other figures in the painting. He is a man-mountain, at least ten feet tall. His workmate is similarly gigantic but more aware of his surroundings. Veins bulge in the left forearm and right wrist, but, as he bends to dig, he loses concentration on the job in hand. He seems transfixed by the figure of the bishop, to the right of the scene, whose blessing hand is picked out by a ray of illumination. The toiling worker has suddenly become aware of the momentous, sacred nature of the ritual in which he is taking part. According to her legend, in her last moments Lucy had expressed the hope that her martyrdom might convert some of her tormentors to Christianity. In the figure of the second gravedigger, that hope is about to be realized. He has looked up, and seen the light.\n\nThe picture has been much abraded by time, but its power and originality are undimmed. The strong illusion of reality is all the more impressive given the painter's bold distortions of scale and perspective. Clustered behind the body of the saint, a small group of mourners has gathered. Their faces and bodies are seen in fragments, occluded by shadow and the body of the first gravedigger, forming a collage of griefstruck response. To the right of the priest's blessing hand, a man's face has been abbreviated to little more than a furrowed brow and a pair of staring, anxious eyes; this may be a daringly cropped self-portrait. To the left, three more saddened faces appear. A bald man prepares to wipe tears from his eyes. Beside him, the much repainted figure of a woman stares impassively into space, while, between them, their bearded companion seems frozen by melancholy. At the feet of these three figures, Caravaggio has included a kneeling reprise of the old woman with her face in her hands from his recent altarpiece of _The Beheading of St John_.\n\nThe mourners are completed by a young man draped in a snaking length of red cloth, and a veiled elderly woman. His hands are clasped in front of him, at waist height, while hers are held up to her cheek. Both stare down with intense grief at the dead body on the ground in front of them. These last two mourners have been taken directly from the conventions of earlier Renaissance painting, in which Mary and the Apostle John were depicted in exactly the same postures of grief. Caravaggio's use of this deliberate archaism evokes the Crucifixion and emphasizes the martyr's emulation of Christ. The wound in her neck and her outstretched left arm reinforce this chain of associations.\n\nThe picture has a hallucinogenic quality, the feeling again of a work painted from memory rather than from models. Just as the old woman with her head in her hands has been borrowed from Caravaggio's earlier _Beheading of St John_ , the sinister figure in armour standing next to the blessing bishop is another version of Aegeas in _The Crucifixion of St Andrew_ , painted in Naples in 1607. More than ever, Caravaggio's painting evokes the old, folk traditions of Italian polychrome sculpture. Lucy and those who mourn, bury and bless her could almost be mannequins of wax, dressed in real clothing and given real hair. The tall, bare room in which the burial takes place evokes the simple chapels of the old _sacro monte_ , where stories of the life of Christ are told through assemblages of straining and struggling figures very much like these.\n\nThe artist may have drawn on older memories too. When plague had struck Milan in 1576 he would have seen many hasty burials and ragged funeral processions. The picture's iconography is ingeniously suggestive of hope and redemption, but its mood is overwhelmingly bleak. No angel descends to hymn the martyr's soul to heaven. Almost half the painting is dark bare stone, wall and arch both isolating and seeming to press down on the figures crowded around the dead body. The snapshot immediacy of the image, with its extremely innovative effects of cropping and occlusion, is suggestive of alienation and abandonment. Not until the middle of the nineteenth century, when Manet and Degas began to crop and cut their images in the name of capturing 'modern life', would there be anything to rival Caravaggio's weird dislocations in _The Burial of St Lucy_. The bishop and soldier, pushed to one side by the scything asymmetry of the composition, remain deeply ambiguous. Officially they stand for good and evil, light and dark, the compassionate Christian as opposed to the ruthless pagan response to a martyr's death. But they have been so brusquely sidelined by the artist that it is tempting to wonder whether he was opening the way to another view of what they might embody. Church and state stand by, united in their ineffectiveness, as yet another innocent goes to the grave.\n\nPerhaps with the priorities of the Senate of Syracuse in mind, Caravaggio also included a strong visual reference to the saint's original place of burial in his picture. The church of Santa Lucia was built directly on top of the city's ancient Christian catacombs, where according to legend her body had first been put into the ground. The high, arched interior in which he set _The Burial of St Lucy_ was directly based on those actual catacombs, which he had visited for himself; in this way, he perpetuated the act of interment linking Lucy to the city, creating an illusion that made it look as though her body was forever about to be entombed beneath the church itself. However dark its mood, Caravaggio's painting was a brilliant stroke of propaganda for the city.\n\nHe started work on the altarpiece soon after arriving in Syracuse, probably at around the beginning of November. He must have worked extremely fast. The altarpiece was monumental in scale, the largest work of his Sicilian period and one of the largest pictures he had ever undertaken. Yet it was finished by the start of the following month, comfortably in time for St Lucy's feast day on 13 December. 'The big canvas came out so well that it became famous,' wrote Susinno; 'the idea behind it was so good that there are many copies in Messina and in other cities of the Regno.'\n\nThe sources indicate that Caravaggio was in a state of nervous anxiety during much of this period. During his first weeks in Sicily, the galleys of the Order of St John were a constant and highly visible presence around the harbours of the island, including that of Syracuse. Susinno records that 'Caravaggio was very distracted, restless, indifferent to his own existence: many a time he would go to bed fully dressed, with his dagger (from which he was never separated) at his side... Even when dressed ordinarily he was always armed, so that he looked more like a swordsman than a painter.' Baglione tells us that it was around this time that he acquired 'a black dog that was trained to play various tricks, which he enjoyed immensely'. The animal was probably not just for amusement and company. Caravaggio gave it the ill-omened name of Corvo \u2013 'Crow' \u2013 a raucous creature with an aggressive personality to match.\n\n#### THE TYRANT'S EAR\n\nCaravaggio may have painted _The Burial of St Lucy_ in Mario Minniti's substantial workshop. It was quite unlike any of his own modest studios. In pursuit of success and respectability, Minniti had reinvented himself as a gentleman-painter, employing an army of assistants to transfer his compositions from paper to canvas and adding only the finishing touches himself. So busily productive was Minniti's workshop that quality inevitably suffered. 'Many weak paintings by him can be seen around,' wrote Susinno. 'If he had contented himself with just a few public works he would have been as celebrated as Caravaggio himself.'\n\nCaravaggio made at least one other acquaintance in Syracuse, with whom he went on a foray to see some of the sights of the town: Vincenzo Mirabella, antiquarian, mathematician and archaeologist. Caravaggio may have sought his help in researching the Christian catacombs of Syracuse, to give _The Burial of St Lucy_ an authentically antique setting: the catacombs were one of Mirabella's specialities, and he would include a lengthy account of them in his book, the _Dichiarazioni della pianta delle antiche Siracuse_ , published in 1613.\n\nElsewhere in the same book, Mirabella would tell of how he took Caravaggio to see another of the oldest sites of Syracuse, a huge grotto said to have been used as a prison by the ancient tyrant Dionysus. According to local folklore, Dionysus had ordered a deep and narrow slit to be cut into the roof of this 'speaking cave', so named because of its extraordinary acoustic qualities, which amplified noise in such a way as to make the least sound perfectly audible. At the cave's single entrance, the tyrant built a great gate, so that he could confine his prisoners within. On the hilltop above the cave, perched directly over the slit cut into its apex, he placed the house of his jailor. While his captives languished hundreds of feet below, Dionysus could eavesdrop on their every word. He could hear their admissions of guilt, learn their plans, discover the names of their friends and allies.\n\nAfter explaining all this to Caravaggio, Mirabella was struck by the acuteness of the painter's response. 'I remember,' he wrote, 'when I took Michelangelo da Caravaggio, that singular painter of our times, to see that prison. And he, considering its strength, and showing his unique genius as an imitator of natural things, said: \"Don't you see how the tyrant, in order to create a vessel that would make all things audible, looked no further for a model than that which nature had made herself to produce the self-same effect. So he made this prison in the likeness of an ear.\" Which observation, not having been noticed before, but then being known and studied afterwards, has doubly amazed the most curious minds.' To this day, the great cave \u2013 now part of the Archaeological Park of Syracuse \u2013 continues to be known as 'The Ear of Dionysus'.\n\nJudging by the portrait that serves as frontispiece to Mirabella's book, its author was a dapper and fashion-conscious gentleman with a self-consciously quizzical stare. He waxed his extravagantly long handlebar moustache and favoured the Spanish style of dress, wearing a high-necked lace ruff over a dark, finely embroidered shirt. But Mirabella was also highly respected by some of the best minds in early seventeenth-century Italy. A year after the publication of his book, he would be enrolled in Rome's foremost scientific society, the Accademia de' Lincei \u2013 named for that sharp-eyed animal, the lynx \u2013 after his friend Federico Cesi wrote a letter supporting his application to the great astronomer Galileo Galilei. In Cesi's words to Galileo, Mirabella was 'a knight from Syracuse, noble by birth and very rich, learned in Greek and Latin, man of letters and most erudite in Mathematics and primarily in the theory of Music, in which he is greatly esteemed and admired by his proposer. He has already published a worthy volume on the Antiquity of his birthplace with diligent description of the same...' Mirabella subsequently became a friend and correspondent of Galileo himself. They exchanged letters about 'spots on the sun' and the astronomer lent 'the knight from Syracuse' telescope lenses on more than one occasion.\n\nMirabella was impressed by the empirical tenor of Caravaggio's thought, and by his evident interest both in acoustics and in the mechanism of the human ear. Their exchange gives a rare glimpse of Caravaggio not as a violent criminal, nor as a probable lover of young men and whores, but as an intellectual and sophisticate. This was the same man who, in Rome, had moved in a circle of speculative thinkers and connoisseurs such as Giulio Mancini and Cardinal del Monte \u2013 himself another correspondent of Galileo's \u2013 and who had befriended poets such as Giambattista Marino.\n\nBut Caravaggio's remarks about 'The Ear of Dionysius' seem also to have reflected his increasingly apprehensive state of mind. The tyrant's prison grotto was a potent image of his own contracting world \u2013 a 'speaking cave' where every movement was monitored by spies, every remark overheard by eavesdroppers. Behind the logic of his observation lurked a paranoid fear of surveillance and recapture.\n\n#### LAZARUS RISING\n\nTypically, the most strenuous efforts to recapture an errant Knight of Malta were made in the period leading up to his trial, and in theory the ceremony of the _privatio habitus_ diminished the urgency of Wignacourt's campaign to get the painter back to Valletta. But even if Caravaggio was aware of that, he did not feel safe in Syracuse. Despite the success of _The Burial of St Lucy_ , Susinno records that 'the unquiet nature of Michelangelo, which loved to wander the earth, soon after led him to leave the home of his friend Minniti'. He departed more or less immediately after the work was finished, not even waiting to see it unveiled. By 6 December, a full week before the Feast of St Lucy, he was in the nearby city of Messina. There, he showed no sign of lowering his guard. He continued to wear his dagger and sword in public and to sleep fully clothed. Susinno wrote that 'his spirit was more disturbed than the sea of Messina with its raging currents that sometimes rise and sometimes fall.'\n\nWith a population of 100,000, Messina was as large and vibrant a city as Rome itself. North of Syracuse, it was separated by the narrowest of straits from Calabria on the mainland. Its port was one of the busiest in the Mediterranean. Messina was a town at the junction of east and west, Africa and Italy, and another centre of the thriving European slave trade. George Sandys described it as a stylish but dangerous place:\n\n> the meanest artificers wife is clothed in silke: whereof an infinite quantity is made by the worme... The Gentlemen put their monies into the common table (for which the Citie stands bound) and receive it againe upon their bils, according to their uses. For they dare not venture to keepe it in their houses, so ordinarily broken into by theeves (as are the shops and ware-houses) for all their crosse-bard windows, iron doores, locks, bolts, and barres on the inside: wherein, and in their private revenges, no night doth passe without murder. Every evening they solace themselves along the Marine (a place left throughout betweene the Citie walls and the haven) the men on horsebacke, and the women in large Carosses, being drawne with the slowest procession. There is to be seene the pride and beauties of the Citie. There have they their play-houses, where the parts of men are acted by women, and too naturally passioned, which they forbeare not to frequent upon Sundayes...\n\nCaravaggio's situation was awkward and fraught with danger. The galleys of Malta were in the waters of Messina throughout the last months of 1608. Not only that, but some time before 4 November Fra Antonio Martelli had taken up residence as the order's prior of the city. He is unlikely to have looked on Caravaggio's transgressions with a fond and forgiving paternal eye, but his ability to move openly against the painter was compromised because in the winter of that year the order was in litigation with the Senate of Messina, a state of affairs that continued for the duration of Caravaggio's stay in the city.\n\nAccording to Susinno, Caravaggio's fame had preceded him. He must have won the favour of the Senate, because his services were immediately in demand: 'The new reputation of Caravaggio appealed to the sympathetic people of Messina, who always favoured strangers, and the impressive excellence of such a man was such that they wanted him to stay, and they gave him commissions.' Emboldened by Fra Martelli's relative impotence, Caravaggio even had the cheek to present himself to his eager new clients as a fully fledged Knight of Malta. When the first of his Messinese altarpieces was consigned for delivery, the relevant document referred to the work as being 'by the hand of fr. Michelangeli Caravagio [ _sic_ ] Knight of the Order of Jerusalem'. Caravaggio was well aware that violation of the order's thirteenth statute meant inevitable expulsion, so he cannot simply have been acting in ignorance of his own disgrace.\n\nThere are suggestions that the painter still hoped to win a pardon from Wignacourt. According to Bellori, 'hoping to placate the Grand Master, Caravaggio sent to him as a present the half-figure of Herodias with the head of St John the Baptist in a basin' \u2013 a work that can tentatively be identified with a painting of a similar subject now in the National Gallery, London. But by continuing to pose as a Knight of Malta, he must have damaged his cause further. The stony-faced Fra Antonio Martelli is unlikely to have been impressed and reported back, no doubt, to the Grand Master. Alof de Wignacourt's desire to have Caravaggio forcibly extradited from Sicily can only have been strengthened by his insulting masquerade.\n\nAs Susinno suggested, the painter was soon hard at work for his new Messinese patrons. On 6 December a wealthy merchant named Giovan Battista de' Lazzari entered into an agreement to build and decorate the central chapel of the church of the Padri Crociferi, the 'cross-bearing fathers', a confraternity of hospitallers devoted to caring for the sick. Determined to obtain the services of Caravaggio, the de' Lazzari family offered him a huge sum of money to paint the principal altarpiece for their new chapel, more than three times the fee he might have expected for an equivalent commission when he was at the peak of his fame in Rome. The proposed title was _The Madonna, St John the Baptist and Other Saints_ , which suggests a rather static image of the type that would come to be known as a _Sacra Conversazione_ , or 'sacred conversation'. Caravaggio must have disliked the subject, because in a play on his patrons' family name he made the counter-suggestion that they commission him to paint _The Resurrection of Lazarus_ instead. The de' Lazzari accepted the proposal, and some time around the start of 1609 Caravaggio started work.\n\nIn Rome at the height of the Renaissance it had not been unknown for a famous artist to alter the terms of a commission. Michelangelo had famously plucked up the courage to tell Pope Julius II that his initial plan for the Sistine Chapel ceiling was 'a poor thing', replacing the pope's proposal of twelve apostles in a field of classical decoration with his own vastly more ambitious scheme of illustrations to the Book of Genesis. But in the provincial artistic milieu of Messina, Caravaggio's assertion of independence was still being talked about a hundred years later. Susinno was even more struck by it than he was by the huge fee that the painter was paid:\n\n> When some wealthy members of the house of Lazzaro wished to build a new chapel for the church of the Padri Crociferi, they commissioned Caravaggio to paint a large canvas and agreed to pay the sum of 1,000 scudi. Caravaggio conceived the Resurrection of Lazarus, alluding to their family. Those noblemen were greatly satisfied, and the artist was given free rein to fulfil his creative fantasy. It is commendable to give liberty to great artists to operate at their own will, instead of tying both their hands when they are ordered to execute a certain work in this or that manner or form.\n\nWhy, apart from this play on his patrons' name, did Caravaggio want to paint the story of Lazarus raised from the dead? It was a subject rarely depicted since the very early Renaissance. Following the conventions of Byzantine art, Giotto and Duccio had painted Lazarus, plague-spotted, rising from his tomb still wrapped in his grave clothes. In Caravaggio's later work, there is a powerful thrust towards both the subject matter and the style of much earlier Christian art. The only artist before him to have deliberately regressed in a comparable way had been \u2013 again \u2013 Michelangelo. With the creation of the _Rondanini Piet\u00e0,_ late in life, Michelangelo had plunged his art back to the angular and ascetic forms of Gothic carving. Caravaggio's _The Resurrection of Lazarus_ makes a similarly unorthodox statement of primitivist intent.\n\nLight and dark, which Caravaggio had previously manipulated in the service of a beguilingly deceptive optical realism, now serve an altogether different purpose. Their function is simply to amplify meaning and feeling \u2013 to reduce, to pare away, to lose or annihilate everything irrelevant to the essentials of the story he wants to tell. Nine tenths of the painting is bitumen black, a great pit of darkness in which the action unfolds. It is the darkness of death. To the left, the deeply shadowed figure of Christ enters the sepulchre of Lazarus and with a gesture of his right hand bids the dead man to awake: 'Lazarus, come forth' (John 11:43). Around his shadowed form a gaggle of bystanders can be seen craning their necks for a view of the impending miracle.\n\nBelow Christ's beckoning hand, two swarthy and sunburned labourers lift the dead man's tombstone, while another raises the corpse from the grave. As the last of the three workmen stumbles forward, cradling the exhumed body, panic, disgust and wonder are mingled together on his face. Lazarus is an emaciated and green-tinged corpse, just plucked from the tomb and seemingly reluctant to wake from the sleep of death. Light streams into the sepulchre from behind Christ, flowing along the line of his outstretched right arm towards the right hand of Lazarus, which reaches as if involuntarily towards the source of illumination. His left hand reaches down, towards the bony litter of the sepulchre, a human skull and thighbone gleaming softly in the low light. He is caught between life and death, suspended at the very moment of his animation.\n\nThe parable of Lazarus was traditionally regarded as a miracle performed by Christ in prefiguration of his own crucifixion. In raising Lazarus from the tomb, Christ saved him from sin and death, just as by dying on the Cross, he would save mankind from Original Sin and open the way to salvation. Caravaggio was certainly aware of the theological parallel, since he has arranged Lazarus's body in the same configuration as that of Christ on the Cross. Lazarus's two sisters, Martha and Mary, gather around him like the mourners of Christ at the moment of his deposition. The detail of Martha's face, pressed so close to that of her reviving brother, was taken directly by Caravaggio from an ancient Christian prototype of the _Mater Dolorosa_ , the Virgin Mary mourning the death of her son. Cheek pressed to cheek, eyes to mouth, mouth to eyes, the motif of two faces interlocked like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle had long been a standard trope of Byzantine painting. It was used, for example, by the twelfth-century master who painted the fresco of the _Lamentation_ in the church of St Pantaleimon in modern-day Macedonia \u2013 and from Byzantium the device entered Italian painting in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Caravaggio probably took the motif from an Italian source, and it is not impossible that he saw it in a Byzantine icon in Sicily.\n\nJust as he had done in _The Burial of St Lucy_ , where the two central mourners derive from early Renaissance images of the Crucifixion, Caravaggio introduced a deliberate archaism from a much earlier tradition of art into _The Resurrection of Lazarus._ In both cases, he did so to evoke a parallel between the subject in hand and the Crucifixion of Christ. Perhaps he meant the gestures as acts of humility, a renunciation of his own illusionistic virtuosity, a penitential clipping of his own Icarus wings. He had always been an austere painter, a painter for, and of, holy poverty, but never more so than now. In emulation of Cardinal Borromeo, who had counselled a return to the austere values of the ancient Church, Caravaggio formulated his own modern version of a purged and primitive style. There is almost no colour in these works, almost no sense of space, just twisted groupings of figures arranged frieze-like in the convulsions of sorrow, melancholy or agonized bewilderment.\n\nLazarus was traditionally believed to have died of the plague. Hence the Italian word for a plague house, _lazzaretto_ (the slang word for the Neapolitan poor, _lazzari_ , shares the same etymology). Once again, as in _The Burial of St Lucy_ , Caravaggio had painted a scene like many he must have witnessed during the darkest years of his childhood in Milan \u2013 a group of people gathered around a grave, lit by what seems like guttering torchlight. He had set himself the challenge of redeeming those memories of death and desperation, of transfiguring them into representations of the miraculous. In this, he cannot be said to have entirely succeeded.\n\nFor all his efforts, what is expressed in this last and darkest flowering of Caravaggio's art is anything but a simple and straightforward sense of piety. The shadowed figure of Christ in _The Resurrection of Lazarus_ is another figment of the painter's memory, a second version of the statuesque Christ beckoning Matthew from shadow into light in the painter's very first large religious painting, _The Calling of St Matthew_ in the Contarelli Chapel. But so shadowy is the Saviour's form that he might be missed altogether by the inattentive viewer. That kind of uncertainty, whether fully intended or not, has subversively worked its way to the very heart of the picture. Lazarus is suspended between death and life, extinction and salvation. As one hand reaches towards the light, the other extends down towards the tomb. His eyes are sightless, his body gripped still by _rigor mortis_. Will he truly be saved? All is still in the balance.\n\nWhereas light flooded into Caravaggio's earlier religious paintings, here the illumination struggles to penetrate the gloom. The whole painting conveys a sense of just how hard it is truly to see \u2013 and perhaps believe in \u2013 salvation. Both men holding up Lazarus's tombstone look back with bewildered expressions at Christ, squinting and blinking in confusion. Above them, Caravaggio has included his own self-portrait. He gazes out of the picture, staring directly at the invisible source of light pulsing into the sepulchre, a look of yearning desperation on his face.\n\n#### ADORATION, DESOLATION\n\nCaravaggio's Sicilian biographer told colourful tales about how he painted _The Resurrection of Lazarus_. According to Susinno, Caravaggio asked for a room in the hospital run by the confraternity of the Padri Crociferi, hired some workmen, and arranged a grisly modelling class:\n\n> in order to give the central figure of Lazarus a naturalistic flavour he asked to have a corpse dug up that was already in a state of decomposition, and had it placed in the arms of the workmen who, however, were unable to stand the foul odour and wanted to give up their work. Caravaggio, with his usual fury, raised his dagger and jumped on them, and as a result those unlucky men were forced to continue their job and nearly die, like those miserable creatures who were condemned by the impious Maxentius to die tied to corpses. Likewise Caravaggio's picturesque room could in some fashion be called the slaughterhouse of the same tyrant.\n\nThis is surely a parable invented to illustrate the painter's reputedly excessive attachment to naturalism. Lazarus cannot have been modelled from a corpse in a state of decomposition, because his body is shown in the involuntary stasis of _rigor mortis_ ; that the painter could find the corpse of a real man who just happened to have died in a cruciform pose is less than plausible. The figure is an invention, although it seems likely enough that the three workmen were painted from local models, since their faces are unfamiliar from the rest of Caravaggio's work, and they do have the ungainly actuality of real individuals. Susinno tells an equally tall tale about a lost first version of the picture, which the painter supposedly slashed to ribbons with his dagger when a member of the de' Lazzari family had the temerity to criticize one or two elements. It is a story designed to perfect the caricature of the painter as a wild man of art, deranged by his own passions.\n\nThe biographer is more illuminating when he turns to the third and last of Caravaggio's surviving Sicilian altarpieces, _The Adoration of the Shepherds_. Long neglected, because so far off the beaten track, it is one of the most startlingly direct, wrenchingly emotional religious paintings of the seventeenth century. A sombre and profoundly personal work, it is the last great painting of Caravaggio's traumatic life. Susinno, who responded to it with heartfelt sincerity, believed it to be in fact the greatest of all his works:\n\n> In this canvas he represented the Nativity with life-size figures, and this in my opinion is the best of all his paintings, because here this great naturalist abandoned his sketchy, allusive style and demonstrated his naturalism once more without the use of bold shadows... This one great work of art would have been enough for Caravaggio's glory for centuries to come, because here he removed himself completely from dryness and from exceedingly dark tones. Instead, on the ground is a basket with carpentry tools alluding to St Joseph's trade. Above, on the right, the Virgin is seen stretched out on the ground, looking at the Christ child wrapped in cloth and caressing him. She is leaning on a haystack, behind which those animals are grazing; on the left side, at the foot of the Virgin, St Joseph is seated in attractive drapery, deep in thought. Nearby the three shepherds adore the newborn child; the first one has a staff in his hand and is dressed in a white garment, the second with his two hands joined in prayer shows a bare shoulder that looks like living flesh, and finally the third one looks on admiringly, his bold head painted marvellously. The rest of the canvas consists of a black background with rough wood that constitutes the shed. Indeed, the background was higher, and it was necessary to cut off a large section in order to fit the canvas into the chapel.\n\nCaravaggio's _Adoration of the Shepherds_ is the most tragic of nativities. Mary has just given birth to her tiny, swaddled child. She slumps, exhausted from her labours, not against a haystack as Susinno mistakenly said, but against the side of a manger. Behind her, in the half dark, the biblical ox and ass stand patient and impassive. Mary is the _Madonna del Parto_ \u2013 the 'Madonna of childbirth' \u2013 and also the Madonna of humility. She reclines on the bare earth of the cattleshed, strewn with strands of straw that catch the light like threads of gold. Those pieces of light are her only riches, but her eyes are closed to them. She is a refugee mother, utterly alone in the dark with her defenceless child.\n\nJoseph is singled out by his halo, but he is not with her \u2013 he is with the shepherds, part of her audience. None of the men are truly with her, and there is no sense that any of them can help her. The bald shepherd closest to Mary and her child reaches out to touch them. But his hand is kept back from actually making contact, as if by an invisible force. The men are suspended in an eternal agony of empathy. Their faces radiate compassion and helplessness. What can be done? Does the world really have to be like this?\n\nOnce again, Caravaggio in Sicily reached back to the oldest popular traditions of Christian art. The motif of the tiny baby, crawling on his mother's body, pressing his face to hers and reaching to touch her with his little hand, is drawn from Byzantine art. The whole scene has been conceived as another of the painter's assemblages of sculpturally realized figures, but this time what is evoked is not the sacred mountain with its chapels, but the tradition of the Christmas crib, begun by St Francis at the monastery of Greccio in the chill winter of 1223.\n\nIt is no coincidence that _The Adoration of the Shepherds_ was painted for one of Messina's Franciscan churches. Such was the depth of the friars' attachment to Caravaggio's painting that they later fought tooth and nail to keep it. 'At various times princes have been attracted by this Nativity and sought to take it away,' wrote Susinno, 'but they were unable to do so because the Capuchin Fathers made an appeal to the Senate, which in those days was more important, and its authority made them realize that those Fathers were its only custodians. As a result the picture remained in Messina, and I can affirm in truth that this unique work is the most masterly painting by Caravaggio.'\n\nAll of Caravaggio's great Sicilian pictures reach back \u2013 back to the oldest and most direct forms of Christian art, and back to his own oldest and most painful memories. Whether he was conscious of it or not, _The Adoration of the Shepherds_ is an uncanny allegory of his own emergence into the dark world of Milan under plague back in the 1570s \u2013 born to a mother soon to be bereaved, born to be abandoned by all save her. That is why the men in the picture look on but cannot touch, like dreams or ghosts. They see the mother and child's abandonment, but can do nothing to assuage it. They are hardly in the same place, but in another shadowland. Iconographically, the gnarled and saddened men are Joseph and the shepherds. Emotionally, they are Caravaggio's father, his uncles, his grandfather \u2013 all the men in the family that he might have had, but lost. Caravaggio's own father's tools had been those of a simple stonemason. Here they are replaced by the equally humble tools of the carpenter, placed with such desolation to the other side of Mary.\n\nThe set square, the saw, the adze, the white rag, lie there unused, a _memento mori_ , oblique memorial to an ordinary man who left an extraordinary child to fend for himself. This is Caravaggio's last still life. These are among his last truly meaningful, eloquent brushstrokes. The picture is almost unbearable.\n\n#### 'LIKE A CRIMINAL ESCAPING FROM HIS GUARDS'\n\nIt is hard to know what Caravaggio did during his time in Messina, other than paint. Susinno says that he paraded himself as a heretic: 'Apart from his profession, Caravaggio also went about questioning our holy religion, for which he was accused of being a disbeliever...' But he also tells that dark story of the painter's visit to a Messinese church, where he refused holy water on the grounds that it was only good for washing away venial sins. 'Mine are all mortal' were Caravaggio's words, hardly those of a man untroubled by questions of salvation or damnation. Regrettably, there is no hard evidence about his beliefs. In religion, as in so much else, Caravaggio was perhaps a man divided \u2013 torn between doubt and faith, angry rebellion and sullen obedience.\n\nHe stayed longer in Messina than he had in Syracuse. He had won the favour of the Senate \u2013 which commissioned and paid for the _Adoration_ , according to Susinno \u2013 and perhaps that added to his sense of security. But his behaviour remained erratic. 'He used to have his meal on a slab of wood, and instead of using a tablecloth, most of the time he would eat on an old portrait canvas; he was foolish and crazy, more cannot be said.'\n\nSusinno's weirdest story about Caravaggio concerns his alleged sexual interest in a group of adolescent schoolboys who used to play near the dry docks at the eastern end of Messina. It is an unusual anecdote in the context of the Sicilian author's _Lives_ , which are not otherwise salacious:\n\n> He used to disappear during holy days to follow a certain grammar teacher called Don Carlo Pepe, who escorted his pupils for recreation to the arsenal. There galleys used to be built... Michele went to observe the positions of those playful boys and to form his inventions. But the teacher became suspicious and wanted to know why he was always around. The question so disturbed the painter, and he became so irate and furious... that he wounded the poor man on the head. For this action he was forced to leave Messina. In short, wherever he went he would leave the mark of madness.'\n\nHaving seemingly implied that the schoolteacher was accusing Caravaggio of an indecent interest in his pupils, Susinno himself asserts that the painter's real motive for following the boys was artistic. The priest-biographer ends up by writing off the whole incident as yet another instance of Caravaggio's mental instability. But because of its very oddity and untidiness, the story has the reek of truth. Caravaggio was hunted, haunted and lonely in Messina. It is by no means inconceivable that he should have sought companionship, even sexual solace, in the company of young men. Susinno's anecdote might even help to explain one of the most enigmatic and homoerotic paintings of Caravaggio's Sicilian period, his last depiction of _St John the Baptist_ , now to be seen in the Borghese Gallery. Was this one of Don Pepe's pupils? Did Caravaggio persuade him to model for him, and perhaps more?\n\nPlaced in a cursory wilderness, landscape lost in shadow, accompanied by a cursory lamb of God, the boy reclines on a swag of red drapery and fixes the viewer with a sullen, sultry, knowing gaze. Is this really John the Baptist, prophet and seer, possessor of secret knowledge, or a swarthy Sicilian boy, older than his years and conscious of his sexual appeal? The artist still had the picture with him when he died: it was in the inventory of his last effects, which suggests that it was not painted to order but on impulse.\n\nCaravaggio had evaded capture, first in Syracuse, then in Messina. He may have been forced to leave Messina because of the fracas with the schoolmaster, but he was probably planning to leave anyway because he suspected that his enemies were closing in on him. According to Bellori, 'misfortune did not abandon Michele, and fear hunted him from place to place. Consequently he hurried across Sicily and from Messina went to Palermo, where he painted another Nativity for the Oratorio of San Lorenzo... The Virgin is shown adoring her newborn child, with St Francis, St Lawrence, the seated St Joseph, and above an angel in the air. The lights are diffused among shadows in the darkness.'\n\nFrom this moment on in the painter's story, the light is diffused among a great many shadows. But certain facts are clear. As Bellori said, Caravaggio left Messina for Palermo, sometime around the height of summer 1609. Once again, he painted an altarpiece for the Franciscans, this time for an oratory in the possession of a confraternity known as the Compagnia di San Francesco. Perhaps in deference to the sensibilities of its members he painted a rather sweeter version of the heartbreakingly bare _Adoration_ in Messina. The Virgin is still weary, still seated on the ground, but without the same sense of desolation and isolation. Comparison between the two works is no longer possible, since the Palermo version was allegedly stolen by order of a Sicilian Mafia boss in 1969, and has never been recovered.\n\nCaravaggio did not stay long in Palermo. Within two months, at most, he was on the move again. By the middle of September 1609 he was back in Naples. Baglione says he left because 'his enemy was chasing him'. Bellori agrees: 'he no longer felt safe in Sicily, and so he departed the island and sailed back to Naples, where he thought he would stay until he got word of his pardon allowing him to return to Rome.'\n\nOn his return to Naples, Caravaggio stayed in the Colonna Palace at Chiaia. With its vast terraced gardens, close to the sea, it was an idyllic retreat from the cares of life, with the added bonus of thick walls. The fact that Caravaggio had evidently been accepted back into the Colonna fold suggests not only that Marchesa Costanza had forgiven him, yet again, but also that she had negotiated some kind of truce with Alof de Wignacourt and the Knights of Malta. Her own son, Fabrizio Sforza Colonna, remained in post as admiral of the Grand Master's galleys. He owed both his liberty and the rescue of his reputation to Wignacourt. In such circumstances, it would have been inconceivable for Costanza Colonna to have protected a known fugitive from the order. Whatever it involved, a deal must have been struck on Caravaggio's behalf. He would presumably have been required to send some paintings to the Grand Master, as well as putting an end to the absurd pretence that he was still a Knight of Magistral Obedience.\n\nNews that Caravaggio was back in Naples soon got around and offers of work followed. 'In Sant'Anna de' Lombardi he painted the Resurrection,' Bellori wrote. The picture does not survive, because the chapel that once housed it in the Neapolitan church of the Lombards was destroyed by an earthquake at the turn of the nineteenth century. But documents and eyewitness accounts confirm that Caravaggio, himself a Lombard by origin, did indeed paint a large altarpiece of _The Resurrection of Christ_ for Sant'Anna. To judge by the praise heaped on it, it was a strange and morbidly enthralling picture, the lost masterpiece of Caravaggio's later years.\n\nCaravaggio's patron, Alfonso Fenaroli, had obtained the rights to the third chapel on the left side of the church on 24 December 1607, six months after the painter had left for Malta at the end of his first stay in Naples. Fenaroli must have commissioned the new altarpiece as soon as the artist arrived back from Palermo, probably sometime around the beginning of September 1609. Working in the abbreviated and fluent style of his Sicilian altarpieces, Caravaggio finished it before the end of the following month. Nearly a hundred and fifty years later, the travelling French connoisseur Charles-Nicolas Cochin was bowled over by it. By then the picture had darkened with age, and the identity of its creator had been forgotten. Cochin had every reason to pass it over, but it seemed so bizarrely original, so memorable and so sinister, that it drew him in:\n\n> In the third chapel on the left, one sees a painting representing the resurrection of Jesus Christ. It is a singular invention, Christ is not even shown rising into the air and he walks past the sentries [who guard the holy sepulchre]. All of which gives a low idea of him, and makes him look like a criminal escaping from his guards. Also, he has been given the character of a scrawny suffering man. From a purely pictorial point of view the composition is really beautiful and the style is strong and felt with great taste. It is much blackened. No one knows the name of the artist. This piece is beautiful.\n\nOnly in these words is the vivid ghost of a great painting preserved. Cochin was unaware of the painter's identity, his flight from Rome, his escape from Malta, his restless peregrinations through Sicily \u2013 yet still, purely from the power of his work, he sensed the depth of Caravaggio's unease. The painter had made Christ 'look like a criminal escaping from his guards'. Just as he had done in his haunting Sicilian pictures, Caravaggio was putting his own memories and emotions at the heart of his work. Whatever he set out to paint \u2013 the death of a martyr, the infancy of Christ or his resurrection \u2013 he always ended up painting himself.\n\n#### THE KNIGHT'S REVENGE\n\nHis work had never been bleaker or more emotionally naked. But in the autumn of 1609 Caravaggio had some grounds for optimism. Alof de Wignacourt seems to have been appeased, which lifted the threat of sudden rendition to Malta, and negotiations were reopened for the papal pardon that would allow him to return to Rome at last. Emboldened, perhaps, by the sense that his fortunes were about to change, Caravaggio fatally let down his guard. He paid an ill-advised visit to the Osteria del Cerriglio, a Neapolitan tavern frequented by artists and poets and much celebrated in the popular literature of the time.\n\nThe Cerriglio was located in a narrow alleyway behind the Neapolitan church of Santa Maria La Nova. There are a number of theories about the original meaning of its name, which may have derived from the _cierro_ , local slang for the long forelock worn by the cut-throats who were often to be seen there; from the merry appearance ( _cera_ ) of those who had enjoyed its hospitality; from an oak forest ( _cerrillo_ ) that had once stood nearby; from the _cerilleros_ , the vagabonds and wastrels who caroused at the tavern; or simply from the name of its owner. It was famously a place where the wine flowed more freely than water, but a number of hitherto overlooked documents reveal that the Osteria del Cerriglio was also notorious as a brothel. Giulio Cesare Cortese, an exact contemporary of Caravaggio, wrote a mock-epic poem entitled _La conquista del Cerriglio_ , in which the imaginary moment of the tavern's foundation is marked by 'huge orgies'. Real orgies took place there too: another of the painter's contemporaries, Giambattista Basile, called it 'that place where the courtesans \/ wallowed \/ in front of disapproving passersby \/ stripping the gullible to the bone', while yet another poet of the period, Giovan Battista del Tufo, added the detail that 'moreover, for gentlemen, \/ There is a door for entering secretly.' The Cerriglio was especially popular among men seeking sex with other men, to judge by the insinuation in Basile's description of it as a place 'where Bacchus reigns and Venus is shunned'.\n\nThe nineteenth-century Neapolitan poet, playwright and historian Salvatore di Giacomo, whose work on the underworld of seventeenth-century Naples has been largely forgotten, unearthed several incriminating references to the tavern in the archives of the city. 'The Cerriglio was not wholly frequented by well-mannered individuals, and the innkeeper would often turn a blind eye if not turn his back altogether,' he wrote in his pioneering study of 1899, _Prostitution in Naples_. Elsewhere, di Giacomo described just what 'gentlemen' such as Caravaggio might find when they walked though the brothel's discreetly concealed door and entered its upper rooms: 'These rooms nowadays would be called _higher chambers_. Since the end of the 16th century, by which time the Cerriglio was already famous, they had made up a separate quarter [of the tavern]... in one of these little rooms, in circa 1671, a slave was caught practising what are nowadays referred to as certain psychopathic sexual acts, which were thought of in less scientific terms in the seventeenth century and punishable with beheading.' The only sexual act punishable by beheading was sodomy. The Cerriglio clearly catered for a wide range of sexual appetites.\n\nCaravaggio's problems arose when he tried to leave the tavern. He had been followed there by a group of armed men, who waited for him in the street outside as he took his pleasure within. As soon as he walked out of the door, they ambushed him. On 24 October 1609, a Roman newspaper included the following notice: 'Word has been received from Naples that Caravaggio, the famous painter, has been murdered. Others say disfigured.' The rumour of his death turned out to have been exaggerated. He had not been killed, but he had been severely injured.\n\nWithin days of the publication of the newspaper report, Caravaggio's old friend and biographer, Giulio Mancini, put out his own antennae. Mancini did not yet know the full truth, but what he did know filled him with anxiety. He wrote to his brother Deifebo in Siena: 'It's said that Michelangelo da Caravaggio has been assaulted by 4 in Napoli and the witnesses say he has been given a facial scar. If so it would be a sin and is [the next word, which begins with a _d_ but is illegible, could be 'disturbing' or 'a disgrace'] to everybody. Let God make it not so.'\n\nMancini wrote that Caravaggio had been _sfregiato_ , cut on the face, which in the honour code of the day was an injury inflicted to avenge an insult to reputation. The same word had been used by the writer of the Roman news report. It lends both brief accounts of the assault a grim specificity, and explains the other detail gleaned by Mancini: that Caravaggio had been attacked by a group of four men. This was no drunken fracas but a premeditated act, a vendetta attack ruthlessly executed: three men to hold him down, one man to cut the marks of shame into his face.\n\nYears later, the painter's biographers gave their own terse versions of what had happened. They were unanimous on two points. It was a coldblooded attack \u2013 a hit \u2013 and it was perpetrated by a man or a group of men from Malta.\n\nBaglione's report of the assault at the Cerriglio follows seamlessly from his account of Caravaggio's incarceration on Malta and his subsequent escape. It is clear that Baglione believed the two episodes were linked as surely as cause and effect:\n\n> In Malta, Caravaggio had a dispute with a Knight of Justice and in some way affronted him. For this he was thrown into prison. But he escaped at night by means of a rope ladder and fled to the island of Sicily. In Palermo he executed several works, but because he was still being pursued by his enemy he had to return to Naples. There his enemy finally caught up with him and he was so severely slashed in the face that he was almost unrecognisable.\n\nBellori, writing considerably later than Baglione, thought the cause of the assault lay elsewhere. In his account it was not the revenge attack of an insulted Knight of Justice, but a mission carried out by implication on the orders of Alof de Wignacourt:\n\n> [Caravaggio] felt that it was no longer safe to remain in Sicily and so he left the island and sailed back to Naples, intending to remain there until he received news of his pardon so that he could return to Rome. At the same time seeking to regain the favour of the Grand Master of Malta, he sent him as a gift a half-length figure of Herodias with the head of St John the Baptist in a basin. These attentions availed him nothing, for stopping one day in the doorway of the Osteria del Cerriglio he found himself surrounded by several armed men who manhandled him and slashed his face.\n\nFrancesco Susinno, writing still later, but from a position considerably closer to the events on Malta and Sicily, leaned towards Baglione's version of events: ''The fugitive arrived in Palermo, and in that city also left excellent works of art. From there he moved again to Naples, chased there by his angered antagonist, and was badly wounded on the face.'\n\nTo these counterposed explanations of the attack may be added one other possibility: that its origins lay not in Malta but in Rome, and that it was carried out either by or on behalf of the aggrieved relations of the late Ranuccio Tomassoni. There is no suggestion that this was the case in any of the early biographies, nor in any contemporary source. In fact there is no hard evidence of any kind to support the hypothesis. But the theory has been advocated by at least one influential scholar of Caravaggio's life and work in recent years.\n\nA great deal of archival research has been done on Caravaggio over the past half-century. Many new discoveries have been made, and it is striking how in almost every case the historical facts have tended to confirm the accounts of one or other of Caravaggio's early biographers. Baglione has generally proved to be more accurate than Bellori, which is not surprising: he was part of Caravaggio's own circle, and although the two men were enemies they took more than a passing interest in each other's activities. Baglione knew who Caravaggio's friends and allies were in Rome, and understood the complicated and violent codes of honour by which he lived and died, whereas Bellori was simply baffled by them. A fairly straightforward process of elimination establishes Baglione's account of the assault in the Osteria del Cerriglio as the most credible explanation of the whole dark business.\n\nThe modern suggestion that Ranuccio Tomassoni's relations were the aggressors lacks merit on the grounds of chronology, geography and logic. The attack in the Cerriglio took place more than three years after Caravaggio had murdered Tomassoni. Even if it is assumed that the Tomassoni clan was still bent on revenge, which in this case would have been a dish served very cold indeed, it is unlikely that they would have attempted an attack on the painter in distant Naples: far better to wait until his heralded return to Rome, where they could watch his movements and plan their strike with a greater certainty of success. The most powerful argument against their involvement is the nature of the wounding Caravaggio suffered. He had been cut in the face. In the language of vendetta, the _sfregio_ was punishment for an insult to honour and reputation. But the painter had murdered Tomassoni, not merely insulted him. An eye for an eye: if the Tomassoni had been behind the assault in Naples, Caravaggio would have been killed, not disfigured.\n\nBellori's suggestion that Alof de Wignacourt ordered the attack is equally illogical. Caravaggio had not personally insulted Wignacourt, nor had he attacked his reputation. True, he had defied the Grand Master's authority. But the appropriate punishment for that was extradition back to Malta. The facial wounding of an errant knight at a house of ill repute was not something Wignacourt would have sanctioned. His involvement seems even less likely, given that at the time of the attack Caravaggio was living in the household of the mother of Wignacourt's admiral of the fleet. The Grand Master was ruthless but he was also intensely pragmatic. If he had wanted satisfaction from Caravaggio, he would have taken it in the form of pictures.\n\nBaglione's account, to which the Sicilian biographer Susinno subsequently gave his imprimatur, is the only one entirely consistent with the known facts of the case. It has the cold logic of vendetta, stressing the symmetry between insult given and punishment received, even in the author's choice of words. Baglione says Caravaggio had 'affronted' the Knight of Justice on Malta, a usage that etymologically conjoins insult with the notion of a metaphorical loss of face ( _affronto_ , the word used by Baglione, has the same root as _fronte_ , Italian for 'forehead'). In revenge, Caravaggio's enemy literalized that same insult, slashing him in the face.\n\nThat enemy was, we now know, Giovanni Rodomonte Roero, the Conte della Vezza. We also know that he left Malta shortly after Caravaggio's escape from the island. That too is consistent with Baglione's assertion that the painter was slowly but surely tracked by his enemy, who followed him to Sicily from Malta and finally caught up with him at the Osteria del Cerriglio. Since the facts to have emerged from the Maltese archive tally so exactly with the arc of Baglione's narrative, it is only logical to believe that the rest of his account is also correct. He asked the right questions of the right people, and he established the truth: it was indeed a vendetta, begun in Malta and finished in Naples.\n\nWhatever the painter had said or done to him on the night of the fracas in Malta, Roero had been left with a burning sense of grievance. Maltese Knights of Justice were not known for their propensity to forgive and forget. The Conte della Vezza was evidently proud and mercilessly persistent. He had a team of accomplices. This was the man who hunted Caravaggio down, who stood over him as he struggled, who cut his face.\n\nAfter exacting his bloody revenge, Roero vanished from historical view. That too seems to have been part of his plan. He may have been helped by friends within the Maltese judiciary. Shortly after the revenge attack, all details of Caravaggio's crime on Malta were carefully painted out of the archive there by an unknown hand. In this way, the artist's name was obliterated from the great book of crimes and punishments. So too was the name of his victim and assailant. Having got his revenge, Roero meticulously covered his traces. Even Baglione, who plainly knew so much, never discovered the name of Caravaggio's assailant.\n\n#### TWO LAST PAINTINGS\n\nCaravaggio seems never to have fully recovered from the attack at the Osteria del Cerriglio. Crippled and perhaps partially blinded by his injuries, he went into the limbo of a long convalescence. On Christmas Day 1609, two months after the assault, Mancini's correspondence with his brother Deifebo communicated a solitary scrap of inconclusive rumour: 'It's said that Caravaggio is near here, well looked after, also that he wants to return to Rome soon, and that he has powerful help.' Negotiations for a papal pardon may have been progressing, but in truth Caravaggio was nowhere near Rome. Mancini had been misinformed. The painter was in Naples, presumably at the Colonna Palace at Chiaia, fighting for his life. He would remain there for at least six months.\n\nMancini's letter apart, from October 1609 until May 1610 there is a striking absence of evidence about Caravaggio's activities. He apparently does nothing, says nothing. The archive falls silent, like a cardiograph flatlining. It then flickers briefly, but only twice. Each flicker takes the form of a painting.\n\nThe seriousness of Caravaggio's injuries is shockingly apparent in _The Denial of St Peter_ , a melancholic and withdrawn devotional work painted some time in the summer of 1610. It is a terminally raw and ragged thing \u2013 an image snatched from the pit of darkest adversity, painted by a man who could barely hold a brush. The stark and pared down style evolved in Sicily has been appallingly coarsened. Three figures, two men and a single woman, confront one another in the shallowest of spaces. The conception is subtle, the composition strikingly original and the mood bitterly sad. But such is the uncertainty of the handling that the whole image looks disconcertingly unfocused. It is still recognizably a Caravaggio, but the brushwork is so broad, the definition of forms so unsure, that the painter seems to have fallen prey to some form of essential tremor, an uncontrollable shaking of the hands, as well as perhaps to damage of the eyes.\n\nThe story that the painting illustrates is told in all four books of the New Testament. According to the gospels, Christ prophesied that his disciple Peter would deny him three times before the cock had crowed twice. On the day of Christ's arrest in the garden of Gethsemane, Peter followed his master into the courtyard of the high priest Caiaphas. He waited there as Christ was tormented by his accusers: 'And some began to spit on him, and to cover his face, and to buffet him, and to say unto him, Prophesy: and the servants did strike him with the palms of their hands. And as Peter was beneath in the palace, there cometh one of the maids of the high priest: And when she saw Peter warming himself, she looked upon him, and said, And thou also wast with Jesus of Nazareth. But he denied, saying, I know not, neither understand I what thou sayest.' Twice more, Peter was asked if he knew Jesus, and each time he gave the same answer: 'And the second time the cock crew. And Peter called to mind the word that Jesus said unto him, Before the cock crow twice, thou shalt deny me thrice. And when he thought thereon, he wept' (Mark 14:65\u201372).\n\nCaravaggio has combined elements from all three denials in a single image. Behind the figures, a reddish-brown smudge and some scattered flecks of brighter pigment suggest the fire by which Peter warms himself, damp logs spitting sparks into the air. On the left, his face entirely in shadow, stands one of Caiaphas's guards. He looks like a dim memory of the malign soldier in the much earlier _Betrayal of Christ_ , which had shown the moment directly before Peter's threefold denial. This soldier's red shirtsleeve is indicated in a few summary strokes of red paint with swiftly dashed-in highlights. A wedge-shaped piece of light fragments and disperses in the darkness of his armour. His face and hands are a blur. Beside him, a single girl stands in for both maids challenging Peter. She stares intently at the soldier while pointing at Peter with a half-sketched hand.\n\nThe most eloquent figure in the picture is Peter himself, his bald head creased with lines and his face carrying an expression of deep, glassy-eyed self-recrimination. He points both of his own hands towards himself, as if to complete the triple accusation. He denies Christ and hates himself in the same moment. A tear wells out of a corner of his half-hidden right eye. He is the embodiment of saddened guilt, a man who knows he has done wrong and can hardly bear to confront himself.\n\nAgainst the odds, it is a moving and powerful image. Caravaggio has drawn on all his long-practised ingenuity. But his strategies are those of evasion. Crop the figures to extreme close-up, to avoid problems of anatomical articulation. Arrange the faces at odd or oblique angles, to obviate the need for accurate depictions of human physiognomy. Smother any awkward areas in blankets of shadow. Wherever gleams of illumination do pierce the darkness, they reveal the imprecision of the painter's touch. His draughtsmanship, the way he draws with the brush, has collapsed altogether. Peter's hands are like flesh-coloured mittens, his left thumb so botched it resembles the claw of an animal. Light flaring in darkness had once been Caravaggio's signature, the source of all his pictorial magic. Now it exposes his illness and incapacity, and shows us how that magic has evaporated.\n\nOnly one other painting survives by Caravaggio's hand. Darker still than _The Denial of Peter_ , and yet more abbreviated in style, _The Martyrdom of St Ursula_ is his last picture. Once more, a group of fragmentary figures has been arranged in a frieze-like composition within the shallowest of shadowy spaces. There is almost no light at all, and very little sense of scene or background, save for some shadowy drapery intended perhaps to signify the inside of a tent. It is a picture so entirely lacking in the connective tissue of illusion that it is like language without conjunctions or prepositions: killer's face, hands; shocked woman's eyes; victim stunned; two men watching.\n\nThe painting's subject is drawn from the life of St Ursula, as recounted in _The Golden Legend_. A chaste princess led 11,000 virgins on an ill-fated pilgrimage through Germany:\n\n> And then all these virgins came... to Cologne, and found that it was besieged with the Huns. And when the Huns saw them they began to run upon them with a great cry, and enraged like wolves on sheep, and slew all this great multitude. And when they were all beheaded, they came to the blessed Ursula, and the prince of them, seeing her beauty, so marvellous, was abashed, and began to comfort her on the death of the virgins, and promised to her to take her to his wife. And when she had refused him and despised him, he shot at her an arrow, and pierced her through the body, and so accomplished her martyrdom...\n\nThe convention was to paint a vast crowd scene, an orgy of death. Caravaggio did the opposite. He envisaged the scene of Ursula's martyrdom as a horribly intimate ritual wounding. The murderous Hun, who seems horrified by the result of his own actions, has just shot Ursula at point-blank range in the stomach. The victim of a sexual insult \u2013 'she had refused him and despised him' \u2013 responds by subjecting the woman who had scorned him to a vile parody of pregnancy. Her swollen belly has been impregnated by the tip of an imperfectly painted arrow. She looks down with an expression of quiet surprise as blood spurts from the entry point, making a gesture with her hands that suggests she wants to part the flesh of her stomach still further. She is about to give birth to her own death.\n\nThree others complete the group. Ursula's shocked maidservant hovers like a ghost between the killer and her mistress. In her left hand she holds the pole of a Christian banner, while with her right she reaches, too late, for the Hun's bow. A soldier in black armour, shown in half-profile, approaches to catch the martyr should she swoon or fall. Directly behind Ursula's stooped white mask of a face, another ghoulish face stares sightlessly into space. It is as if she has grown a second head. This is the last of all Caravaggio's self-portraits.\n\nWhat did he mean by this strange, haunting device? To suggest his own sympathy for the martyr, his wish to die like her? Or was he painting his realization that he was actually dying \u2013 and dying, like her, from a revenge wound inflicted at close quarters? His mouth is half open, as though to suggest that he is gasping, that he feels the arrow piercing his flesh too. Had Caravaggio turned the whole scene into a proxy for his own traumatic ordeal at the Osteria del Cerriglio? The assassin has the weatherbeaten face of a warrior. Is he too a portrait, an image dredged up from painter's worst memories?\n\nThere are no answers to these questions. With the completion of the picture, darkness closes in on Caravaggio.\n\n#### THE BOATMAN'S STORY\n\nCaravaggio painted his last picture for Prince Marcantonio Doria of Genoa, who had probably sheltered him when he briefly fled Rome in the summer of 1605 after assaulting the notary Mariano Pasqualone. The prince, who had once tried to commission an entire fresco cycle from Caravaggio, had to content himself with a single canvas. He probably chose the subject of _The Martyrdom of St Ursula_ in honour of his beloved stepdaughter Ursula, who like her namesake had committed herself to a lifetime of chastity by taking religious vows.\n\nA small comedy of errors attended the delivery of the painting. It had been finished by 10 May 1610. But the very next day Doria's procurator in Naples, Lanfranco Massa, apologized to his master for having nearly ruined it: 'I thought to send you the painting of Saint Ursula this week, but to be sure that it was dry, I put it in the sun yesterday, and this instead caused the thick varnish which Caravaggio put on to liquefy; I want to obtain Caravaggio's opinion on how to do it so as not to harm it. Signor Damiano has seen it and was amazed, like all the others who saw it...'\n\nIt took more than two weeks to put the picture right, but by the end of May it was ready for despatch from Naples to Genoa. On 27 May, Massa wrote to Prince Doria: 'I am sending with P. Alessandro Caramano on his boat a long box inside of which is the painting of _The Martyrdom of St Ursula_ , carefully packed, for which [you] will be required to pay 50 soldi in conformance with the shipper's policy.'\n\nThe correspondence is completed by a shipper's manifest, dated the same day: 'Sr Lanfranco Massa has loaded in the name of God and of good fortune in the present port of Naples onto the _felucca_ named _Santa Maria di Porto Salvo_ , owned by Alessandro Caramano, a box containing the painting of _The Martyrdom of St Ursula_ , made by the hand of Michel'Angelo [ _sic_ ] Caravaggio, very well packed, in order to consign it in the same condition upon arrival in Genoa to Sr Marcantonio Doria who will pay two and one-half libri of that money should God carry it safely.' The manifest was signed by a certain Antonio Feraro, 'on command of the above stated Alessandro Caramano who does not know how to write'.\n\nGod and the illiterate boatman indeed carried the painting safely to distant Genoa. According to a note of receipt in the margin of Massa's second letter, it arrived on 18 June, precisely three weeks after it had left Naples. Three weeks after _that_ , sometime around the second week of July, Caravaggio himself embarked on a _felucca_ travelling from Naples to Rome. He left from the Colonna Palace at Chiaia. He had three paintings with him, two of St John the Baptist and one of Mary Magdalen.\n\nThe timing of Caravaggio's departure suggests that he waited for Alessandro Caramano to return before leaving for Rome himself. He probably wanted to use Caramano for his own journey too. He was a trusted skipper, whose _felucca_ had a sufficiently large hold to carry bulky pictures packed in wooden boxes. Caravaggio was very ill and no doubt more than a little apprehensive, so it made sense for him to choose a boatman whom he knew. But this time, the 'St Mary of the Safe Harbour' did not bring good luck.\n\nAccording to Bellori, the painter felt confident to return to Rome because he had 'by then obtained his freedom from the pope through the intercession of Cardinal Gonzaga'. The recently appointed Cardinal Ferdinando Gonzaga was the son of Vincenzo I Gonzaga, who had purchased Caravaggio's _Death of the Virgin_. The family may have hoped eventually to obtain more pictures from the artist in return for their support. But the young cardinal seems not to have dealt with the pope directly, approaching him instead through the papal nephew, Scipione Borghese. Borghese was already the proud owner of the artist's first version of _St Jerome Writing_ as well as his _David with the Head of Goliath_. Insatiable collector that he was, Borghese agreed to help obtain Caravaggio's pardon, but only if the artist gave him his entire stock of unsold pictures as soon as he got to Rome.\n\nA Roman _avviso_ of late July supports Bellori's report that Caravaggio had been granted his long-awaited pardon for the murder of Ranuccio Tomassoni some time before he left Naples, saying that the painter was travelling to Rome 'because His Holiness had lifted the _bando capitale_ which he was under'. But Baglione was not so sure: he makes it sound as though negotiations were still continuing, even as Caravaggio set out from Naples. The painter was travelling 'on the word of Cardinal Gonzaga, who was arranging his pardon from Pope Paul V'. If the pardon had not yet been officially agreed, that may help to explain why things would go so badly wrong for him on his journey to Rome.\n\nEach writer put a slightly different slant on what happened next.\n\nIn Baglione's telling, it became the parable of a fittingly miserable death, brought on by the painter's own impetuosity and the burning July sun:\n\n> When Caravaggio went ashore he was suddenly arrested. He was held for two days in prison and when he was released, the _felucca_ was no longer to be found. This made him furious and in his desperation he started out along the beach in the cruel July sun, trying to catch sight of the vessel which was carrying his belongings. Finally he reached a village on the shore and was put to bed with a malignant fever. He was completely abandoned and within a few days he died miserably \u2013 indeed, just as he had lived.\n\nBellori gives a broadly similar account, although he emphasizes that Caravaggio was still in agony from the injuries he had received in the vendetta attack. He also embellishes the painter's detention on landing, turning it into a case of mistaken identity. The idea should not be taken too seriously, since Bellori probably just got it from misreading the phrase 'suddenly arrested' in Baglione's considerably earlier account:\n\n> he boarded a _felucca_ , and, suffering the bitterest pain, he started out for Rome... When he went ashore the Spanish guard arrested him by mistake, taking him for another Cavaliere, and held him prisoner. Although he was soon released, the _felucca_ which was carrying him and his possessions was no longer to be found. Thus in a state of anxiety and desperation he ran along the beach in the full heat of the summer sun, and when he reached Porto Ercole, he collapsed and was seized with a malignant fever. He died within a few days at about forty years of age...\n\nMancini gives much less detail. Wrongly and a bit strangely, since he knew better, he has Caravaggio leaving for Rome from Malta. He also omits the story of Caravaggio's imprisonment, release and desperate pursuit of the _felucca_ , but agrees with Baglione and Bellori that the painter died at Porto Ercole:\n\n> He left with the hope of being pardoned and went to Civita Vecchia [Porto Ercole, to be precise, according to a marginal note in the text], where, stricken with a malignant fever, he died miserably and without care, at the height of his glory, being about thirty-five or forty years of age. He was buried nearby.\n\nCertain elements of the early biographers' accounts of Caravaggio's death are questionable. He certainly did not travel to Porto Ercole on foot, for example. But in essence they got the facts right. What they said happened was, more or less, what actually happened.\n\nThe true sequence of events has been confirmed and fleshed out by two contemporary newspaper reports and a remarkable letter found in the state archive of Naples.\n\nOn 28 July a Roman _avviso_ reported that 'There has been news of the death of Michelangelo Caravaggio, the famous painter, excellent in colouring and in drawing from nature, following his illness in Port' Ercole.' Three days later, another Roman _avviso_ confirmed the news, adding the detail that he had died at Porto Ercole 'while he was coming from Naples to Rome, having obtained the lifting of the death sentence he was under'. The speed with which these reports appeared suggests that the writers may have received their information direct from Porto Ercole itself, which was a day's fast ride from Rome.\n\nBut the papal nephew, Scipione Borghese, had heard the news even quicker than the _avviso_ writers. He knew that Caravaggio was dead as early as 23 July. But although he got his information with lightning speed, it was not entirely reliable, because Borghese's source wrongly told him that the painter had died not at Porto Ercole but on the little island of Procida, a day's sail west of Naples. Presumably for that reason Borghese immediately wrote to the papal nuncio in Naples, Deodato Gentile, Bishop of Caserta, urgently demanding more intelligence. He wanted to know what had happened to poor Caravaggio. Even more pressingly, he wanted to know what had happened to the paintings in the dead man's luggage. As far as Borghese was concerned, they were now his property.\n\nThe papal nuncio in Naples was indeed able to tell Scipione Borghese what had happened. His response to the papal nephew anticipates the accounts of Caravaggio's death given by both Baglione and Bellori by many years. Yet it turns out to match their descriptions of what happened so exactly, albeit with more detail, that it was in all probability their main source of information in the first place. What Gentile told Borghese became common knowledge in Rome.\n\nGentile's letter was dated 29 July. He began by acknowledging receipt of Borghese's request for information, which had reached him on 24 July. He confessed that Caravaggio's death was 'completely new' to him. But he had made enquiries and found answers to the papal nephew's questions. He gave Borghese the full story of the painter's death, as he now understood it:\n\n> Poor Caravaggio did not die at Procida, but at Port' Ercole, because having arrived with the _felucca_ , in which he went to Palo, he was incarcerated by the captain there. In the uproar, the _felucca_ went back out into the open sea and returned to Naples. Caravaggio stayed in prison, then freed himself by paying over a huge sum of money, and perhaps on foot reached Port' Ercole by land, where, falling ill, he departed this life.\n> \n> On its return, the _felucca_ brought the things he'd left behind to the house of the lady Marchesa of Caravaggio, who lives at Chiaia, and from where Caravaggio himself had left. I immediately made sure the pictures were there, and found that there are no more than three, the two St Johns and the Magdalen, and they are in the above-mentioned house of the lady Marchesa, to whom I have sent [a message] straight away to ask that they be well looked after, so they are not ruined before they can be seen, or come into anyone's hands, since they were intended [for Your Lordship], and it is necessary to negotiate on Your Lordship's behalf with the heirs and creditors of the said Caravaggio and give them honest satisfaction.\n\nDeodato Gentile signed off with a promise to make sure that the paintings would end up in 'the hands of Your Most Illustrious Lordship'.\n\nDespite this letter's dispassionate clarity, and despite the fact that it was written within days of the events that it describes, all kinds of arcane conspiracy theories about Caravaggio's death continue to proliferate. He is said to have been the victim of a plot involving the Knights of Malta, or Costanza Colonna, or the pope himself \u2013 or all of them, acting fiendishly in concert. He is said to have been ambushed at sea, his body cut in pieces and dumped underwater in a sack. The proponents of such theories invariably claim that the information gathered by Deodato Gentile was nothing more than a smokescreen of falsehood and fabrication \u2013 a tall tale to cover up a murder. But there is no real reason to doubt the report that Gentile carefully filed to Scipione Borghese, who was not only one of the most powerful men in Italy but the head of the papal system of justice. Attempting to deceive such a man would have been foolhardy, and probably futile.\n\nIn truth, the supposed mystery of Caravaggio's death is nothing of the kind. Conspiracy theories are a distraction. Caravaggio's true fate was dark and dramatic enough to need no elaboration or reinvention. His last journey can now be clearly reconstructed, the cause of his death understood.\n\nThis is what happened.\n\nHoping that his pardon had been arranged, the painter set out from Naples to Rome on or around 9 July 1610. He left in a _felucca_ , probably the _Santa Maria di Porto Salvo_ , with his three paintings stowed in the hold. He is unlikely to have been the only passenger. A _felucca_ was a two-masted boat with square-set sails and a spitsail, which could be rowed if winds were unfavourable. It was crewed by between six and eight men, and to hire one was expensive. The usual practice was for a skipper to wait until he had two or more customers going in the same direction before beginning a journey. It is probable that Caravaggio had a travelling companion who was going to Porto Ercole, or the boatman had a delivery to make there. Either way, Caravaggio knew that Porto Ercole was the boat's final destination.\n\nAbout a week after setting sail, the _felucca_ carrying Caravaggio and his paintings docked at Palo, a high-security fort manned by a Spanish garrison, some twenty miles west of Rome. It was not the most common landing place for travellers to Rome, especially travellers wanting to arrive discreetly. But Palo was a centre for the distribution and transportation of goods and materials, as well as a fortress. It made sense for Caravaggio to land there because with his three heavy paintings in large boxes he needed a horse-drawn carriage or cart to complete his journey.\n\nWhen he got to Palo, however, something went badly wrong. His papers may have been out of order, or perhaps he just made a remark the captain of the garrison did not like. Whatever it was, before his luggage could be unloaded, he was taken away to a holding cell. 'In all the uproar,' Deodato Gentile told Scipione Borghese, 'the _felucca_ went back out into the open sea and returned to Naples.' Gentile's wording suggests a fracas, with Caravaggio resisting arrest, shouting and perhaps characteristically trying to draw his sword as he was forcibly restrained.\n\nAvoiding further involvement in the scuffle, the skipper put out to sea again. He would indeed return to Naples, but not immediately. First, with his other customer, or to make his other delivery, he had to get to Porto Ercole, some fifty miles north and, depending on the wind, about a couple of days' journey by sea further from Rome, and from Naples.\n\nMeanwhile, Caravaggio was forced to cool his heels in jail. The cause of his imprisonment may have been trivial, because he was allowed to buy his way out. At this point all the accounts become a little vague, or fanciful, suggesting there were no witnesses to what happened next. According to Deodato Gentile, Caravaggio, 'perhaps on foot, reached Porto Ercole by land'. Baglione elaborated that speculation into the maddened run of a desperate man along a parched coastline in the height of summer: 'in his desperation he started out along the beach in the cruel July sun, trying to catch sight of the vessel which was carrying his belongings.' The story clearly appealed to Bellori, who repeated it.\n\nBut it is obviously false. Assuming that Caravaggio got out of jail within a day of his arrest, he left Palo on 16 or 17 July. Scipione Borghese knew that he was dead by 23 July, which means that he actually died on 21 July at the very latest, and probably earlier. In other words, his journey from Palo to Porto Ercole can only have taken a few days, probably just a couple. But the distance between the two places is some fifty miles. In high summer, a man convalescing from serious injuries would have struggled to make that journey on foot in less than four or five days.\n\nCaravaggio may have been desperate, but he was not mad. Throughout his life he had shown a cool head in tight situations. It suited Baglione's purposes to invent the story of the enraged pursuit, because it paved the way for his smug ending \u2013 'he died miserably \u2013 indeed, just as he had lived' \u2013 but the truth is that Caravaggio had to catch up with the boat because it was carrying the paintings that were the price of his compact with Scipione Borghese. If he did not, he could not return to Rome. He knew from conversations with the skipper, or with his travelling companion, that the boat had gone to Porto Ercole. Given the 'uproar' that had accompanied his arrest at Palo, he certainly could not count on the boat returning there with his possessions. So he had to go to find it.\n\nPalo was a staging post, so even though the boat had a head start, he could easily get to Porto Ercole first. He would simply have to ride post along the coastal delivery route. With a change of horse, he might cover the whole distance in a single day. It would have been exhausting, but it was no insane race against fate. It was the logical thing to do. He left Palo probably on 16 or 17 July, and a day later arrived in Porto Ercole, another small coastal settlement, manned by a Spanish garrison. But the stress of his arrest at Palo, and the effort of getting to Porto Ercole to recover his paintings, finally broke him. In Porto Ercole, probably on 18 or 19 July, Caravaggio died.\n\nThe boat carrying his paintings arrived almost simultaneously, perhaps shortly afterwards. The skipper and crew soon learned the news of Caravaggio's illness and death. The painter was buried, hurriedly and without ceremony. In the heat of summer a body would decay quickly, so there could be no delay. Since he died alone, without relatives or friends to care for him, he was placed in an unmarked grave. His death was not recorded in the parish records. This has been regarded as a sinister omission by the conspiracy theorists. But there is an unsinister explanation for it. Porto Ercole's only priest was in dispute with the town fathers and on strike at the time. No deaths were recorded there in the summer of 1610.\n\nThe boat carrying Caravaggio's possessions could do no more than return to Naples. Presumably the vessel left immediately. It was certainly back in Naples by 29 July, when Deodato Gentile reported to Scipione Borghese that Caravaggio's paintings had been returned to Costanza Colonna's palace.\n\nThe exact cause of Caravaggio's death is unknown. Deodato Gentile, writing just over a week after the event, simply said that he fell ill and departed life. On the evidence of the agonized self-portrait in _The Martyrdom of St Ursula_ , and the shakiness of the hand that painted it, he was already unwell when he set out for Rome. The stress of his arrest, and the frantic ride to Porto Ercole in the extreme heat of July, was more than a man in his condition could take. Heat exhaustion, or perhaps a heart attack, may have been what finally killed him.\n\nOne question remains. Where did Deodato Gentile get his information? What was his source for all this close detail about the final journey and strange, sad death of a sick man trying to reach Rome from Naples? Whatever it was, it was also the source on which the later biographers drew when they elaborated their own accounts of the painter's death. No one added anything meaningful to it, except red herrings like Bellori's mistaken arrest or Baglione's headlong footrace along the coast.\n\nIt might be thought that Gentile had put his feelers out in Porto Ercole, where the death had taken place, or had sent for information to Palo, where Caravaggio had been arrested. But he could have done neither of those things: the dates of his correspondence with Scipione Borghese preclude it. Borghese wrote to Gentile on 23 July and Gentile received the letter the following day. He replied to Borghese just five days later, on 29 July. It was two or three days by boat to Palo, the same again to Porto Ercole. By horse, even riding post, it would have taken at least four days in each direction, since it is two hundred miles from Naples to Porto Ercole. A week, more likely ten days, would have been needed to get there, make enquiries, and then report back. So Gentile must have found his information in Naples. Who could he have spoken to? Who would have known all this?\n\nOnly one person could have told the papal nuncio about what happened when Caravaggio landed at Palo. Only one person could have told him about the painter's death in Porto Ercole. That person was the boatman, who had just returned to Naples with the dead painter's belongings. His crew had accompanied him, but it was the owner of the boat whom Deodato Gentile would have brought in for questioning. The whole story must have been his testimony. Hence the use of nautical terminology \u2013 'the _felucca_ went back out into the open sea', he had said, _alto mare_ 158 \u2013 as well as the ship's-eye perspective of the entire account. Hence too the vagueness after Caravaggio is arrested and the boat pulls off: that was the moment when the boatman lost sight of the painter.\n\nThe interview would have been short and to the point. The boatman was being accused of nothing and had nothing to hide. He had no reason to be evasive, so he simply told the truth as best he could.\n\nWhere did you take Michelangelo Merisi? Palo, the garrison. What happened there? Some kind of trouble. They arrested him. There was a real uproar, so it was best to take the boat on to Porto Ercole.\n\nHow did the painter get to Porto Ercole? The skipper does not know, so he shrugs and makes a guess, not thinking properly about the distances involved \u2013 'perhaps on foot'.\n\nWhat happened at Porto Ercole? He is not sure about that either, probably because the painter had died before he got there. But he does know that Caravaggio had fallen ill, and had died at that place. It had probably only just happened when the boatman arrived. He may even have been asked to identify the body, so they could bury it as soon as possible.\n\nWhat about the paintings? Of course, he knows all about them. They are back at the Marchesa of Caravaggio's house, the palace at Chiaia, the one at the edge of the city, facing the bay. He had returned them just the day before. That is where he had taken them from in the first place, when the poor man had hired him.\n\nDeodato Gentile could have had all this information second-hand from Costanza Colonna herself, because she must have quizzed the skipper of the _felucca_ when he came back to her house in Naples, with the pictures but without Caravaggio. But he did not. Gentile makes it clear in his letter that he had _not_ spoken to her, that he had only sent a message telling her to keep Caravaggio's pictures safe at all costs. Gentile's source can indeed only have been the captain of the _felucca_ himself \u2013 the skipper, in all probability, of the _Santa Maria di Porto Salvo_.\n\nCaravaggio appears for the first time as a flesh-and-blood human being in the documentary records through the fleeting testimony of a Roman barber-surgeon named Luca. The painter had been 'a stocky young man, about twenty or twenty-five years old, with a thin black beard, thick eyebrows and black eyes, who goes dressed all in black, in a rather disorderly fashion, wearing black hose that is a little bit threadbare, and who has a thick head of hair, long over his forehead'. That was in 1597. Less than thirteen years later, wounded and worn down, our last glimpses of Caravaggio are through the testimony of a humble boatman, Alessandro Caramano. Like Luca the barber's apprentice, Alessandro was just an ordinary man. He could not read and he could not write. But he could tell the truth about what he had seen with his own eyes.\n\nCaravaggio had lived much of his life close to the margins of society, surrounded by poor and ordinary people. He painted them, staging the stories of the Bible with their bodies and their faces. He painted _for_ them and from their perspective. In the end he died among them and was buried among them, in an unmarked grave. He was thirty-eight years old.\n\n#### AFTERMATH\n\nIn Naples, Rome and Malta, people in high places briefly lamented the passing of 'poor Caravaggio'. Then they got into an unseemly scramble for his last few paintings.\n\nHaving been told by the boatman that the three pictures in the painter's luggage had been deposited with Costanza Colonna, Deodato Gentile had immediately written to her claiming them on Scipione Borghese's behalf. But he had been too late. The Knights of Malta had also found out about Caravaggio's death. On the very day that Gentile wrote to Costanza Colonna, the local prior of the Knights of Malta barged his way into her palace and forcibly confiscated the pictures. Caravaggio had been dead for only ten days, but an unholy row was already brewing over his last things.\n\nOn 31 July 1610, Gentile reported back to Borghese in Rome: 'Most Illustrious and Reverend Sir... The Marchesa of Caravaggio has informed me that the paintings of Caravaggio are no longer in her house, but have been sequestrated by the Prior of Capua... said prior is claiming that Caravaggio was a serving brother in his religious order, and that therefore all the spoils are his to take. The Marchesa says that this is all folly and vanity, and the prior is not right. I will do my best to find where they are kept, and use all diligence to secure them in the name of Your Illustrious Lordship...'\n\nOn the death of any Knight of Malta, his possessions indeed automatically reverted to the order. Suddenly it suited Wignacourt and his prior to pretend that Caravaggio's defrocking had never taken place, and that he had still been a Knight of Magistral Obedience when he died. But the marchesa, who knew very well that Caravaggio had been stripped of his knighthood, saw straight through this rather crude gambit. Hence her audible disgust for the prior and his men, turning up at her house and taking the paintings, as if she were a bankrupt and they were the bailiffs \u2013 it was indeed all _vanit\u00e0_.\n\nDeodato Gentile concluded his letter of 31 July by advising Borghese to write to Don Pedro Fern\u00e1ndez de Castro, Conde de Lemos, who had recently taken over the post of Spanish viceroy in Naples. Don Pedro was the most powerful man in the city. Borghese followed Gentile's advice, informing the viceroy of the prior's false claims and appealing to him for help. But the wheels of Spanish diplomacy moved painfully slowly. It was mid August before Don Pedro swung, rather confusedly, into action. He told the impudent Prior of Capua that it was no good pretending that Caravaggio had died a Knight of Malta, and that he would have to surrender all claims to the pictures. But the Spanish viceroy had evidently failed to realize exactly what had happened. Somehow or other he had got it into his head that the paintings were still being argued over in Porto Ercole, some two hundred miles north. So he fired off a peremptory letter to the head of the Spanish garrisons in Tuscany, together with an inventory listing the works of art that he particularly wanted to secure:\n\n> Honoured Sir, I have been informed that the painter Michael Angelo di Caravaggio has died at Port' Ercole and that you have in your possession all his property, especially the items indicated in the inventory which accompanies this letter, the property having been taken over as a spolium under the pretext that the deceased was a member of the Order of St John, and that it belonged to the Prior of Capua who has declared that he has no right to this spolium inasmuch as the deceased was not a Knight of Malta; and thus I charge you that as soon as you receive this letter you send me the aforesaid property by the first _felucca_ available, and especially the painting of _St John the Baptist_ , and if by chance it has been disposed of or removed from the property for whatever reason, you shall endeavour by all means to see that it is found and recovered in order to send it well packed with the other property and deliver it here to the proper authority, and you shall carry this out unconditionally, informing me of the receipt of this letter. From my desk, Naples, August 19, 1610.\n\nIt would be another five months before anything more was heard about the paintings. By then two of them had disappeared altogether, perhaps into the hands of Caravaggio's creditors, perhaps to Malta. The only work of art that anyone could locate for sure was a _St John_ , which turned out to be the picture of the saint as an olive-skinned Sicilian boy painted at around the time Caravaggio had left Messina for Palermo. By the winter of 1610 it had found its way into the house of the Spanish viceroy, who seems to have become singularly reluctant to give it up.\n\nOn 12 December the beleaguered Bishop of Caserta, Deodato Gentile, was finally able to report further developments to Scipione Borghese. He apologized for still not having despatched the _St John_ , which his lordship 'must have given up for lost', and explained the reasons. The viceroy had wanted to have a copy made of the painting for his own collection. In addition, there had been obscure problems with Caravaggio's inheritors and creditors \u2013 this part of the document is barely legible \u2013 and since he had left many debts there were people who had needed to be satisfied. Gentile promised to press the matter and obtain the painting. Only in August of the following year did the papal nuncio finally manage to prise it from the grip of the Spanish viceroy and send it, at long last, to Rome. He apologized that it had been slightly damaged in all the toing and froing. The picture has remained in the Borghese collection ever since.\n\n#### DOING JESUS LIKE CARAVAGGIO\n\nThe messy story of what happened to Caravaggio's last paintings is also a microcosm of his afterlife, and a parable illustrating his singularity as a painter. He had always been an outsider, a troublemaker, a difficult and dangerous man. Yet his art was so compelling, so original, so unforgettable, that people were simply transfixed by it. They fought to look at it, gathering in their hundreds every time a new altarpiece was unveiled, and they fought to acquire it, even though everything else about Caravaggio \u2013 his terseness, his weird dress sense, his violence, his sexual reputation, his unerring gift for getting into trouble \u2013 seemed so disconcerting and strange.\n\nCaravaggio was not only the most disturbed but also the most unconventional of the truly great painters of the Italian tradition. His whole career ran counter to type, defiantly contradicting the patterns of training, patronage and even the actual practice of painting that were expected of a successful artist. It is clear that during his obscure early years, something went awry during his supposed apprenticeship to the Milanese painter Peterzano. Essentially, Caravaggio taught himself to paint. He may have picked up technical tips and clues in places like Giuseppe Cesari's studio, but his basic method was empirical. He looked at the way light falls, and at the way people behave. The fact that he was obliged to invent himself may partly explain his deep originality. The advantage of not having been taught was that he had nothing to unlearn.\n\nOnce he had begun to find his own way, Caravaggio painted with such force, such a stunning sense of drama, such a deep sense of humanity, that prestigious commissions flooded towards him. The simple truth is that he was a far greater painter than any of his contemporaries. But, despite winning the support of Cardinal del Monte, and despite his network of protectors within the Colonna family, he never found a secure place in the hierarchies of power and patronage. He painted as if the rich and the powerful were his enemies, as if he really did believe that the meek deserved to inherit the earth. Ultimately, he acted in the same way too. Only once in his life did he come close to achieving a truly settled position, a respected place among men of real power and influence, and that was on Malta. But almost as soon as he had been knighted, he managed to have himself thrown into jail. With hindsight it looks like a complete act of self-sabotage, as if he could not bear the thought of truly belonging and of walking the corridors of power.\n\nCaravaggio was also unique among the great Italian painters in _how_ he went about painting. He had no studio in anything like the conventional sense. He had the odd boy to help him, Cecco in particular, but essentially he painted all by himself. He did not draw. He never established a workshop with specialist assistants to help with the painting of drapery or landscape, as other artists did. He gathered around himself no real circle of pupils, and there were no acolytes to spread the word, no one to disseminate his methods and his beliefs. There were no portfolios of his drawings to pass around. There was nothing except his pictures themselves, and there were not very many of those because he had died so young. Under the circumstances, the vast impact of his work is all the more remarkable.\n\nFor more than a century and a half after his death, the classicizing critics of Europe's academic art tradition made a concerted and resolute attempt to blacken his name. According to their beliefs, much influenced by the strains of Neoplatonist philosophy, it was art's duty to present an idealized version of reality, and not \u2013 as Caravaggio was held to have done \u2013 merely to represent the real world in all its unregenerate ugliness. Bellori was the arch-exponent of the anti-Caravaggist movement in academic thought, but there were many others, notably the Spanish painter and author Vicente Carducho, who demonized Caravaggio as an anti-Christ of art, the antithesis to his saintly predecessor and namesake, the 'divine' Michelangelo. So influential was the rhetoric of Caravaggio's posthumous enemies that the great French seventeenth-century painter Poussin was persuaded that he had been 'sent into the world to destroy painting'.\n\nDespite the sustained drive to denigrate and marginalize his work, Caravaggio's paintings were too profound and affecting to be suppressed. Gradually but inexorably, his dramatic sense of composition, his strikingly stark handling of light and dark and his sheer rawness of feeling worked themselves into the DNA of Western art. During the years immediately after his death, hardly a single important painter escaped his influence. Rubens, Vel\u00e0zquez and Pietro da Cortona all echoed his compositions or copied his devices and traits. Within a generation, entire schools of so-called Caravaggisti established themselves in both Italy and the Netherlands. Partly perhaps because of the location of the French Academy in Rome, at the top of the Spanish Steps, and within easy walking distance of so many of his most important altarpieces, he would have an especially powerful impact on French art. His influence can be detected in the work of such widely differing French painters as Valentin de Boulogne and Georges de La Tour. There was a particularly strong resurgence of interest in his art during the Neoclassical and Romantic periods. In England, Joseph Wright of Derby's _Experiment on a Bird in the Air Pump_ of 1768 transformed the scientific demonstration of the effects of a vacuum on a living creature into a hushed modern version of a miracle as painted by Caravaggio. In France, the self-appointed painter to the Revolution, Jacques-Louis David, painted the dead Marat slumped in his bath as if he were one of Caravaggio's spotlit martyrs, and in 1819 Theodore G\u00e9ricault conceived arguably the first great masterpiece of French Romanticism, _The Raft of the Medusa_ , as a modern, secularized version of an altarpiece by Caravaggio.\n\nTowards the end of the nineteenth century Caravaggio's work did fall somewhat out of fashion. His paintings attracted relatively little attention from those pioneering the still embryonic discipline of art history, whose attentions were biased by the market. (The purpose of much early art historical research was to establish the provenance and therefore the value of pictures coming to auction, but, since nearly all of Caravaggio's major pictures were immovable altarpieces, very few of his works ever came up for sale.) Neither did his pictures seem especially interesting to painters of the early Modern period, such as C\u00e9zanne or, later, the Cubists and Futurists, because it was their stated ambition to flatten, distort and destroy the conventions of post-Renaissance illusionist painting. Caravaggio was too much of an 'optical' painter for their taste. They preferred the so-called Italian 'primitives', painters such as Giotto and Duccio, whose disregard for conventional perspective seemed closer to a Modernist aesthetic. They might have been interested in Caravaggio's late Sicilian pictures, which responded to powerful strains of primitivism in Counter-Reformation thought, but those paintings had fallen into neglect and were all but unknown by the early twentieth century. It is symbolic of this one period of genuine neglect that the young Picasso, for all his magpie eclecticism and positively Oedipal obsession with the art of the past, never showed the slightest interest in reworking or pastiching the art of Caravaggio. It was only when Picasso grew older that his attitude changed. In 1937, while working on _Guernica_ , his agonized frieze of suffering inspired by the horrors of the Spanish Civil War, he told Salvador Dal\u00ed that he wanted the horse at the centre of the painting to have the same presence as the horse in Caravaggio's _Conversion of St Paul_ : 'I want it to be so realistic \u2013 just like in Caravaggio \u2013 that you can smell the sweat.'\n\nCaravaggio's reputation was decisively rehabilitated for the twentieth century by the gifted and eloquent Italian art historian Roberto Longhi, who put on an extremely influential retrospective of the painter's work in 1951. Since then Caravaggio has become perhaps the most widely popular of all the Old Masters. In many respects he is the perfect painter for an age pruriently obsessed with the lurid private lives of famous people. His fame has never been greater, and his private life was nothing if not lurid. His many sins and misdemeanours, his irregularities and eccentricities, so long used to blacken his name, have now made him a posthumous celebrity. But the deeper pull is still that of his art.\n\nSince Longhi staged his ground-breaking exhibition, Caravaggio's influence has continued to spread. But his work seems to have been less of an inspiration to those ploughing the increasingly conceptualist fields of fine art than to those working with photography and film. One of the few painters to have had a profound impact on disciplines other than painting itself, he may fairly be considered as a pioneer of modern cinematography. Pier Paolo Pasolini, who made some of the most powerful Italian films of the 1960s, was profoundly influenced by Caravaggio's sense of light, by his narrative directness, and by his casting of poor and ordinary working people in leading roles. Martin Scorsese, one of the most gifted American directors of the last forty years, has been disarmingly explicit about the depth of his own admiration for Caravaggio. He was introduced to the painter's work in the late 1960s by screenwriter Paul Schrader when they were working on _Taxi Driver_ , his film about a vigilante killer taking on New York's underworld of drug dealers and whores. He sees Caravaggio very much with the eyes of someone looking for things he can use, borrow, adapt. In Scorsese's words, the long tradition of Caravaggio as a true artist's artist is both reincarnated and refreshed. It is worth quoting him at length:\n\n> I was instantly taken by the power of the pictures, the power of the compositions, the action in the frames, the way he designed the composition and the subject matter... there was no doubt it could be taken into cinema because of the use of light and shadow, the chiaroscuro effect...\n> \n> Initially I related to the paintings because of the moment that he chose to illuminate in the story. _The Conversion of Paul_ , _Judith Beheading Holofernes_ : he was choosing a moment that was not the absolute moment of the beginning of the action, it's during the action, in a way. You sort of come upon the scene midway and you're immersed in it. It was very different from the composition of the paintings that preceded it, the Renaissance paintings. It was like modern staging in film. It was as if we had just come in the middle of scene and it was all happening. It was so powerful and direct. It was startling, really. He would have been a great film-maker, there's no doubt about it. I thought, I can use this too...\n> \n> So then he was there. He sort of pervaded the entirety of the bar sequences in another film I made around then, _Mean Streets_. There's no doubt about that. He was there in the way I wanted the camera movement, the choice of how to stage a scene. It's basically people sitting in bars, people at tables, people getting up, that sort of thing. _The Calling of Matthew_ , but in New York! Making films with street people was what it was really about, like he made paintings with them. They weren't like the usual models from the Renaissance. They were people who were really living life. That's why it played into my mind in _Mean Streets_...\n> \n> Then that extended into a much later film, _The Temptation of Christ_. Why couldn't we have people who lived on the street play apostles? They had been fishermen, Jesus was a carpenter. Caravaggio takes the Virgin Mary and has a prostitute play the Virgin Mary. She's a woman and the Virgin Mary's a woman. It's shocking and provocative. It doesn't judge the person. It doesn't make judgement on the prostitute when making her the Virgin and this is something very powerful and compassionate...\n> \n> So in doing _The Last Temptation of Christ_ the idea was that Jesus was going to be Jesus Christ on Eighth Avenue and 49th Street in New York, where we shot _Taxi Driver_ those years ago. It hasn't changed much since then, it's a little better now, but really you might as well be in a den of iniquity most of the time. It was quite a place, especially at three and four in the morning. This is where Jesus would go. He wouldn't be hanging out on Park Avenue in New York. He'd be in the street with the crack addicts and the prostitutes. The idea was to do Jesus like Caravaggio.\n\n1. _Portrait of Caravaggio_ by Ottavio Leoni. A Roman barber named Luca described the painter just as he appears here: 'a stocky young man, with a thin black beard, thick eyebrows and black eyes... dressed all in black'.\n\n2\/3. The _sacro monte_ at Varallo, in modern Piedmont. In a series of chapels linked by mountain paths, polychrome figures play out stories from the Bible in vivid and often bloody _mises-en-sc\u00e8ne_.\n\n4. _The Lamentation_ by Guido Mazzoni. Caravaggio was influenced by this intense form of realism. He knew Mazzoni's work well and painted a picture for the Neapolitan church that housed this very sculpture.\n\n5. _Mary Magdalen_ by Donatello. Donatello's disconcertingly lifelike sculptures may also have shaped Caravaggio's imagination.\n\n6. _Carlo Borromeo_ (detail) by Carlo Dolci. Dour and ascetic, Borromeo was the dominant force in Milan during Caravaggio's formative years. He would remain legendary in the city for centuries.\n\n7. _The Adoration of the Shepherds_ (detail) by Simone Peterzano. The young Caravaggio signed a contract of apprenticeship with Peterzano, but just what he learned from this feeble disciple of Titian is not clear.\n\n8. The Farnese Gallery by Annibale Carracci (detail). For his Farnese patrons, Carracci daringly revived pagan and erotic mythology in Counter-Reformation Rome.\n\n9. _Perseus and Andromeda_ by Giuseppe Cesari. The young Caravaggio spent some unhappy months as an assistant to Cesari, who used him to paint fruit and flowers.\n\n10. _Boy Peeling a Fruit_. This may be one of Caravaggio's earliest surviving pictures. If so, it shows how little progress he had made as a painter by his early twenties.\n\n11. _Boy with a Basket of Fruit_ : 'a blushing, smooth-skinned adolescent, with dark curly hair and an expression of amorous intensity on his face' who may represent the Groom in the biblical Song of Songs.\n\n12. _Boy Bitten by a Lizard_. In the language of the Italian street the bitten finger represented the wounded phallus.\n\n13. _Boy Bitten by a Crayfish_ by Sofonisba Anguissola.\n\n14. _Self-Portrait as Bacchus_. 'The picture has a sorceror's apprentice feel to it, with hints of illicit goings on...'\n\n15. _Bacchus and Ariadne_ by Titian _._\n\n16. _The Cardsharps._ A young aristocrat is cheated by two feral and predatory conmen.\n\n17. _The Gypsy Fortune-Teller_. 'A sweet siren, she enchants with smooth incantations.'\n\n18. _Cardinal Francesco Maria del Monte_ by Ottavio Leoni. Friend to writers, musicians, artists and scientists, del Monte was Caravaggio's first patron.\n\n19. The Palazzo Madama in Rome, where Caravaggio lived for several years under del Monte's protection.\n\n20. _Medusa_. 'Whomsoever she looks at, she freezes. From the flux of life she takes a moment and makes it last for all time. That is what Caravaggio does too. Her magic is his magic, a petrifying art.'\n\n21. _The Musicians_. By painting a rehearsal instead of an actual performance, Caravaggio went behind the scenes of the traditional concert picture.\n\n22. _Le Concert Champ\u00eatre_ by Titian. Music in the pastoral mode.\n\n23. _Concert_ by Callisto Piazza. Music as erotic stimulus.\n\n24. _The Lute Player_. This may be Pedro Montoya, a castrato favoured by del Monte. His swollen cheeks are consistent with the hormonal effects of castration.\n\n25. _Basket of Fruit_. Caravaggio's only surviving pure still life painting.\n\n26. _The Penitent Magdalen_. In a paroxysm of repentance, she has torn off her gold and her jewels and scattered them on the ground. By seating the Magdalen so low, Caravaggio emphasized her humility.\n\n27. _St Francis of Assisi in Ecstasy_. 'The picture offers a consoling dream of transfiguration, a condition of oneness with Christ.' It seems to be a self-portrait.\n\n28. _The Rest on the Flight to Egypt_. A scantily draped adolescent angel stands between Mary and Joseph. Caravaggio borrowed the figure from a composition by Annibale Carracci (below).\n\n29. _The Judgement of Hercules_ by Annibale Carracci.\n\n30. _Jupiter, Neptune and Pluto_. Decorations for the ceiling of del Monte's alchemical laboratory, in his house near the Porta Pinciana.\n\n31. _Bacchus_. The model for Caravaggio's second depiction of the god of wine was probably his Sicilian friend and fellow painter, Mario Minniti.\n\n32. _Martha and Mary Magdalen_. Fillide Melandroni, not so penitent courtesan, modelled for the Magdalen. Her friend Anna Bianchini possibly sat for the figure of Mary's sister Martha.\n\n33. _St Catherine_. Fillide also posed for this depiction of the Christian martyr Catherine. 'She leans towards the wheel and its vicious spikes of grey steel as if leaning towards a lover.'\n\n34. _Portrait of Fillide Melandroni_. She kept this portrait with her until her death. It later passed into the German national collections and was destroyed by fire during the Second World War.\n\n35. _Judith and Holofernes_. Fillide once more, frowning with concentration as she plays the part of the Old Testament biblical heroine beheading a tyrant.\n\n36. _The Entombment_. This stark, strong composition was much admired by the people of Rome, whom Giovanni Baglione described as 'chattering like geese' at its unveiling.\n\n37. _Piet\u00e0_ by Michelangelo. Caravaggio adapted the limp right arm of Michelangelo's dead Christ for his own version of the same figure in _The Entombment_ (above).\n\n38. _The Calling of St Matthew_. 'And as Jesus passed forth from thence, he saw a man, named Matthew, sitting at the receipt of custom: and he saith unto him, Follow me. And he arose, and followed him' (Matthew 9).\n\n39. _The Creation of Adam_ by Michelangelo (detail). Caravaggio modelled the hand of his beckoning Christ (above) on the hand of Michelangelo's Adam.\n\n40. _The Martyrdom of St Matthew_. Caravaggio included his self-portrait among those fleeing from the scene of the crime. He looks back as if to regret his failure to help the stricken Matthew.\n\n41. _The Conversion of St Paul_ (first version). One of Caravaggio's few failures, it was immediately rejected by the patron, Tiberio Cerasi. The reeling servant looks like a spear-carrier in a bad comic opera.\n\n42. _The Crucifixion of St Peter_. Peter insisted that he be crucified upside down, because he felt unworthy of the same death as Christ. His unfeeling executioners impassively hoist him aloft.\n\n43. The Cerasi Chapel (front view). ( _above the altar_ ) Annibale Carracci's _Assumption of the Virgin_. ( _left_ ) _The Crucifixion of St Peter_. ( _right_ ) _The Conversion of St Paul_ , with horse's rump aimed at Carracci's Virgin Mary.\n\n44. _The Conversion of St Paul_ (second version). Rejecting the tumult and drama of his first, unsuccessful treatment of the subject (Plate 41), Caravaggio internalized the action so that we sense it unfolding within Paul's soul.\n\n45. _The Supper at Emmaus_. As the risen Christ reveals himself to the two disciples, they react with gestures of awe and astonishment.\n\n46. _St John the Baptist_. Caravaggio's workshop assistant, Cecco, modelled for this depiction of the saint in the wilderness as a smiling and ecstatic young boy.\n\n47. _Ignudo_ by Michelangelo. The male nudes on the Sistine Chapel ceiling evoke the golden age of classical myth. Caravaggio appropriated motifs from Michelangelo's work throughout his life.\n\n48. _The Betrayal of Christ_. 'The pale, delicate, emotionally sensitive face of Christ is set hard against the brutish, sunburned face of Judas.'\n\n49. _Street Scene_ by Francesco Villamena. A notorious battle between Rome's pro-French and pro-Spanish factions. Caravaggio took the billowing cloak for his own nocturnal street scene, _The Betrayal of Christ_.\n\n50. _St Matthew and the Angel_ (first version). Caravaggio's first, rejected version of the altarpiece. Objections were raised to its lack of decorum. During the Second World War, it met the same fate as the lost _Portrait of Fillide Melandroni_ (Plate 34).\n\n51. _St Matthew and the Angel_ (second version). More refined but less forceful, the saint has metamorphosed from illiterate bumpkin to dignified sage. The picture still hangs over the altar in the Contarelli Chapel today.\n\n52. _The Death of the Virgin_ , in which a prostitute modelled for the Virgin. The picture was rejected by the fathers of Santa Maria della Scala, the last straw that may have triggered Caravaggio to commit murder.\n\n53. _The Death of the Virgin_ by Carlo Saraceni, the picture that replaced Caravaggio's rejected altarpiece (above).\n\n54. _Doubting Thomas_. 'Then saith he to Thomas, Reach hither thy finger, and behold my hands; and reach hither thy hand, and thrust it into my side: and be not faithless, but believing' (John 20).\n\n55. _The Sacrifice of Isaac_. Abraham holds his squealing son down as if the boy were a lamb brought to slaughter. These are the last glimpses of landscape in Caravaggio's work.\n\n56. _Omnia vincit amor_. 'Love conquers all.' Cupid was modelled by Cecco. An English visitor to Rome was told that ''Twas the body & face \/ of [Caravaggio's] owne boy or servant \/ that laid with him.'\n\n57. _Divine Love_ by Giovanni Baglione. The avenging angel triumphs over the devil, who has been caught _in flagrante_ with his young catamite. The sodomitic Satan on the left is a libellous caricature of Caravaggio.\n\n58. Study for _The Resurrection_ by Giovanni Baglione. This study preserves the composition of Baglione's lost altarpiece for the Ges\u00f9, which Caravaggio mocked openly: 'It's a bungle... the worst he has done.'\n\n59. _St Jerome Writing_. A penitentially solemn picture. It may have been a gift to Scipione Borghese, papal nephew, for helping Caravaggio obtain a pardon for violent assault in the summer of 1605.\n\n60. _St Francis in Meditation_. The saint is lost in contemplation of his own mortality, and of Christ's crucifixion at Golgotha, 'the place of the skull'.\n\n61. _St John the Baptist_. A world away from the earlier St John modelled by Cecco. This glowering adolescent 'might almost be a portrait of Caravaggio's own dark state of mind' during his later years in Rome.\n\n62. _The Madonna of the Rosary_. This altarpiece was greatly admired by Peter Paul Rubens, one of a group of connoisseurs who bought the picture for a prominent church in Antwerp in 1651.\n\n63. _The Madonna of Loreto_. Two humble pilgrims to Loreto, with patched clothes and dirt-ingrained feet, are granted a miraculous vision of the Madonna and child.\n\n64. _The Madonna of the Palafrenieri_. The Virgin Mary and the infant Christ crush the serpent Satan as St Anne looks on. The picture was turned out of St Peter's, probably because of the Madonna's full cleavage.\n\n65. The contract for the ill-fated _Madonna of the Palafrenieri._ His blood signature aside (Plate 80), this is the sole surviving example of Caravaggio's handwriting.\n\n66. View of Zagarolo in the Alban Hills outside Rome. Palazzo Colonna in Zagarolo was Caravaggio's first hide-out after the murder of Ranuccio Tomassoni.\n\n67. _The Supper at Emmaus_. A strikingly different interpretation of a subject Caravaggio had treated so subtly five years earlier (Plate 45). After the murder his style became increasingly bleak, dark and morbid.\n\n68. _David with the Head of Goliath_. Cecco as David, Caravaggio as the severed head of Goliath. Often misdated to the end of the painter's life, but actually painted in 1606 as a homicide's plea for clemency.\n\n69. _Sleeping Cupid_. Painted in Malta for a Florentine humanist, this picture was inspired by a celebrated sculpture of the same subject by Michelangelo.\n\n70. _The Seven Acts of Mercy_. 'This one dark street, scene of desperation and pain and death, is the painter's microcosm for the brutality of existence itself.'\n\n71. _Roman Charity_ (detail) by Pierino del Vaga.\n\n72. _The Flagellation_. Torture as a misbegotten act of intimacy.\n\n73. _The Crucifixion of St Andrew_. The painting does not show Andrew being bound to the cross, as some have thought, but the moment of his death. His former tormentors strive but fail to release him.\n\n74. _St Jerome Writing_. Painted for one of the most senior Knights of Malta, a virtuoso demonstration of Caravaggio's gifts to the artist's new circle of patrons in the Order of St John.\n\n75. _Portrait of Fra Antonio Martelli_. 'This depiction of an obdurate and forceful man, in lean old age, rheumy eyes gazing off into the distance, anticipates the mature portraiture of Rembrandt by some half a century.'\n\n76. _Portrait of Alof de Wignacourt, with His Pageboy_. Instead of a monastic habit, the Grand Master wears a suit of sixteenth-century armour, evoking the heroic defence of Malta at the great Siege of 1565.\n\n77. _The Resurrection of Lazarus._ 'Lazarus, come forth' (John 11). As Christ bids him to rise from the grave, Lazarus seems reluctant to wake from death.\n\n78. _The Adoration of the Shepherds_. The most tragic of nativities: Mary is a refugee mother utterly alone in the dark with her defenceless child.\n\n79. _The Beheading of St John_. In the blood gushing from the saint's neck, Caravaggio signed his name. It is his only signature on a painting.\n\n80. _St John the Baptist_. Caravaggio's last known depiction of the saint, who was modelled on this occasion by a swarthy and sun-tanned Sicilian adolescent.\n\n81. _The Adoration of the Shepherds_. Painted for a Franciscan confraternity in Palermo, the last of Caravaggio's Sicilian altarpieces was allegedly stolen by order of a Mafia boss in 1969. It has not been recovered.\n\n82. _The Burial of St Lucy_. 'The picture's iconography is ingeniously suggestive of hope... but its mood is overwhelmingly bleak. Almost half the painting is dark bare stone.'\n\n83. _The Denial of St Peter_. One of just two paintings that can be dated to after the painter's face was slashed in late 1609. The seriousness of his injuries is shockingly apparent in the work's ragged, fumbling style.\n\n84. _The Martyrdom of St Ursula_. Caravaggio's very last work contains his last self-portrait. Behind Ursula's bowed head, the painter's face appears. He seems to groan, as he stares sightlessly into space.\n\nCaravaggio's influence reached forward to the Enlightenment, continued into the Romantic period and has infiltrated the DNA of modern cinema.\n\n85. _Experiment on a Bird in the Air Pump_ by Joseph Wright of Derby.\n\n86. _The Raft of the Medusa_ by Theodore G\u00e9ricault.\n\n87. Still from _Mean Streets_ , directed by Martin Scorsese.\n\n## Epilogue\n\nCaravaggio's contemporaries would doubtless have been amazed by the extent of his posthumous fame. Few of those who knew him could ever have imagined that he and his work would survive so far into the future, that he would be remembered so long after they had all been forgotten.\n\nBut it was true. Hardly any of the artists with whom Caravaggio had been close made any mark at all on posterity. His Sicilian friend Mario Minniti lived into his sixties, turning out quantities of mediocre altarpieces and making himself a small fortune, but no great reputation, in Messina. His old assistant Cecco Boneri established something of a career for himself as Cecco del Michelangelo, but soon slipped into near-total obscurity. The hot-headed architect Onorio Longhi, who had been his second in the duel, returned to Rome a year or so after Caravaggio's death, only to die himself five years later of syphilis.\n\nCaravaggio's old enemy Giovanni Baglione lived long and prospered, winning numerous grand commissions from popes as well as princes and aristocrats. When he died he was nearly eighty, a Knight of Christ and a wealthy man. But he too would soon be forgotten \u2013 or at least remembered mostly for being Caravaggio's adversary and biographer. Orazio Gentileschi, who had once laughed along with Caravaggio at 'Johnny Baggage', was the only one of his close acquaintances to amount to much as an artist. A painter of considerable power and invention, he ended his career as a court painter to Charles I, dying in London in his mid seventies in 1639 just a few years before the start of the English Civil War. Orazio's daughter, Artemisia, who had been raped by Agostino Tassi, also became a gifted and successful painter in her own right.\n\nAnd what of those with whom Caravaggio drank and dined, quarrelled and fought? What of those whom he loved and hated? What of the waiter with the cut face, the sharp-eyed barber-surgeon, the disgruntled notary? What of all the pimps and soldiers and the boys and girls who lived by selling their bodies? Some survived in his paintings, whether as villains or martyrs, torturers or apostles. Most disappeared without trace. But one fragment has survived: the last will and testament of Fillide Melandroni.\n\nFillide had been Caravaggio's first model. She was the disconcertingly sexy _St Catherine_ , as well as the girl holding the flower up to her breast and gazing out with a smouldering, coquettish stare in the portrait he had painted of her in 1598. She was Fillide the courtesan, who perhaps won the heart and certainly lightened the purse of the Florentine aristocrat Giulio Strozzi.\n\nIn the summer of 1618, Fillide was thirty-seven or thirty-eight years old, close to the same age as Caravaggio when he died. She was still living in Rome, but by now she had her own house. She had clearly gone up in the world. But she was mortally ill, perhaps with the same form of venereal disease that had cut short the life of Caravaggio's friend Onorio Longhi. On 3 July she died.\n\nSoon after, an inventory was made of her now considerable possessions. Her main reception room was decorated with gilded leather panels. At its centre stood a table covered with a Turkish carpet, and around the table there were eight leather-covered chairs. In the bedroom she had a large gilded four-poster bed with a green taffeta canopy and a chest containing some lengths of luxury fabric. She had books, vases, plants, an inkwell of silvered copper, a pearl necklace, twenty gold buttons and two gold pendants with pearls.\n\nOn 19 November her estate was settled and division was made of her goods. The will that she had made four years earlier was read out. It seems that she was happy for all her property to be sold and the proceeds parcelled out, in specified fractions, to her chosen legatees. But she wanted one particular object to go to one particular individual: 'Item: she states and declares that she has in her house a painting or portrait by the hand of Michelangelo da Caravaggio that belongs to Giulio Strozzi. She wishes it to be restored and consigned to Sr Giulio.'\n\nFillide's portrait by Caravaggio, the picture that would be consumed four centuries later by the flames of the Second World War, was the most precious thing that she had. She wanted it to go to Strozzi, her protector, who had allowed her to keep it for so long. Perhaps she liked the thought of being with him, in surrogate, after she died. Perhaps she still loved him.\n\nFrom the inventory of her possessions and the terms of her will we may think that Fillide was not quite the same woman she had been when Caravaggio knew her. Once, she had shamelessly touted for business as a prostitute in the very shadow of the monastery of the Convertites, the religious foundation for the reform of prostitutes, and had assaulted her rival, Prudenza, in her house directly next door to it, screaming as she did so: 'You dirty whore! I want to cut you! I want to cut you!' Now, as well as the portrait by Caravaggio, her house contained three small devotional paintings: of the Nativity, of the Virgin Mary and of the Penitent Magdalen, the prostitute who mended her ways. Her will specified that she wanted to be buried in her parish church. At the end, as death approached, she left several legacies to religious institutions dedicated to the Virgin, so that Masses would be said for her soul after she had died, and a fifth of her entire legacy to the Convertites. The bequest was stipulated in the penultimate clause in her will, set down by the notary in black and white.\n\nBut who knows what Fillide really felt, or what she really believed. Like the dark-haired painter she had once known, she moved in that uncertain realm, 'between the sacred and the profane'.\n\n## Notes\n\n##### PART ONE: MILAN, 1571\u201392\n\n1. See Helen Langdon (ed.), _The Lives of Caravaggio_ (London, 2005), pp. 89, 81.\n\n2. The very structure of Bellori's _Lives of the Modern Painters, Sculptors and Architects_ consigns Caravaggio to darkness. In arranging the engraved portraits that illustrated his book, Bellori made sure that the artists whom he truly valued be given dignifying attributes such as books or paintbrushes to hold. So for example Nicolas Poussin, one of Bellori's heroes, holds a book fixed with a fine clasp and gazes out with an expression of grave calm on his face. Caravaggio, by contrast, has his hand on the hilt of a sword and glares nervously sideways with the furtive and guilty eyes of a criminal. One of just twelve artists singled out for inclusion, he has been allowed his place at the table of art history. But he sits on the wrong side, a Judas among the true apostles. For an arresting interpretation of some of the fictional elements of the early biographies see 'Caravaggio's Deaths' by Philip Sohm, _Art Bulletin_ , vol. 84, no. 3 (Sept. 2002), p. 452.\n\n3. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 57.\n\n4. Ibid., p. 41.\n\n5. Ibid., p. 27.\n\n6. See in particular M. Cinotti, _Novita sul Caravaggio_ (Milan, 1983).\n\n7. For the importance of Caravaggio's maternal relations and their contacts, Giacomo Berra, 'Il Giovane Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio: la sua famiglia e la scelta dell'ars pingendi', _Paragone_ , vol. 53 (2002), pp. 40\u2013128, is the invaluable source.\n\n8. See Richard A. Goldthwaite, _Wealth and the Demand for Art in Italy 1300\u20131600_ (Baltimore, 1993): 'Generally speaking... the argument got shifted from the nature of nobility to the behaviour of the noble; and along the way, most of the essential elements of the traditional definition \u2013 arms, service, virtue, blood, economic activities \u2013 were qualified.' So many different ideas were 'bandied about the concept', the writer adds, 'that one could have it just about any way he wanted it'.\n\n9. See Diarmaid MacCulloch, _Reformation: Europe's House Divided 1490\u20131700_ (London, 2003), pp. 330\u201332.\n\n10. See C. Hughes (ed.), _Shakespeare's Europe: Unpublished Chapters of Fynes Moryson's Itinery_ (New York, 1967), p. 49; see also D. E. Zanetti, 'The Patriziato of Milan from the Domination of Spain to the Unification of Italy: An Outline of the Social and Demographic History', _Social History_ , no. 6 (Oct. 1977), pp. 745\u201360.\n\n11. See D. E. Zanetti, 'The Patriziato of Milan', pp. 750\u201352.\n\n12. See Thomas Coryate, _Coryat's Crudities_ (London, 1611), p. 102.\n\n13. See 'Instrucciones de Carlos-Quinto a Don Felipe su hijo', in C. Weiss (ed.), _Papiers d'Etat du Cardinal de Grenvelle_ , vol. 3 (Paris, 1842), pp. 267\u2013318. My attention was brought to this document by John Hale, who cites it in his _The Civilisation of Europe in the Renaissance_ (London, 1993), pp. 95\u20136.\n\n14. See Agostino Borromeo, 'Archbishop Carlo Borromeo and the Ecclesiastical Policy of Philip II in the State of Milan', in John M. Headley and John B. Tomaro (eds.), _San Carlo Borromeo: Catholic Reform and Ecclesiastical Politics in the Second Half of the Sixteenth Century_ (Washington, London and Toronto, 1988), pp. 85\u2013111.\n\n15. See Ludwig von Pastor, _The History of the Popes_ (London, 1951), vol. 15, p. 108.\n\n16. See Wietse de Boer, _The Conquest of the Soul: Confession, Discipline and Public Order in Counter-Reformation Milan_ (Leiden, Boston and Cologne, 2001), p.73; Paolo Prodi, 'San Carlo Borromeo e il Cardinale Gabriele Paleotti: due vescovi della Riforma Cattolica', _Critica Storica_ , 3 (1964), pp. 135\u201351.\n\n17. See Agostino Borromeo, 'Archbishop Carlo Borromeo'.\n\n18. See Diarmaid MacCulloch, _Reformation: Europe's House Divided_ , pp. 411\u201312.\n\n19. See E. Cecilia Voelker, 'Borromeo's Influence on Sacred Art and Architecture', in John M. Headley and John B. Tomaro (eds.), _San Carlo Borromeo_ , pp. 173\u201387.\n\n20. Ibid., p. 178.\n\n21. See Wietse de Boer, _The Conquest of the Soul_ , p. 43.\n\n22. Ibid.\n\n23. Ibid., p.122.\n\n24. See Diarmaid MacCulloch, _Reformation: Europe's House Divided_ , pp. 406\u20137.\n\n25. See Wietse de Boer, _The Conquest of the Soul_ , pp. 62\u20133: 'Confessors thus became quite literally law enforcement officers, who were to use their privileged access to the soul to assist in the application of church law. Having dispensed with such matters, they turned to the confession proper. But they continued to wear their uniforms as agents of discipline, constantly weighing the need to deny absolution to those considered unwilling to mend their sinful ways... if obstinacy was undeniable, the refusal of absolution was to be no empty threat. The Milanese confessor was to display the same combination of holy zeal and legal spirit that was characteristic of his bishop.'\n\n26. See Ludwig von Pastor, _The History of the Popes_ (London, 1930), vol. 19, p. 108.\n\n27. See David Freedberg, _The Power of Images: Studies in the History and Theory of Response_ (Chicago and London, 1989), p. 179. Freedberg's excellent account of traditions of visualization in Christian meditation gives passing mention to Borromeo (but not Caravaggio).\n\n28. Ibid., p. 171.\n\n29. Ibid., p. 168.\n\n30. See Michael Baxandall, _Painting and Experience in Fifteenth Century Italy: A Primer in the Social History of Pictorial Style_ (Oxford, 1972), p. 45: 'The painter was a professional visualizer of the holy stories. What we now easily forget is that each of his pious public was liable to be an amateur in the same line, practised in spiritual exercises that demanded a high level of visualization of, at least, the central episodes of the lives of Christ and Mary.'\n\n31. Cited in Roger Fry, 'Flemish Art at Burlington House. I', Burlington magazine 50, 287 (Feb. 1927), p. 68.\n\n32. See Michael Baxandall, _Painting and Experience in Fifteenth Century Italy_ , p. 46.\n\n33. See David Gilmore, _Aggression and Community: Paradoxes of Andalusian Culture_ (New Haven, 1987), p. 161.\n\n34. See Wietse de Boer, _The Conquest of the Soul_ , p. 113.\n\n35. Ibid., p. 114.\n\n36. See M. Cinotti, _I pittori bergamaschi_ (Bergamo, 1983), p. 235.\n\n37. Ibid. Giovan Pietro, who is first mentioned in a document of 1578, died in childhood.\n\n38. See Ann G. Carmichael, 'The Last Past Plague: The Uses of Memory in Renaissance Epidemics', _Journal of the History of Medicine and Allied Sciences_ , vol. 53, no. 2, (Apr.1998), p. 143.\n\n39. Ibid., p. 137.\n\n40. See Paolo Bisciola, _Relatione verissima del progresso della peste di Milano, qual principio nel mese d'agosto 1576_ (Ancona and Bologna, 1577). The translation here is that of Ann G. Carmichael in 'The Last Past Plague'.\n\n41. See Ann G. Carmichael, 'The Last Past Plague', pp. 137, 141.\n\n42. See Paolo Bisciola, _Relatione verissima del progresso della peste di Milano_.\n\n43. See Fra Paolo Bellintano, _I due Bellintani da Sal\u00f2 et il dialogo della pesta di Fra Paolo_ , F. Odorici (ed.), in Francesco Colombo (ed.), _Raccolta di cronisti e documenti storici lombardi inediti_ (Milan, 1857), vol. 2, p. 296.\n\n44. See ibid.; the story is singled out in Ann G. Carmichael, 'The Last Past Plague'.\n\n45. See Paolo Bisciola, _Relatione verissima del progresso della peste di Milano_.\n\n46. See M. Cinotti, , _I pittori bergamaschi_ , p. 203.\n\n47. For this document and the division of land, see ibid., pp. 235, 250, 206.\n\n48. See Giacomo Berra, 'Il Giovane Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio'.\n\n49. See _The Age of Caravaggio_ , Royal Academy exhibition catalogue (London, 1985), p. 73.\n\n50. The contract is quoted in M. Gregori, (ed.), _Gli affreschi della Certosa di Garegnano_ (Turin, 1973), p. 10; I have used the translation offered in Helen Langdon, _Caravaggio: A Life_ (London, 1998), p. 24.\n\n51. Ibid., p. 57.\n\n52. See Walter Friedlaender, _Caravaggio Studies_ (Princeton, 1955), p. 233.\n\n53. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , pp. 89, 27.\n\n54. The passage was first detected and deciphered by the art historian Maurizio Calvesi, author of a book aptly entitled _Le realt\u00e0 del Caravaggio_ ( _The Realities of Caravaggio_ ) (Turin, 1990). I am grateful to him for sharing his insights with me.\n\n##### PART TWO ROME, 1592\u20135\n\n1. ' _Bugiaronaccia poltrona puttana de tio te voglio tirare una pignatta de merda sul mostaccio... fatti fottere dal boia e ho in culo te con quanti n'hai_ ': my attention was called to this passage by Alexandra Lapierre, who very kindly allowed me to examine her personal collection of transcripts from criminal archives concerning the activities of artists in late sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century Rome. She quotes the document, in a slightly different translation, in her historical novel _Artemisia_ (London, 2000), p. 16, where it appears in the mouth of Agostino Tassi, a protagonist in her story \u2013 artistic licence, because it was actually uttered by another, now long-forgotten painter. The original document is dated 1602. She specifies its location in a note to her book; see pp. 369\u201370.\n\n2. See James Fenton, 'Bernini at Harvard \/ Chicago Baroque', in _Leonardo's Nephew_ (London, 1998), for a concise retelling of the story, which is rehearsed at fuller length in Charles Avery, _Bernini: Genius of the Baroque_ (London, 1997).\n\n3. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 57.\n\n4. See _The Complete Works of Montaigne_ , D. Frame (trs.) (London, 1958), p. 1,163.\n\n5. Ibid., p. 1,164.\n\n6. Ibid., p. 1,172.\n\n7. Ibid., p. 1,143.\n\n8. Ibid., pp. 1,142, 1,150.\n\n9. Ibid., p. 1,142.\n\n10. Ibid., p. 1,150.\n\n11. See Helen Langdon, _Caravaggio: A Life_ , p. 34; and Walter Friedlaender, _Caravaggio Studies_ , p. 59.\n\n12. See _The Complete Works of Montaigne_ , p. 1,148.\n\n13. I am grateful to Opher Mansour for allowing me to read his unpublished doctoral dissertation for the Courtauld Institute in London, 'Offensive Images: Censure and Censorship in Rome under Clement VIII 1592\u20131605', from which this information about Clement's Visitation is drawn.\n\n14. This figure necessarily involves guesswork, but, given the sheer amount of artistic activity in Rome at the time, and given the size of many painters' and sculptors' workshops, it is likely to be on the low side.\n\n15. Quoted in John Hale, _The Civilisation of Europe in the Renaissance_ , p. 53.\n\n16. See Giovanni Botero, ' _The Reason of State' and 'The Greatness of Cities'_ , trans. by Robert Peterson 1606, P. J. and D. P. Waley (trs.) (London, 1956), p. 38.\n\n17. See _The Complete Works of Montaigne_ p. 1,168.\n\n18. My thanks again to Alexandra Lapierre for guiding me through the history of the artists' quarter and for sharing the fruits of her own research so generously in conversation.\n\n19. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 41.\n\n20. Ibid., p. 27.\n\n21. The suggestion is made by Bellori in notes written while he was preparing his life of Caravaggio.\n\n22. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 58.\n\n23. See Giulio Mancini, _Considerazioni sulla pittura_ , vol. 1 (Rome, 1956), pp. 226\u20137.\n\n24. Ibid., p. 226.\n\n25. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 41. I am grateful to John T. Spike for the suggestion \u2013 very plausible, I think \u2013 that the picture is a nocturne.\n\n26. See for example the entries in _Caravaggio\u2013Rembrandt_ , Rijksmueum exhibition catalogue (Amsterdam, 2006), and _The Age of Caravaggio_ , Royal Academy exhibition catalogue _._\n\n27. See Pliny, _Natural History_ , Book 35, 64\u20136.\n\n28. I am indebted to Maurizio Calvesi for this suggestion, made to me in conversation in September 2001. See Maurizio Calvesi, _Le realt\u00e0 del Caravaggio_ , and for an English language version of his interpretation see his _Caravaggio_ (Florence, 1998), pp. 26\u20137.\n\n29. The rabbi's name was Akiva. See Carl W. Ernst, _Interpreting the Song of Songs: The Paradox of Spiritual and Sensual Love_ for a helpful guide through the theological intricacies of the centuries-long tradition of exegesis (www.unc.edu\/-cernst\/articles\/sosintro.htm, 28 Oct. 2008).\n\n30. St Teresa of Avila, 'Meditation on the Song of Songs', _The Collected Works of St Teresa of Avila_ , vol. 2, Kieran Kavanaugh, OCD, and Otilio Rodriguez, OCD (trs.) (Washington, DC, 1980).\n\n31. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 28.\n\n32. Ibid., p. 49.\n\n33. Ibid., p. 41.\n\n34. It was painted on a light grey ground like a number of Caravaggio's earliest works, whereas the National Gallery picture was painted on a warmish ground, which accords with the painter's practice from around 1596.\n\n35. All quotations from Sandrart taken from the translation given in Walter Friedlaender, _Caravaggio Studies_ , pp. 263\u20136.\n\n36. See Giorgio Vasari, _Lives of the Painters, Sculptors and Architects_ , Gaston du C. de Vere (trs.), David Ekserdjian (ed.), vol. 1 (London, 1996), p. 860.\n\n37. Cited in Peter Burke, _The Historical Anthropology of Early Modern Italy_ (Cambridge, 1987), p. 98.\n\n38. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 42.\n\n39. See Helen Langdon, _Caravaggio: A Life_ , p. 78. Langdon writes (and lectures) particularly well about Caravaggio's pictures of rogues. The idea that the cardsharps are rather like wasps in human clothing \u2013 see below \u2013 I owe to her.\n\n40. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 42.\n\n41. Mancini, cited in Howard Hibbard, _Caravaggio_ (London, 1983), p. 350 (he was writing about the later version, a picture that he particularly loved, but his remarks are equally applicable to the painting owned by del Monte).\n\n42. Cited in Todd P. Olson, 'The Street has Its Masters: Caravaggio and the Socially Marginal', in _Caravaggio: Realism, Rebellion, Deception_ , Genevieve Warwick (ed.) (Delaware, 2006), p. 76.\n\n43. The quotations reprinted here have been extracted from the essay 'Perceiving a Counter-Culture', in Peter Burke, _The Historical Anthropology of Early Modern Italy_ , pp. 63\u201375. My summary of the different types of beggar is an abridged version of Burke's.\n\n44. Ibid., pp. 65\u201371. My discussion of poverty, religion and politics throughout this section of the book owes a great deal to Burke's lucid analysis.\n\n45. See Antonio Maria Cospi, _Il giudice criminalista_ , pp. 374\u20137.\n\n46. Ibid.\n\n47. Cited in John F. Moffitt, 'Caravaggio and the Gypsies', _Paragone_ , vol. 53 (2002), p. 141.\n\n48. Cited in D. J. Gordon, 'Gypsies as Emblems of Comedy and Poverty', _Journal of the Gypsy Lore Society_ , vol. 23 (1944), pp. 39\u201342.\n\n49. Ibid.\n\n50. See John F. Moffitt, 'Caravaggio and the Gypsies', p. 134.\n\n51. Giuseppe Pavoni, Di\u00e1rio, 1589, pp. 29\u201330, cited in Kenneth Richards and Laura Richards, _The Commedia dell'Arte: A Documentary History_ (Oxford, 1990), p. 74.\n\n52. Ibid., p. 60.\n\n53. Tommaso Garzoni, quoted in ibid., pp. 221\u20132.\n\n##### PART THREE: ROME, 1595\u20139\n\n1. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 42.\n\n2. See Creighton Gilbert, _Caravaggio and His Two Cardinals_ (Pennsylvania, 1995), p. 116.\n\n3. See Helen Langdon, _Caravaggio: A Life_ , p. 79.\n\n4. See Zbgniew Wazbinski, _Il Cardinale Francesco Maria del Monte 1549\u20131626_ (Florence, 1994), p. 77, cited in Helen Langdon, _Caravaggio: A Life_ , p. 81.\n\n5. Decorated with languorous, graceful figures and a flying putto, it is now one of the treasures of the British Museum.\n\n6. He might have appreciated the French Romantic painter Delacroix's slashing cut through that particular Gordian knot: the observation that a painter's every brushstroke necessarily incorporated the act of drawing.\n\n7. See Helen Langdon, _Caravaggio: A Life_ , p. 96.\n\n8. For del Monte, Mancini, health care and alchemy, see Silvia De Renzi, ' \"A Fountain for the Thirsty\" and a Bank for the Pope: Charity, Conflicts and Medical Careers at the Hospital of Santo Spirito in Seventeenth-Century Rome', in _Health Care and Poor Relief in Counter-Reformation Europe_ , Ole Peter Grell, Andrew Cunningham and Jon Arrizabalaga (eds.) (London, 1999), pp. 102\u201331.\n\n9. De Renzi's scholarly study of the hospital (see above) concludes, ambiguously, that 'Reasons to apply for a job at the Santo Spirito could be various: a somewhat difficult-to-detect religious and moral commitment, and the more evident search for a prestigious position, were interwoven.'\n\n10. See Creighton Gilbert, _Caravaggio and His Two Cardinals_ , p. 205.\n\n11. Ibid. Gilbert has done all scholars of Caravaggio and del Monte a service by so thoroughly exposing Amayden's untrustworthiness as a biographer.\n\n12. The letter in question was discovered in the Florentine State Archives by the scholar Franca Trinchieri Camiz, who published it for the first time in 1991. See Franca Trinchieri Camiz, 'Music and Painting in Cardinal del Monte's Household', _Metropolitan Museum Journal_ , no. 26 (Hartford, 1991).\n\n13. See Franca Trinchieri Camiz, 'La \"musica\" nei quadri di Caravaggio', _Caravaggio. Nuove riflessioni, Quaderni di Palazzo Venezia_ , vol. 6 (Rome, 1991).\n\n14. See Keith Christiansen, _A Caravaggio Rediscovered: The Lute Player_ (New York, 1990).\n\n15. See Franca Trinchieri Camiz, 'La \"musica\" nei quadri di Caravaggio'.\n\n16. See Claude V. Palisca, 'Musical Asides in the Diplomatic Correspondence of Emilio de' Cavalieri', _Musical Quarterly_ , vol. 49, no. 3 (July 1963), p. 346.\n\n17. See Keith Christiansen, _A Caravaggio Rediscovered: The Lute Player_ , p. 26.\n\n18. See the entry on Emilio de' Cavalieri in _The Grove Dictionary of Music_ (Oxford, 2003).\n\n19. See Zbgniew Wazbinski, _Il Cardinale Francesco Maria del Monte_ , pp. 137\u20138.\n\n20. See Creighton Gilbert, _Caravaggio and His Two Cardinals_ , p. 116.\n\n21. See Keith Christiansen, _A Caravaggio Rediscovered: The Lute Player_ , p. 46.\n\n22. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 63.\n\n23. See Keith Christiansen, _A Caravaggio Rediscovered: The Lute Player_ , p. 32.\n\n24. See Franca Trinchieri Camiz, 'Music and Painting in Cardinal del Monte's Household', p. 220.\n\n25. As Franca Trinchieri Camiz remarks, in 'Music and Painting in Cardinal del Monte's Household': 'the voice was well suited for solo performance because of its greater capacity for proper phrasing, which allowed the expression of the strong emotions in fashion during this period'(p. 221).\n\n26. Ibid., p. 218; for a counter-example, see the very different, open-mouthed singers, accompanied by lutes and polyphonically hymning the infant Christ, in Piero della Francesca's _Nativity_ in the National Gallery, London.\n\n27. See Colin Slim, 'Musical Inscriptions in Paintings by Caravaggio and His Followers', in _Music and Context_ , A. Shapiro (ed.) (Cambridge, Mass., 1995).\n\n28. See Keith Christiansen, _A Caravaggio Rediscovered: The Lute Player_ , p. 90. The translation given is that of Louis E. Lord.\n\n29. The late seventeenth-century writer Pietro Paolo Bosca actually referred to it as a 'tantalus'. See P. P. Bosca, _De origine et statu Bibliothecae Ambrosianae_ (Milan, 1672), p. 126. Cited by John T. Spike, _Caravaggio_ (New York, 2001), in his CD-ROM catalogue entry on the _Basket of Fruit_.\n\n30. Cited by John T. Spike, _Caravaggio_ , in his CD-ROM catalogue entry on the _Basket of Fruit_.\n\n31. My thanks to Maurizio Calvesi for this observation.\n\n32. It is a fair assumption that the two pictures have the same history. So to trace one is, in effect, to trace both. _The Rest on the Flight to Egypt_ is linked to Olimpia Aldobrandini by an inventory of her collection compiled in 1611, which mentions 'A large painting of the Madonna's Flight into Egypt in a frame', albeit without naming the artist. The hypothesis that this is a reference to Caravaggio's painting is strengthened by circumstantial evidence. An inventory of 1622, listing pictures in the Villa Aldobrandini in Frascati, mentions 'A large painting on canvas of a Madonna embracing the child and a Saint Joseph... copy of Caravaggio'. The presence of this copy in one of the other residences of Olimpia Aldobrandini's family suggests that the original was indeed in her possession. The inventory reference is cited in John T. Spike's CD-ROM catalogue entry on _The Rest on the Flight to Egypt_.\n\n33. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 28.\n\n34. See Bernard Aikema, 'Titian's _Mary Magdalen_ in the Palazzo Pitti: An Ambiguous Painting and Its Critics', _Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes_ , vol. 57 (1994), p. 58.\n\n35. See Colin Slim, 'Musical Inscriptions in Paintings by Caravaggio and His Followers'.\n\n36. See John T. Spike in his CD-ROM catalogue entry on the _St Francis of Assisi in Ecstasy_.\n\n37. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 63.\n\n38. St Bonaventure's _Legenda maior_ was one of the most readily available literary sources for painters working in the post-Tridentine period. It was the official biography of the saint, written in 1262. Bonaventure derived much of his information from the very first life of Francis, written by Thomas of Celano in _c_. 1230, just four years after the saint's death. See Pamela Askew, 'The Angelic Consolation of St Francis of Assisi in Post-Tridentine Italian Painting', _Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes_ , vol. 32 (1969), pp. 280\u2013386.\n\n39. Cited in Pamela M. Jones, 'The Place of Poverty in Seicento Rome: Bare Feet, Humility and the Pilgrimage of Life in Caravaggio's _Madonna of Loreto_ ( _c_. 1605\u20136) in the Church of S. Agostino', in _Altarpieces and Their Viewers in the Churches of Rome from Caravaggio to Guido Reni_ (Aldershot, 2008), p. 107.\n\n40. _The Life of Teresa of Jesus: The Autobiography of St Teresa of Avila_ , E. Allison Peers (trs.) (New York, 2004), Chapter 29.\n\n41. Quoted in Radleigh Addington, _The Idea of the Oratory_ (London, 1966), p. 3.\n\n42. This is a confident assertion based on comparisons with known portraits of Caravaggio, but not a documented fact.\n\n43. For the correspondence between Paravicino and Gualdo, see G. Cozzi, 'Intorno al Cardinale Ottavio Paravicino, a Monsignor Paolo Gualdo e a Michelangelo da Caravaggio', _Rivista storica italiana_ , vol. 73 (1961), pp. 36\u201368. I am indebted to Opher Mansour, who allowed me to see his translations of, and commentaries on, these letters, in his unpublished doctoral thesis submitted to the Courtauld Institute: 'Art, Offensive Images: Censure and Censorship in Rome under Clement VIII 1592\u20131605' (London, 2003).\n\n44. It is often said that there is a hidden self-portrait reflected in the carafe \u2013 see, for example, Langdon, _Caravaggio: A Life_ , p. 151. I have inspected the painting under high magnification and there is no such self-portrait in it.\n\n45. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 43.\n\n46. See n. 41 above.\n\n47. See Giorgio Vasari, _Lives of the Painters, Sculptors and Architects_ , vol. 1, p. 629.\n\n48. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 93.\n\n49. He did so, perhaps, because there was an established connection between that particular artistic style and alchemy. See my comments on Francesco de' Medici's _studiolo_ , on p. 159 above.\n\n50. Again, see n. 41 above. The resemblance to Ottavio Leoni's portrait of Caravaggio is, in my opinion, incontrovertible in the _Jupiter, Neptune and Pluto_. The identification with Francis is a little less certain but I am still confident that the saint is a self-portrait.\n\n51. See Walter Friedlaender, _Caravaggio Studies_ , p. 260.\n\n52. Sandro Corradini discovered the case. With Maurizio Marini, he subsequently published the transcripts in full, together with a useful interpretative essay. See Sandro Corradini and Maurizio Marini, 'The Earliest Account of Caravaggio in Rome', _Burlington Magazine_ , vol. 40, no. 1,138 (Jan. 1998), pp. 25\u20138.\n\n53. The building still stands in Rome today. It is still a barber's shop!\n\n54. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 92.\n\n55. See Fiora Bellini, 'Tre documenti inediti per Michelangelo da Caravaggio', _Prospettiva_ , no. 65 (Jan. 1992), pp. 70\u201371.\n\n56. See Walter Friedlaender, _Caravaggio Studies_ , pp. 263\u20135.\n\n57. See Francesco Susinno, _Le vite de' pittori messinesi e di altri che fiorirono in Messina_ , V. Martinelli (ed.) (Florence, 1960), p. 117.\n\n58. See Rudolf and Margot Wittkower, _Born Under Saturn_ (New York, 1963), p. 198. Orazio Gentileschi eventually prospered in France and Genoa in the 1620s. He was called to London in 1626 to become a painter at the court of King Charles I, who rewarded him with a generous stipend.\n\n59. See G. P. Caffarelli, 'Famiglie romane', Biblioteca Angelica MS 1638, cc. 88r\u2013v; cited (reliably) in Riccardo Bassani and Fiora Bellini, _Caravaggio assassino_ (Rome, 1994), p. 13, n. 20.\n\n60. ASR, Tribunale criminale del Senatore (TCS), reg. 1438, testimony of Onorio Longhi, 4 May 1595, cc. 20v\u201322v.\n\n61. Ibid.\n\n62. Ibid., reg. 444, testimony of Margherita Fannella, 4 May 1595.\n\n63. Cited in Sandro Corradini, _Materiali per un processo_ (Rome, 1993), document 15, 25\u20137 Oct., deposition by Stefano Longhi and others.\n\n64. Ibid.\n\n65. See Rudolf and Margot Wittkower, _Born Under Saturn_ , p. 196.\n\n66. See L. Pascoli, _Vite de' pittori, scultori ed architetti moderni_ (Rome, 1730), vol. 2, pp. 512\u201313.\n\n67. See ASR, TCS, reg. 1438, testimony of Onorio Longhi, 4 May 1595, cc. 20v\u201322v.\n\n68. See Christopher Breward, 'Fashioning the Modern Self: Clothing, Cavaliers and Identity in Van Dyck's London', in _Van Dyck and Britain_ , Karen Hearn (ed.) (London, 2009), pp. 34\u20135.\n\n69. See Tommaso Garzoni, _La piazza universale di tutte le professioni del mondo_ (Rome, 1996), pp. 1,263\u201383, for the following quotations.\n\n70. ASR, Tribunale del governatore (TCG), reg. 483, witness statement of Anna Bianchini, 22 Apr. 1594, c. 144v; cited (reliably) in Riccardo Bassani and Fiora Bellini, _Caravaggio assassino_ , p. 74, n. 5.\n\n71. ASR, Archivio Sforza Cesarini, s. xii, b. 1b, filza 1, interrogationes et testes 1596\u20137, cc. n.n; cited (reliably) in Riccardo Bassani and Fiora Bellini, _Caravaggio assassino_ , p. 53, n. 5.\n\n72. Inventories show that she owned a painting of the Magdalen repenting by Caravaggio. The banker Ottavio Costa also owned a version of the same subject. Scholarly opinion is divided about who originally owned the Detroit painting but the balance of evidence currently available favours Olimpia Aldobrandini.\n\n73. See Gregory Martin, _Roma sancta_ , George Bruner Parks (ed.) (Rome, 1969), p. 143.\n\n74. For Ranuccio Tomassoni, see Riccardo Bassani and Fiora Bellini, _Caravaggio assassino_ , pp. 55\u201373.\n\n75. For all the following testimonies see Sandro Corradini, _Materiali per un processo_ , document 17.\n\n76. Such figures appear with great frequency in northern European genre painting, especially Dutch art. Her tough, harsh face was probably modelled on a male Roman portrait bust.\n\n77. See Carlo Cesare Malvasia, _Le vite de' pittori bolognese_ , edition of 1678 (Bologna, 1841), vol. 1, p. 344.\n\n78. His methods might be described as a kind of empirical Tintorettism, in the sense that they are the techniques a painter might evolve if he wanted to emulate Tintoretto but had never been trained in Tintoretto's actual methods \u2013 which were rather different, and certainly involved drawing.\n\n79. See Walter Friedlaender, _Caravaggio Studies_ , p. 264.\n\n80. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 64. The idea that Caravaggio also used some kind of lens or camera obscura is a red herring. Caravaggio had plenty of enemies who would have no doubt taken pleasure in exposing him as a cheat, but no such device is mentioned by any of the early writers. Nor does anything like it appear in the only known inventory of his possessions.\n\n81. Ibid., p. 33.\n\n##### PART FOUR: ROME, 1599\u20131606\n\n1. The document is reprinted and translated in Walter Friedlaender, _Caravaggio Studies_ , p. 297.\n\n2. See Herwarth R\u00f6ttgen, _Il Caravaggio: ricerche e interpretazioni_ (Rome, 1974), pp. 20\u201321; the translation is from John T. Spike, _Caravaggio_. The contract in question is the one signed by Giuseppe Cesari on 27 May 1591. As Cesari's successor, it seems highly probable that Caravaggio would have been made aware of Contarelli's wishes.\n\n3. Quoted in Walter Friedlaender, _Caravaggio Studies_ , p. 265.\n\n4. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 69.\n\n5. See for example Catherine Puglisi, _Caravaggio_ (London, 1998), pp. 157\u201360.\n\n6. See G. Urbani, 'Il restauro delle tele del Caravaggio in S. Luigi dei Francesi', _Bollettino dell'Istituto Centrale del Restauro_ , vol. 17 (1966).\n\n7. See Franca Trinchieri Camiz, 'Death and Rebirth in Caravaggio's _Martyrdom of St Matthew_ ', _Artibus et Historiae_ , vol. 11, no. 22 (1990), pp. 89\u2013105.\n\n8. See E. Cecilia Voelker, Charles Borromeo's 'Instructiones fabricae et supellectilis ecclesiasticae', translation with commentary, dissertation, Syracuse University, 1977, pp. 250\u201351.\n\n9. See Anti-Nicene Christian Library, _Translations of the Writings of the Fathers Down to AD 325_. _Volume 9: The Writings of Tertullian_ , I, 25. Cited in 'Death and Rebirth in Caravaggio's _Martyrdom of St Matthew_ '.\n\n10. Titian's painting is lost, destroyed by fire, but its design can still be studied from prints.\n\n11. See Walter Friedlaender, _Caravaggio Studies_ , p. 300.\n\n12. See, in particular, his thunderously inept contributions to the fresco cycle begun by Giorgio Vasari in the dome of Florence cathedral.\n\n13. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 45. The translation here gives 'the style of Giorgione', which I have changed to 'idea' because the Italian word Baglione used was _pensiero_.\n\n14. See Giorgio Vasari, _Lives of the Painters, Sculptors and Architects_ , vol. 1, p. 641.\n\n15. San Luigi dei Francesi was open to such innovations from outside. When Caravaggio accepted his commission, it was already one of the few churches in Rome to have a great Venetian canvas \u2013 by Jacopo Bassano \u2013 above its high altar.\n\n16. See Helen Langdon, _Caravaggio: A Life_ , p. 75.\n\n17. See Sandro Corradini, _Materiali per un processo_ , document 21, 7 Feb. 1601.\n\n18. See Walter Friedlaender, _Caravaggio Studies_ , pp. 269\u201370.\n\n19. All the material from the investigation of Onorio Longhi in Oct. 1600, discussed below, is from Sandro Corradini, _Materiali per un processo_ , document 15.\n\n20. See above, p. 74.\n\n21. Ibid., document 16, 20 Jan., deposition by Stefano Longhi and others.\n\n22. Ibid., document 18.\n\n23. Cited in John T. Spike, _Caravaggio_ , in his CD-ROM catalogue entries for _The Conversion of St Paul_ and _The Crucifixion of St Peter_ ; and Walter Friedlaender, _Caravaggio Studies_ , pp. 302\u20133.\n\n24. See Denis Mahon, 'Egregius in Urbe Pictor: Caravaggio Revisited', _Burlington Magazine_ , vol. 93, no. 580 (July 1951), p. 226.\n\n25. Caravaggio was familiar with the place too. He had convalesced in the Hospital of Santa Maria Consolazione in 1592\u20133, after being kicked by a horse.\n\n26. Sixtus V; see Helen Langdon, _Caravaggio: A Life_ , p. 181.\n\n27. Quoted in John T. Spike, _Caravaggio_ , p. 106.\n\n28. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 88, where Bellori says that 'Caravaggio did not use cinnabar reds or azure blues in his figures; and if he occasionally did use them, he toned them down, saying they were poisonous colours.'\n\n29. See Fiora Bellini, 'Tre documenti per Michelangelo da Caravaggio', pp. 70\u201371.\n\n30. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 91.\n\n31. See Charles Scribner III, 'In Alia Effigie: Caravaggio's London _Supper at Emmaus_ ', _Art Bulletin_ , vol. 59, no. 3 (Sept. 1977), pp. 375\u201382, for an illuminating account of the youthful Christ and his theological significance.\n\n32. The author's name was Gaspare Celio, whose book was published in Naples in 1638. He described the picture as 'a Pastor Friso, in oil, by Michelangelo da Caravaggio'. See the entry in John T. Spike, Caravaggio, CD-ROM catalogue entry no. 29.\n\n33. See Conrad Rudolph and Steven F. Ostrow, 'Isaac Laughing: Caravaggio, Non-Traditional Imagery and Traditional Identification', _Art History_ , vol. 24, no. 5 (Nov. 2001), pp. 646\u201381. The article advances the theory that the painter meant to depict Isaac instead of St John. It also contains a very good summary of the hard documentary evidence that disproves its own argument.\n\n34. 'Un quadro di San Gio: Battista col suo Agnello di mano del Caravaggio', cited in ibid., p. 649.\n\n35. He described it as 'di San Giovanni Battista del Caravaggio'; cited in ibid.\n\n36. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 72.\n\n37. See Sergio Benedetti, 'Caravaggio's Taking of Christ: A Masterpiece Rediscovered', _Burlington Magazine_ , vol. 135, no. 1,088 (Nov. 1993), p. 740.\n\n38. See Niccol\u00f2 Lorini del Monte, _Elogii delle piu principali S. Donne del sagro calendario, e martirologio romano_ (Florence, 1617), p. 316. My attention was called to this passage by Pamela M. Jones's enlightening study of the pauperist context of Caravaggio's Rome in her book _Altarpieces and Their Viewers in the Churches of Rome from Caravaggio to Guido Reni_ ; see pp. 75ff. in particular.\n\n39. Cointrel's nephew and heir, Fran\u00e7ois, took possession of Cobaert's dull and stolid sculpture, eventually having it completed by another artist and placed in a chapel in SS Trinit\u00e0 dei Pellegrini, where he himself would eventually be buried.\n\n40. See Irving Lavin, 'Divine Inspiration in Caravaggio's Two St Matthews', _Art Bulletin_ , vol. 56, no. 1 (Mar. 1974), pp. 59\u201381.\n\n41. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 45 for Baglione's remark, p. 66 for Bellori's.\n\n42. Bellori's bald statement that the _Doubting Thomas_ was painted for 'the Marchese Vincenzo Giustiniani' is supported by most of the available evidence. Giustiniani certainly owned the picture by 1606, because in the summer of that year he wrote a letter comparing his own, original _Doubting Thomas_ by Caravaggio to a copy in Genoa. Baglione asserted that the _Doubting Thomas_ was painted for Ciriaco Mattei, but this is probably a rare slip of the pen on his part. He may have confused the picture with _The Betrayal of Christ_ , which certainly was painted for Ciriaco Mattei and which, oddly, Baglione does not mention at all. In summary, there is a remote possibility that the _Doubting Thomas_ was painted for Ciriaco Mattei, then later acquired by Vincenzo Giustiniani. But the balance of probability favours a direct commission from Giustiniani himself. For a good analysis of the arguments and a precis of the relevant documents, see John T. Spike, _Caravaggio_ , CD-ROM catalogue entry for _Doubting Thomas_.\n\n43. See Walter Friedlaender, _Caravaggio Studies_ , p. 264.\n\n44. Inventory of 9 Feb. 1638; see John T. Spike, _Caravaggio_ , CD-ROM catalogue entry for _Omnia vincit amor._\n\n45. The resemblance to Michelangelo's _Victory_ was first noted by Walter Friedlaender, _Caravaggio Studies_ , p. 93.\n\n46. See Joachim von Sandrart, _L'Accademia Todesca della archittetura, scultura e pittura_... (Nuremberg, 1675). Quoted by Robert Enggass, 'L'Amore Giustiniani del Caravaggio', _Palatino_ , vol. 11 (1967), pp. 13\u201319. This translation is from John T. Spike, _Caravaggio_.\n\n47. The idea is advanced by Robert Enggass in the article cited in the previous note above. If this hypothesis is to be believed, Cupid does not trample the arts and sciences underfoot, but inspires them to flourish in the Giustiniani household. Such an interpretation is, however, flatly contradicted by the Giustiniani inventory of 1638, describing 'Cupid disparaging the world'. It is also at odds with the purely visual evidence of the painting. In particular, the discarded shell of an empty suit of armour cannot possibly have been intended by the painter as a compliment to the military prowess of his patron. Nor can Caravaggio's impishly provocative, full-frontally nude Cupid be plausibly transmuted into a Neoplatonic emblem of the Earthly Love that sparks man to Divine Creativity.\n\n48. For an earlier conversation inspired by a painting of Cupid between the Venetian collector Gabriel Vendramin and the connoisseur Anton Francesco Doni, see Catherine Whistler, 'Titian's _Triumph of Love_ ', _Burlington Magazine_ , vol. 151, no. 1,277 (Aug. 2009), n. 19, in which the author cites Doni's _I marmi_ (Venice, 1552), vol. 3, fols. 40\u201341: ' _e fra l'altro mi mostr\u00f2 un leone con un Cupido sopra. E qui discorremo molto della bella invenzione, e lodassi ultimamente in questo, che l'amore doma ogni gran ferocit\u00e0 e terribilit\u00e0 \u00e0 persone_.'\n\n49. The Courtauld Galleries in London contain a particularly good example of two such chests in their original condition. As well as being embellished with complex narrative paintings about love, drawn from classical mythology, they are decorated with split pomegranates spilling their seeds, a kind of symbolic prayer for fertile married union.\n\n50. See Charles Dempsey, ' \"Et nos cedamus amori\": Observations on the Farnese Gallery', _Art Bulletin_ , vol. 50, no. 4 (Dec. 1968), pp. 363\u201374.\n\n51. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , pp. 45\u20136.\n\n52. See Karel van Mander, _Het Schilderboek_ (Haarlem, 1604), cited in Beverly Louise Brown, 'The Black Wings of Envy: Competition, Rivalry and _Paragone_ ', in _The Genius of Rome_ , Royal Academy exhibition catalogue, p. 251.\n\n53. See Gianni Papi's essay 'Cecco del Caravaggio', in _Come dipingeva il Caravaggio: atti della giornata di studio_ , Mina Gregori (ed.) (Milan, 1996).\n\n54. This transcription was made from the original MSS of Symonds's travel journal by John Gash, who published it in the _Burlington Magazine_ , vol. 140, no. 1,138 (Jan. 1998), pp. 41\u20132.\n\n55. See Giorgio Vasari, _Lives of the Painters, Sculptors and Architects_ , vol. 2, p. 418.\n\n56. See Maryvelma Smith O'Neil's entertainingly revisionist study, _Giovanni Baglione: Artistic Reputation in Baroque Rome_ (Cambridge, 2002), p. 17. I am indebted to her lucid account of the libels and their consequences, although not convinced by her suggestion that Baglione was an injured innocent in the affair.\n\n57. These transcriptions of the poems are taken from Anthony Colantuono, 'Caravaggio's Literary Culture', in _Caravaggio, Realism Rebellion, Reception_ , Genevieve Warwick (ed.) (Newark, 2006), p. 58.\n\n58. Percy Bysshe Shelley's verse play _The Cenci_ was inspired by these events.\n\n59. See Maryvelma Smith O'Neil, _Giovanni Baglione: Artistic Reputation in Baroque Rome_ , p. 13.\n\n60. The libel trial documents were first published in full in G. A. Dell'Acqua and M. Cinotti, _Il Caravaggio e il sue grandi opere da S. Luigi dei Francesi_ (Milan, 1971), pp. 153\u20137. The translation offered here is by Don Var Green and can be found in full in Maryvelma Smith O'Neil, _Giovanni Baglione: Artistic Reputation in Baroque Rome_ , pp. 337\u201362. I have made a couple of slight alterations, to match my own translation of the two poems at the centre of the case, and in one or two instances have preserved the original Italian usages.\n\n61. The document is printed in full in Maryvelma Smith O'Neil, _Giovanni Baglione: Artistic Reputation in Baroque Rome_ , pp. 357\u20138.\n\n62. See Sandro Corradini, _Materiali per un processo_ , document 26.\n\n63. See Maryvelma Smith O'Neil, _Giovanni Baglione: Artistic Reputation in Baroque Rome_ , pp. 358\u201362.\n\n64. Salini added the detail about the punch in the chest in a slightly later piece of testimony; I have inserted it here for the sake of clarity.\n\n65. The document is reprinted in full in Maurizio Marini, _Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio 'pictor praestantissimus'_ (second edition, Rome 1979), p. 472.\n\n66. See Tullio Lazzari, _Ascoli in prospettiva_ (Ascoli, 1722), p. 40.\n\n67. The document is dated 6 June 1605. It is quoted, and photographically reproduced, in Maurizio Marini, _Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio 'pictor praestantissimus'_ , p. 53.\n\n68. See Sandro Corradini, _Materiali per un processo_ , document 57. The translation is from Catherine Puglisi, _Caravaggio_ , p. 420.\n\n69. Nowadays many people have books they do not read, but books were so expensive in Caravaggio's time that ownership of a volume can be taken as an indication of familiarity with its contents.\n\n70. See Helen Langdon, _Caravaggio: A Life_ , p. 279.\n\n71. See Walter Friedlaender, _Caravaggio Studies_ , p. 280.\n\n72. Ibid., p. 260.\n\n73. Ibid., p. 249.\n\n74. The translation is from ibid., p. 281; the fullest transcription of these documents is in G. A. Dell'Acqua and M. Cinotti, _Il Caravaggio e il sue grandi opere da S. Luigi dei Francesi_ , p. 158.\n\n75. G. A. Dell'Acqua and M. Cinotti, _Il Caravaggio e il sue grandi opere da S. Luigi dei Francesi_ , p. 158.\n\n76. See Walter Friedlaender, _Caravaggio Studies_ , p. 281.\n\n77. These officials were drawn from the lay population and elected to their posts by the noble families of the city. Hence they reflected the factionalism and competing dynastic ambitions that existed at the highest level of Roman society. During the so-called Vacant See, the interregnum between one pope's death and another's election \u2013 but only at that time \u2013 the _caporioni_ were allowed to act as judges in the districts under their control. Trouble often ensued during these periods. See Laurie Nussdorfer, 'The Politics of Space in Early Modern Rome', _Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome_ , vol. 42 (1997), pp. 161\u201386.\n\n78. All this testimony is in Sandro Corradini, _Materiali per un processo_ , document 41.\n\n79. Ibid., document 47.\n\n80. See Walter Friedlaender, _Caravaggio Studies_ , p. 282.\n\n81. The term 'house-scorning' was coined by Elizabeth S. Cohen. The discussion that follows is heavily indebted to her pioneering work in the field of seventeenth-century social history, especially the essay 'Honour and Gender in the Streets of Early Modern Rome', _Journal of Interdisciplinary History_ , vol. 22, no. 4 (Spring 1992), pp. 597\u2013625.\n\n82. Louis Richeome, _The Pilgrime of Loreto_ , facsimile of the 1629 edition, _English Recusant Literature 1558\u20131640_ , vol. 285, D. M. Rogers (ed.) (London, 1976), p. 33.\n\n83. Thousands of pilgrims visited Loreto every year and their experience was carefully orchestrated. The pilgrimage diaries of the Santissima Trinit\u00e0 dei Pellegrini, founded by Filippo Neri and supported by the patrons who paid for Caravaggio's _Madonna of Loreto_ , the Cavalletti family, contain much information about the structure of a visit to Loreto. They strongly suggest that the painter wanted his picture to evoke an actual pilgrimage.\n\n84. The placement of Caravaggio's works within the geography of Rome has received relatively scant consideration. Pamela Jones's essay, 'The Place of Poverty in Seicento Rome', included in _Altarpieces and Their Viewers_ , contains a penetrating analysis of the significance of the geographical locations of some of Caravaggio's works.\n\n85. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 90.\n\n86. Ibid., p. 46.\n\n87. See Walter Friedlaender, _Caravaggio Studies_ , p. 284.\n\n88. See G. A. Dell'Acqua and M. Cinotti, _Il Caravaggio e il sue grandi opere da S. Luigi dei Francesi_ , p. 158.\n\n89. It was left out of later editions.\n\n90. See Jacob Hess, 'Nuovo Contributo alla vita del Caravaggio', _Bolletino d'Arte_ , anno 26, ser. 3 (July 1932), pp. 42\u20134.\n\n91. Rome's criminal archives include a report written by the constable who arrested her. See Sandro Corradini, _Materiali per un processo_ , document 38.\n\n92. If this is so (which is certainly possible), he would have been using the phrase in the same straightforward sense as the one-eyed Bolognese corporal, possibly called Paulo Aldato, who appears to say something similar in a later criminal action involving Caravaggio. Aldato (if that was his name) is reported as saying that he wanted to visit ' _una sua puttana_ ' \u2013 one of his prostitutes \u2013 on a street nearby. There is no implication that Aldato was a pimp. See Sandro Corradini, _Materiali per un processo_ , document 101.\n\n93. He would later claim that he had tried to challenge Pasqualone to a fair and open fight, but probably only to put his own actions in a better light.\n\n94. See Sandro Corradini, _Materiali per un processo_ , documents 48\u201352, 54.\n\n95. Giuliana Marcolini, 'Cesare d'Este, Caravaggio, e Annibale Carracci: una duca, due pittori e una _committenza_ \"a mal termine\" ', in _Sovrane passioni: studi sul collezionismo estense_ , Jadranka Bentini (ed.) (Milan, 1998), pp. 23\u20134. Ruggieri's letter reporting Caravaggio's riposte was dated 2 Mar. 1605.\n\n96. Had it not been for the discovery of Masetti's correspondence, the details of Caravaggio's trip to Genoa would have remained unknown. See Sandro Corradini, _Materiali per un processo_ , document 53.\n\n97. Ibid., document 55.\n\n98. Ibid., document 56.\n\n99. See Walter Friedlaender, _Caravaggio Studies_ , p. 285.\n\n100. Ibid.\n\n101. See Sandro Corradini, _Materiali per un processo_ , document 58.\n\n102. Ibid., document 59. This is a slightly free translation; Masetti uses the phrase ' _un' altra questione_ ', meaning 'another question'.\n\n103. Ibid., document 67.\n\n104. Ibid., document 68.\n\n105. Ibid., document 71.\n\n106. Carracci did eventually deliver his own picture for the duke, thought to be identical to the painter's _The Birth of the Virgin_ now in the Louvre.\n\n107. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , pp. 73\u20134.\n\n108. See Luigi Spezzaferro, 'La pala dei Palafrenieri', _Colloquio_ (1974), which reprints the documents from the archive of the confraternity associated with the commission.\n\n109. Ibid.; the translation is given in John T. Spike, _Caravaggio_ , where the painting appears as entry no. 48. The same is true for the two documents that follow. For a reproduction of this document in Caravaggio's handwriting, see illustration no. 65.\n\n110. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 90.\n\n111. See Gabriele Paleotti, 'Discorso intorno alle imagini sacre e profane', in _Trattati d'arte del Cinquecento fra Manierismo a Controriforma_ , vol. 2, P. Barocchi and P. Barocchi (eds.) (Bari, 1961), p. 370.\n\n112. See Roberto Longhi, _Opere complete_ (Florence, 1968), vol. 4, p. 58.\n\n113. The date of _The Death of the Virgin_ is disputed, but there are compelling reasons to place its completion close to the very end of Caravaggio's Roman period, i.e. around May 1606. Before the discovery of the contract for the painting, of 14 June 1601, the work was dated 1606 by most art historians on purely stylistic grounds. There seems little reason to reverse that view simply because of the discovery of the contract. It was common for paintings to be delivered late, sometimes years late (witness the travails of poor Fabio Masetti). The picture is certainly much closer in its _facture_ , palette and mood to Caravaggio's later, post-Roman works than it is to such paintings of 1601\u20132 as _The Supper at Emmaus_. In my opinion, it was finished directly after the _Madonna of the Palafrenieri_ , since it is painted in the looser, freer style of that picture's right half \u2013 the half containing St Anne \u2013 which directly prefigures the style of the artist's last years. As a compromise solution some experts have chosen to date the painting to 1604, but this seems perverse, bearing in mind both the picture's appearance and the existing documentary evidence. The first detailed reference to the picture occurs in a letter by Giulio Mancini, dated 14 Oct. 1606, in a context strongly suggestive of the picture having been finished just a matter of months earlier. Another reference to it from around the same time occurs in the correspondence of an agent working for the Duke of Mantua, who noted that the painters of Rome were complaining that they had not yet been able to see the painting. If it really had been finished as early as 1604, it would seem strange indeed that Caravaggio's friends and rivals had still not seen it all of two years later. In addition, in his biography of the painter Mancini explicitly connects its rejection with 'the trouble' that ruined Caravaggio's life, i.e., the killing of Ranuccio Tomassoni. It would therefore seem logical to assume that it was the very last picture the artist painted before his flight from Rome.\n\n114. Saints should never be given the recognizable features of 'persons of ill repute', Paleotti had written. Gabriele Paleotti, 'Discorso intorno alle imagini sacre e profane', p. 360. I am obliged to Opher Mansour for pointing out both these references to me.\n\n115. See Giulio Mancini, _Considerazioni sulla pittura_ , vol. 1, pp. 120, 132; see also Walter Friedlaender, _Caravaggio Studies_ , p. 195.\n\n116. See Michele Maccherini, 'Caravaggio nel carteggio familiare di Giulio Mancini' in _Prospettiva_ , vol. 86 (1997), pp. 71\u201392.\n\n117. See Sandro Corradini, _Materiali per un processo_ , document 78. It is not clear what type of document this is; perhaps a journal.\n\n118. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , pp. 29\u201331.\n\n119. Ibid., p. 52.\n\n120. Ibid., p. 76.\n\n121. See Peter Burke, 'Rome as Center of Information and Communication for the Catholic World 1550\u20131650', in _From Rome to Eternity: Catholicism and the Arts in Italy, c. 1550\u20131650_ , Pamela M. Jones and Thomas Worcester (eds.) (Leiden, Boston and Cologne, 2002), p. 259.\n\n122. See Sandro Corradini, _Materiali per un processo_ , document 81.\n\n123. The tennis courts were all destroyed in a fire during the eighteenth century. The site is now occupied by an underground car park. I am grateful to Maurizio Marini for showing me its exact whereabouts.\n\n124. See Sandro Corradini, _Materiali per un processo_ , document 85; the translation given here is from Walter Friedlaender, _Caravaggio Studies_ , p. 286.\n\n125. Ibid., document 82.\n\n126. His report on the man's injuries can still be consulted in the 'Barbitonsores' section of the Roman State Archives. This document confirms that Caravaggio's ally in the fight had indeed been badly wounded. See ibid., document 80.\n\n127. Ibid., document 83.\n\n128. Ibid., document 84.\n\n129. Ibid.document 95: ' _initi duelli cum Michelangelo de Caravaggio... ac pro presenti duello_ '.\n\n130. For the document discussed below, see ibid., document 101.\n\n131. Ibid., documents 163, 164.\n\n132. Ibid., document 145.\n\n133. Ibid., document 111.\n\n134. I am grateful to Sandro Corradini for talking me through this series of archival documents, which remain unpublished. For another precis of their contents, see Helen Langdon, _Caravaggio: A Life_ , p. 313.\n\n135. See Sandro Corradini, _Materiali per un processo_ , document 109. Pontoni, who was a lawyer, also appears in document 17, testifying in the case of Fillide's knife attack on Prudenza Zacchia.\n\n136. Ibid., document 151.\n\n137. See Romolo Caggese (ed.), _Statuti della reppublica fiorentina. Volume 2: Statuto del podest\u00e0 del anno 1325_ (Florence, 1921); and _Volumen statutorem civitatis Maceratae_ , facsimile reprint of the 1553 edition, Arnaldo Forni (ed.) ([n.p., n.d.]). I am indebted to Elizabeth S. Cohen and Thomas S. Cohen for allowing me to read their essay ' _Sfregio_ : Facial Mutilation as Expressive Act' when it was still in draft form. It was that essay that called my attention to the legal penalties cited in the statute books noted above.\n\n##### PART FIVE: THE ALBAN HILLS, NAPLES, MALTA, SICILY, NAPLES, PORTO ERCOLE, 1606\u201310\n\n1. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , pp.31, 76.\n\n2. A picture in a private Roman collection has been put forward several times as a candidate, but it is so clumsy and sentimental that it cannot possibly have been painted by Caravaggio.\n\n3. No documents relating to this work survive. It has been romantically placed at the end of Caravaggio's life \u2013 in the quatercentenary exhibition in Rome in 2010 it was once more dated to 1610 \u2013 but it was not among the pictures listed as being on the boat with him when he travelled to Rome for the last time in July of that year, and it is besides painted in a style quite different from that of Caravaggio's last-documented picture, _The Martyrdom of St Ursula_ , now in the boardroom of the Banco di Napoli. Given that the style of the _David with the Head of Goliath_ is so close to that of _The Seven Acts of Mercy_ of 1606\u20137 in Naples \u2013 compare, for example, the handling of light in striated drapery in both pictures \u2013 and given that it indeed entered the Borghese collection (it can still be seen in the Villa Borghese in Rome), I believe that Caravaggio painted it expressly for Scipione Borghese to try to secure a pardon for his crimes. The identification of the severed head of Goliath as a self-portrait has been universally accepted, on the basis of visual comparison with Ottavio Leoni's portrait of Caravaggio in the Uffizi, and with other known self-portraits that occur within Caravaggio's _\u0153uvre_.\n\n4. Mancini is the source for this information: See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 31.\n\n5. It was only in 1613 that he ordered a frame to be made for it, according to a Borghese palace inventory: see the CD-ROM catalogue entry on the painting in John T. Spike, _Caravaggio_.\n\n6. Sandro Corradini, _Materiali per un processo_ , document 106, 23 Sept. 1606.\n\n7. See George Sandys, _A Relation of a Journey_ (London, 1615), pp. 253\u20134.\n\n8. Cited by Jeanne Chenault Porter in 'Reflections of the Golden Age: The Visitor's Account of Naples', in _Parthenope's Splendor: Art of the Golden Agein Naples_, published as Papers in Art History from the Pennsylvania State University, vol. 7, Jeanne Chenault Porter and Susan Scott Munshower (eds.) (Pennsylvania, 1993), p. 11.\n\n9. See Giuseppe Galasso, 'Society in Naples in the Seicento', in _Painting in Naples 1606\u20131705: From Caravaggio to Giordano_ , catalogue to the exhibition at the Royal Academy of Arts, London, Clovis Whitfield and Jane Martineau (eds.) (London 1982), p. 28.\n\n10. It is probable that the open-weave Neapolitan canvases on which Caravaggio would paint some of his greatest pictures were of English origin: see Clovis Whitfield, 'Seicento Naples', in _Painting in Naples 1606\u20131705_ , p. 19.\n\n11. Benedetto Croce, _History of the Kingdom of Naples_ , Frances Frenaye (trs.), H. Stuart Hughes (ed.) (Chicago, 1970), p. 116. Croce's text was first published as _Storia del regno di Napoli_ (Bari, 1925).\n\n12. Quoted in ibid., p. 120.\n\n13. Quoted in Giuseppe Galasso, 'Society in Naples in the Seicento', in _Painting in Naples 1606\u20131705_ , p. 25.\n\n14. See ibid., _passim_.\n\n15. See ibid., p. 25.\n\n16. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , pp. 76\u20137.\n\n17. For the details and documents concerning this commission, see Vincenzo Pacelli, 'New Documents concerning Caravaggio in Naples', _Burlington Magazine_ , vol. 119, no. 897 (Dec. 1977), pp. 819\u201329; and Vincenzo Pacelli, _Caravaggio: Le sette opere di misericordia_ (Salerno, 1984), p. 102.\n\n18. The quote is taken from the manuscript of C. De Lellis, _Aggiunta alla Napoli sacra del d'Engenio_ _1654\u201389_ , cited in Vincenzo Pacelli, _Caravaggio: Le sette opere di misericordia_ , p. 12.\n\n19. See Ferdinando Bologna, 'Caravaggio: The Final Years', in _Caravaggio: The Final Years_ , exhibition catalogue, the National Gallery (London, 2005), p. 22.\n\n20. Tiberio del Pezzo was the member of the confraternity who signed the documents authorizing payment to Caravaggio, but since he was only a deputy his role is likely to have been marginal. For the documents concerning this commission, see Vincenzo Pacelli, _Caravaggio: Le sette opere di misericordia_ , p. 102.\n\n21. See pp. 250\u201353, above. Caravaggio painted Marino's portrait in 1600 or 1601. It does not survive.\n\n22. See Estelle Haan, _From Academia to Amicitia: Milton's Latin Writings and the Italian Academies_ (Philadelphia, 1998), p. 122.\n\n23. Ibid., p. 119.\n\n24. These documents are usefully summarized in John T. Spike, _Caravaggio_ , in the CD-ROM catalogue entry on the picture.\n\n25. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 77, where Bellori states that 'he was commissioned to do the _Flagellation of Christ at the Column_ in the Di Franco Chapel of the church of San Domenico Maggiore.' There is another, half-length depiction of _The Flagellation_ in Rouen that many scholars believe to be an autograph Caravaggio, but I am not convinced by it. Two other versions of the subject, one in Lucca and the other in a Swiss private collection, were published respectively by Roberto Longhi and Denis Mahon in the 1950s. I am not convinced by those paintings either.\n\n26. See Vincenzo Pacelli, 'New Documents concerning Caravaggio in Naples', p. 820.\n\n27. See Bernardo de Dominici, _Vite de' pittori, scultori ed architetti napoletani_ (Naples, 1742\u20133), pp. 275\u20136. Cited in John T. Spike, _Caravaggio_ , in his entry on _The Flagellation._\n\n28. This could be said to bring full circle that fruitful interplay between painting and sculpture already embodied by Caravaggio's own work. He himself had been powerfully influenced by the polychrome statuary of Lombardy and the _sacri monti_.\n\n29. See Ann Tzeutschler Lurie and Denis Mahon, 'Caravaggio's _Crucifixion of St Andrew_ from Valladolid', _Bulletin of the Cleveland Museum of Arts_ , vol. 64 (Jan. 1977), pp. 3\u201324. The picture had reportedly found its way to a convent in Spain by 1972, and was on sale in the art market in Switzerland a year later; it was purchased by the Cleveland Museum of Art through the L. C. Hanna Jr Bequest in 1976. See the CD-ROM catalogue entry on the painting in John T. Spike, _Caravaggio._\n\n30. See _Caravaggio: The Final Years_ , exhibition catalogue, p. 109. Keith Christiansen's entry on this particular painting also contains an outstandingly lucid account of the wider issues surrounding the much debated chronology of Caravaggio's later pictures.\n\n31. The quotation is taken from _The Golden Legend_ of Jacobus de Voragine, translated and adapted from the Latin by Granger Ryan and Helmut Ripperberger (New York, 1969), p. 13.\n\n32. John Varriano, in his _Caravaggio: The Art of Realism_ (Pennsylvania, 2003), notes that 'goiters are known to be geographically linked to mountainous places and were especially common in the region around Naples, the site where the earliest research on the disease was conducted.'\n\n33. See Walter Friedlaender, _Caravaggio Studies_ , p. 314.\n\n34. It was taken there by Finson, who by that time had assumed sole ownership of the work. He subsequently bequeathed it to his friend and business partner, Vinck.\n\n35. The picture was either sold or given to Emperor Josef II of Austria when he visited Antwerp in 1781.\n\n36. See the CD-ROM catalogue entry on the painting in John T. Spike, _Caravaggio_ , for the relevant documents.\n\n37. For Mancini's correspondence in connection with the sale of _The Death of the Virgin_ , see Michele Maccherini, 'Caravaggio nel carteggio familiare di Giulio Mancini', _Prospettiva_ , vol. 86 (1997), pp. 71\u201392.\n\n38. For Magno's correspondence with Chieppio, see Walter Friedlaender, _Caravaggio Studies_ , pp. 308\u201310.\n\n39. See Sandro Corradini, _Materiali per un processo_ , document 110, 2\u20134 Nov. 1606.\n\n40. See Maryvelma Smith O'Neil, _Giovanni Baglione: Artistic Reputation in Baroque Rome_ , pp. 166\u20137.\n\n41. Walter Friedlaender, _Caravaggio Studies_ , p. 313.\n\n42. Ibid., p. 313.\n\n43. Giacomo Bosio, _Dell'istoria della sacra religione_ (Rome, 1594\u20131602), vol. 3, p. 574. My attention was called to this and the following quotation by David M. Stone's article 'The Context of Caravaggio's _Beheading of St John_ in Malta', _Burlington Magazine_ , vol. 139, no. 1,128 (Mar. 1997), pp. 161\u201370.\n\n44. Ibid., vol. 3, p. 574.\n\n45. Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 79.\n\n46. See Walter Friedlaender, _Caravaggio Studies_ , p. 266.\n\n47. Just a year before, at the start of 1606, Capeci had helped to organize another painter's journey to Malta. He had provided the artist in question, an unnamed Florentine, with canvases and pigments. He had also arranged his passage to the island via Messina in Sicily. For unknown reasons the painter from Florence never actually made it on to the island, but the episode strongly suggests that Capeci was involved in Caravaggio's transfer to Malta as well. See Keith Sciberras and David Stone, _Caravaggio: Art, Knighthood and Malta_ (Malta, 2006), p. 22.\n\n48. See Maurizio Calvesi, _Le realt\u00e0 del Caravaggio_ , pp. 132\u20133; Keith Sciberras and David Stone, _Caravaggio: Art, Knighthood and Malta_ , p. 20; Helen Langdon, _Caravaggio: A Life_ , p. 346.\n\n49. Much of this sequence of events was established by the discovery of a long-overlooked letter of June 1607 in the Farnese deposit in the Naples State Archives, written by Alessandro Boccabarile, agent for Duke Ranuccio Farnese: 'Eight days ago five galleys of the Religion of Malta arrived here, from Provence, under the command of the Prior of Venice, brother of the Marquis of Caravaggio [i.e., Fabrizio Sforza Colonna]. He brought his mother, who was staying at the Torre del Greco with the Prince of Stigliano... The aforesaid galleys will leave for Malta once the Feast of St John is over, taking with them two unequipped galleys newly made in Provence, and above all slaves...' This material was discovered by Antonio Ernesto Denunzio and published in the catalogue to the National Gallery's _Late Caravaggio_ exhibition, p. 49.\n\n50. Keith Sciberras's second chapter in _Caravaggio: Art, Knightood and Malta_ , entitled 'Virtuosity Honoured, Chivalry Disgraced', is an invaluable source of information about Caravaggio's time on Malta, much of it recently unearthed by Sciberras himself in the Maltese archives. For the documents concerning the journey to Malta, see p. 22.\n\n51. See George Sandys, _A Relation of a Journey_ , p. 234.\n\n52. For these documents, see John Azzopardi's contribution to the catalogue _The Church of St John in Valletta 1578\u201398 and the Earliest Record of Caravaggio in Malta_ , Fr John Azzopardi (ed.) (Malta, 1978).\n\n53. See George Sandys, _A Relation of a Journey_ , p. 230.\n\n54. See Helen Langdon, _Caravaggio: A Life_ , p. 345.\n\n55. See Commander Denis Calman, _Knights of Durance_ (Malta, 1963), p. 12.\n\n56. See George Sandys, _A Relation of a Journey_ , p. 230.\n\n57. Martelli did not take up his position until 1608, when a Medici agent reported his arrival in the Sicilian port town: 'yesterday the galleys arrived here from Malta and with them Prior Martelli, who if much aged remains in excellent health.' For this quotation, see Keith Sciberras and David Stone, _Caravaggio: Art, Knighthood and Malta_ , p. 89. Stone's account of Caravaggio's portrait of Martelli is clear and perceptive. The most informative essay on Martelli's life and career is by John Gash: 'The Identity of Caravaggio's Knight of Malta', _Burlington Magazine_ , vol. 139, no. 1,128 (Mar. 1997) pp. 156\u201360. Some authors continue to question the picture's attribution to Caravaggio, others to doubt that it represents Martelli. But a mid seventeenth-century inscription in a Medici collection inventory records the name of the painting's sitter as Antonio Martelli and I see no reason to doubt that. He was a celebrated man and the painting probably hung in the Vasari corridor alongside other depictions of worthies and notables treasured by the Medici, which makes it all the more likely that the inventorist would have got his name right. It used to be thought that Martelli could not have been painted by Caravaggio on Malta in 1607\u20138 because of his appointment to the Priory of Messina in 1606, so the archival evidence showing that he did not actually leave for Messina until the autumn of 1608 is important. Last but not least, the nonpareil moral and intellectual force of the painting, its abbreviated style, its depth of chiaroscuro, even such details as the slightly blocky impasto highlights in the prominent sunburned ear of the sitter \u2013 all scream out late Caravaggio. I cannot see who else could possibly have painted the picture.\n\n58. For these documents, see Fr John Azzopardi, 'Documentary Sources on Caravaggio's Stay in Malta', in _Caravaggio in Malta_ , Philip Farrugia Randon (ed.) (Malta, 1986), pp. 45\u201356; and Stefania Macioce, 'Caravaggio a Malta e i suoi referenti', in _Storia dell'Arte_ , vol. 81 (1994), pp. 207\u20138. Helen Langdon, in conversation with me, has expressed second thoughts about whether this document actually refers to Caravaggio. She points out that Knights of Malta were so universally prone to violence that the reference to a homicide committed does not necessarily point the finger at Caravaggio alone as the intended recipient of one of the two knighthoods for which papal approval was being requested. However, given the scarcity of Knighthoods of Magistral Obedience awarded by Wignacourt \u2013 indeed, so great was his reluctance to award such knighthoods at all that he had all but abolished them \u2013 it seems highly unlikely that he gave two in the same year to men who had committed murder. In my opinion, the man mentioned in the document, and Caravaggio, are beyond all reasonable doubt the same person.\n\n59. See n. 47 above.\n\n60. I am indebted to Keith Sciberras for explaining this crucial sequence of points to me, in conversations on Malta in 2001.\n\n61. It has been suggested that he may have painted the work _in situ_ , in the Oratory of St John itself, but I think that is implausible on the grounds that the light in that space would have been so far from ideal, even in the summer months. There is no absolute proof either way, but I think it more likely that he found a space elsewhere and adapted it accordingly.\n\n62. Some writers have identified her with Salome, others with Salome's mother, Herodias, Herod's consort. But she is dressed in the clothes of a serving wench. Everything about the way in which Caravaggio painted her indicates that she is meant to be seen as a member of the chorus, not as a leading player in the drama.\n\n63. The inscription has occasionally been thought to imply the phrase ' _fecit_ Caravaggio', 'Caravaggio made this', rather than 'Fra Michelangelo'. But the fact that it was his reception painting into the Order of St John argues compellingly for the latter as the true reading.\n\n64. Cited in John T. Spike, _Caravaggio_ , pp. 209\u201310. Fr John Azzopardi published a photograph of the document, with transcription and translation, in 'Documentary Sources on Caravaggio's Stay in Malta', pp. 55\u20136.\n\n65. I am grateful to John T. Spike for pointing out to me dell'Antella's probable authorship of the Bull, and for teasing out the implication that by praising Caravaggio as Apelles, it offers even higher praise to Wignacourt as his patron.\n\n66. For dell'Antella's life and personality, see Helen Langdon, _Caravaggio: A Life_ , p. 354; and Keith Sciberras and David Stone, _Caravaggio: Art, Knighthood and Malta_ , p. 80.\n\n67. I am indebted to Elizabeth Cropper's enlightening article about the links between Marino and Caravaggio: 'The Petrifying Art: Marino's Poetry and Caravaggio', _Metropolitan Museum Journal_ , vol. 26 (1991), pp. 193\u2013212. For the connections between Marino's poem about sleeping Cupid and Caravaggio's painting, see pp. 199\u2013200. The quotations are taken from Giambattista Marino, _La Galeria_ , Marzio Pieri (ed.) (Padua, 1979), vol. 1, pp. 273\u20137. The translations given here are my own very slightly adapted versions of those given in Cropper's article.\n\n68. See Giorgio Vasari, _Lives of the Painters, Sculptors and Architects_ , vol. 2, p. 650.\n\n69. Letter dated 24 Apr. 1610. See David Stone, 'In Praise of Caravaggio's _Sleeping Cupid_ : New Documents for Francesco dell'Antella in Malta and Florence', _Melita historica_ , vol. 12, pp. 165\u201377.\n\n70. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 80.\n\n71. See fn. 33 to Keith Sciberras's second chapter in _Caravaggio: Art, Knightood and Malta_ , for the full quotation in Italian. The translation given here is my own.\n\n72. See Walter Friedlaender, _Caravaggio Studies_ , p. 292. The translation given there is more faithful than that in Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , pp. 52\u20133. Baglione's wording is important.\n\n73. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 80.\n\n74. I owe a debt of gratitude to Fr John Azzopardi for showing me around the Maltese archive, and allowing me to examine for myself the documents \u2013 both legible and obliterated \u2013 relating to Caravaggio's crime and punishment on Malta. Keith Sciberras, who also generously shared much information with me on my visits to the island, first published the results of his X-ray examinations under the title ' \"Frater Michael Angelus in tumultu\": The Cause of Caravaggio's Imprisonment in Malta', _Burlington Magazine_ , vol. 144, no. 1,189 (Apr. 2002), pp. 229\u201332. My account of the events surrounding Caravaggio's crime is, inevitably, hugely dependent on his pioneering research.\n\n75. According to Malta's Liber Conciliorum for 1608\u201310, less than two years after the 'tumult' involving Caravaggio, De Ponte was sentenced for two months for fighting ' _cum levi sanguinis effusione_ ' with a certain Fra Francesco Sarsale. See Keith Sciberras, ' \"Frater Michael Angelus in tumultu\": The Cause of Caravaggio's Imprisonment in Malta', fn. 37.\n\n76. I am grateful again to Fr John Azzopardi for helping to find the ladder and letting me into the _guva_. Keith Sciberras doubts that Caravaggio would have been kept in the _guva_ , arguing that he would most probably have been detained in one of Castel Sant'Angelo's semi-open prisons. But, given Wignacourt's stated desire 'not to lose him', expressed in the petition to the pope for Caravaggio's knighthood, I share Fr Azzopardi's view that he would indeed have been confined in the _guva_ , which was after all the most high-security of the island's jails. It may also be worth noting that, according to a long oral tradition on Malta, the _guva_ was Caravaggio's place of imprisonment.\n\n77. Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 81.\n\n78. See Faith Ashford, 'Caravaggio's Stay in Malta', _Burlington Magazine for Connoisseurs_ , vol. 67, no. 391 (Oct. 1935), pp. 168\u201374.\n\n79. See Keith Sciberras and David Stone, _Caravaggio: Art, Knightood and Malta_ , p. 34.\n\n80. See Faith Ashford, 'Caravaggio's Stay in Malta', p. 174.\n\n81. Ibid.\n\n82. The document was published by A. Spadaro, 'Il percorso smarrito e l'importante inedito: la presenza del pittore a Caltagirone', in _Foglio d'Arte_ , vol. 8, no. 2 (1984\u20135), pp. 6\u20137; I was alerted to it by Gioacchino Barbera and Donatella Spagnolo's essay 'From _The Burial of St Lucy_ to the Scenes of the Passion: Caravaggio in Syracuse and Messina' in the catalogue to the exhibition _Caravaggio: The Final Years_ , pp. 80\u201387.\n\n83. See George Sandys, _A Relation of a Journey_ , p. 234.\n\n84. Susinno's manuscript containing biographies of artists to have worked in Sicily, and particularly Messina, was first published by Valentino Martelli in Florence in 1960. Susinno's life of Caravaggio, which was included in that manuscript, was usefully reprinted and translated in Howard Hibbard, _Caravaggio_ : see p. 381. Minniti had lived a chequered life since returning to his native Sicily in about 1604, at one point having been forced to seek sanctuary in the Carmelite monastery at Syracuse 'for a homicide casually committed' \u2013 for which see Francesco Susinno, _Le vite dei pittori messinesi_ of 1724, Valentino Martelli (ed.) (Florence, 1960), p. 117. By the autumn of 1608 Minniti had long since redeemed himself, by painting numerous altarpieces for the religious institutions of Syracuse and Messina. He often worked for the Franciscans, which indicates that he had a close relationship with the order. His sister, Maria, was a Capuchin tertiary. See Gioacchino Barbera and Donatella Spagnolo, 'From _The Burial of St Lucy_ to the Scenes of the Passion: Caravaggio in Syracuse and Messina' in the catalogue to the exhibition _Caravaggio: The Final Years_ , p. 81.\n\n85. See Susinno in Howard Hibbard, _Caravaggio_ , p. 381; in fact, the church and its adjacent monastery were not assigned to the Minorite friars of the Franciscan order until 1618. But they had been lobbying to have the site restored and given to them for many years, so they are also likely to have had a strong say in the choosing of Caravaggio. The Franciscans were the poorest of the poor orders. They are likely to have been highly sympathetic to an artist whose work so aggressively insisted on the poverty of Christ and his early followers. Franciscan involvement also supports Susinno's account of the part played by Minniti in winning the commission for Caravaggio.\n\n86. St Lucy's name was derived from the Latin word _lux_ , meaning 'light', a fact that had not been lost on the early Church fathers. St Ambrose, in his commentaries on her martyrdom, noted that 'In Lucy is said the way of light.'\n\n87. Susinno as reprinted in Howard Hibbard, _Caravaggio_ , from which the translation used here derives. See p. 381.\n\n88. See Keith Sciberras and David Stone, _Caravaggio: Art, Knighthood and Malta_ , pp. 35\u20136.\n\n89. Susinno as reprinted in Howard Hibbard, _Caravaggio_ , from which the translation used here derives. See p. 386.\n\n90. Ibid. The name of the dog is disclosed by Giovanni Baglione in a comic aside in a passage from his life of Caravaggio's follower Carlo Saraceni. See Giovanni Baglione, _Le vite de' pittori, scultori, architetti, dal pontificato di Gregorio XIII del 1572, fino a' tempi di Papa Urbano VIII_ _nel 1642_ (Rome, 1642), p. 147.\n\n91. See Francesco Susinno, _Le vite dei pittori messinesi_ , p. 119.\n\n92. See Vincenzo Mirabella, _Dichiarazioni della pianta delle antiche Siracuse, e d'alcune scelte medaglie d'esse e de' principi che quelle possedettero_ (Naples, 1613), p. 89. The whole passage is quoted in Italian in Maurizio Marini, _Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio 'pictor praestantissimus'_ , p. 100. The translation given here is my own.\n\n93. See Ferdinando Bologna, 'Caravaggio: The Final Years', in _Caravaggio: The Final Years_ , p. 32.\n\n94. See Keith Sciberras and David Stone, _Caravaggio: Art, Knighthood and Malta_ , pp. 36\u20137.\n\n95. See George Sandys, _A Relation of a Journey_ , pp. 245\u20136.\n\n96. Susinno as reprinted in Howard Hibbard, _Caravaggio_ , from which the translation used here derives. See p. 382.\n\n97. The documents recording this commission are now lost, presumed destroyed in the catastrophic earthquake that struck Messina in 1908. Before their destruction, they were transcribed and published. See V. Sacc\u00e0, 'Michelangelo da Caravaggio pittore. Studi e ricerche', in _Archivio storico messinese_ , vol. 7 (Messina, 1906), p. 58, and vol. 8 (Messina, 1907), p. 78.\n\n98. There is proof positive that he was familiar with the knights' book of statutes in his Maltese altarpiece, _The Beheading of St John_. The image of the prison, with inmates, is clearly drawn from one of the illustrations in the order's book of statutes. See David M. Stone, 'The Context of Caravaggio's _Beheading of St John_ in Malta', _Burlington Magazine_ , vol. 139, no. 1,128 (Mar. 1997), pp. 161\u201370. It should also be noted that the document of consignment in which he is referred to as a Knight of Malta is dated June 1609, a full seven months after his expulsion from the order. It therefore seems highly unrealistic to argue that he did not know about his expulsion.\n\n99. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 84. Caravaggio had made a similar plea for his head to Scipione Borghese just after the murder. The London picture is much weaker than the Borghese _David and Goliath_ , however. It is not Herodias (or Salome) with the head, but a female servant.\n\n100. See V. Sacc\u00e0, 'Michelangelo da Caravaggio pittore. Studi e ricerche'. Caravaggio's name is not mentioned in the document of 6 Dec., but, given his strong association with the poor orders and charitable ministries, and given Susinno's remark that he left Messina soon after completing _The Burial of St Lucy_ , which must have been ready by her feast day on 13 Dec., it is a reasonable assumption that Giovan Battista de' Lazzari had Caravaggio in mind from the start. Indeed, he may have been spurred to make his undertaking by the very opportunity that Caravaggio's arrival provided. I take the document of 6 Dec. as a _terminus ante quem_ for Caravaggio's arrival in Messina from Syracuse.\n\n101. Susinno as reprinted in Howard Hibbard, _Caravaggio_ , from which the translation used here derives. See p. 382.\n\n102. As George Sandys noted, the Eastern faith was tolerated in Sicily: 'Their religion is Romish yet there are not so few as ten thousand who are of the tollerated Greeke church.' See George Sandys, _A Relation of a Journey_ , p. 238.\n\n103. Susinno as reprinted in Howard Hibbard, _Caravaggio_ , from which the translation used here derives. See p. 384.\n\n104. Ibid. See p. 385.\n\n105. It can be found in countless icons of the Virgin and Child, one of the most famous examples being Russia's most sacred icon, _Our Lady of Vladimir_ , which was painted in Constantinople in the eleventh century and taken to Kiev a hundred years later to mark the conversion to Christianity of the peoples of Russia. Caravaggio will have been familiar with the motif from icons in Sicily, or from the rich traditions of Italo-Byzantine painting of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, examples of which were to be seen all over the Italian peninsula.\n\n106. Susinno as reprinted in Howard Hibbard, _Caravaggio_ , from which the translation used here derives. See p. 385.\n\n107. Ibid. See p. 386.\n\n108. Ibid.\n\n109. Ibid.\n\n110. Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 84.\n\n111. I arrive at this date by common sense. We know that Caravaggio was seriously wounded by a gang of assailants in Naples in late Oct. 1609, as will be explained below, pp. 415\u201320. He was very badly injured indeed. The only two paintings that can be dated to after that time, _The Denial of Peter_ and _The Martyrdom of St Ursula_ , are so radically unlike his Sicilian paintings that the difference can only logically be explained by incapacity and illness. We also know that Caravaggio painted a large altarpiece for the Fenaroli Chapel in Sant'Anna de' Lombardi during his second and last stay in Naples, i.e. after arriving there from Palermo in 1609. He cannot have painted it on his first visit to the city, because the patron had only acquired rights to the chapel on 24 Dec. 1607, when Caravaggio had already left Naples for Malta. In my opinion, it is clear from the visual evidence of _The Denial of Peter_ and _The Martyrdom of St Ursula_ that when he painted those works Caravaggio could barely wield a brush. On the empirical evidence of the pictures, his eyesight had been damaged as well as possibly his nervous system. It is therefore inconceivable that he could have painted any kind of large and ambitious altarpiece after the assault of late Oct. 1609. In other words, he must have painted the Fenaroli altarpiece in Naples before the wounding took place. Assuming he worked flat out, and assuming it was commissoned from him the moment he disembarked from Palermo, he still would have needed at least four to six weeks to paint it. Therefore, he must have been back in Naples from Sicily some four to six weeks before the wounding of late Oct. On that basis, I set a date some time around the first week of September for his return to Naples.\n\n112. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 53.\n\n113. Ibid., p. 84.\n\n114. I make this assumption because we know for sure that Caravaggio _left_ Naples from the Colonna Palace at the end of his second stay in the city, in July 1610: that fact is documented. Given that the early sources all say he went to Naples from Palermo because he was in fear of pursuit, it seems logical to suppose that he was at the Colonna Palace at Chiaia throughout his time there in 1609\u201310, under the protection of the Marchesa Costanza Colonna.\n\n115. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 77.\n\n116. For the reasoning behind these assertions concerning the date of the lost _Resurrection_ , see n. 111 above.\n\n117. See Charles-Nicolas Cochin, _Voyage d'Italie_... (Paris, 1758), vol. 1, pp. 171\u20132; the passage is quoted in Maurizio Marini, _Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio 'pictor praestantissimus'_ , p. 568.\n\n118. ' _orgie siffatte_ ': for a useful summary of the poem, see Giuseppe Ferrari, _Opuscoli politici e letterari_ (Naples, 1852), p. 462. For the poem in full, see Giulio Cesare Cortese, _Opere_ (Naples, 1666), 6 vols.\n\n119. See Giambattista Basile, 'Talia, overo lo Cerriglio', _Egloca III_ , _Le Muse Napolitane_ , in _Collezione di tutti i poemi in lingue napoletane_ , tome 21, vol. 2 (Naples, 1788), p. 267: ' _Lloco le Cortesciane_ \/ _Fanno lo sguazzatorio_ : \/ _E all'_ _uocchie de corrive,_ \/ _A spesa de perdente_ \/ _Ne sporpano tant' ossa..._ '\n\n120. As cited in Salvatore di Giacomo, _La prostituzione in Napoli nei secoli XV, XVI e XVII: documenti inediti_ (Naples, 1899), p. 82.\n\n121. See Giambattista Basile, 'Talia, overo lo Cerriglio', p. 257. Basile's exact phrase is ' _dove trionfa Bacco, dove se scarfa Venere_ ': _se scarfa_ is Neapolitan dialect, which I translate as 'is shunned', having taken specialist advice from Nicholas Stone Villani, who kindly consulted a number of experts in historical Neapolitan usage on my behalf.\n\n122. See Salvatore di Giacomo, _La prostituzione in Napoli_ , p. 83.\n\n123. Ibid., p. 119.\n\n124. See Walter Friedlaender, _Caravaggio Studies_ , p. 292.\n\n125. See Michele Maccherini, 'Caravaggio nel carteggio familiare di Giulio Mancini', p. 83.\n\n126. See p. 63 and p. 180, above.\n\n127. This translation is broadly that given by Friedlaender in _Caravaggio Studies_ , p. 236. I use the word 'affronted' instead of 'insulted', because it is closer to Baglione's usage in Italian, _affronto_ , which I believe itself carries an implied meaning, as will be explained on p. 420, below.\n\n128. This translation is again broadly that given by Friedlaender in _Caravaggio Studies_ , p. 251. I have corrected Friedlaender's mistranscription of 'Herodias' as 'Salome'.\n\n129. Susinno in Howard Hibbard, _Caravaggio_ , p. 386.\n\n130. Most notably Maurizio Marini. I am grateful to him for sharing his views with me during the course of a fascinating two days of excursions and peregrinations in Caravaggio's Rome in the autumn of 2001. I should add that when Marini expressed his view that the Tomassoni might have been responsible for the attack, Keith Sciberras had yet to publish the facts of Caravaggio's crime on Malta, which tilt the balance very much towards Malta as the source of the attack; in other words, Marini was not in possession of all the facts when we spoke.\n\n131. See Keith Sciberras's second chapter in _Caravaggio: Art, Knightood and Malta_ , fn. 49.\n\n132. Keith Sciberras, who made the discovery of Caravaggio's crime on Malta, had to X-ray the book to get at the documents. In his account of his discovery, he notes that the records of the crime were covered over not long after they had been inscribed, i.e the coverings-over date from the early seventeenth-century, consistent with the idea that they might represent a cover-up arranged by Roero himself. See Keith Sciberras, ' \"Frater Michael Angelus in tumultu\": The Cause of Caravaggio's Imprisonment in Malta', pp. 229\u201332.\n\n133. See Michele Maccherini, 'Caravaggio nel carteggio familiare di Giulio Mancini', p. 83.\n\n134. Only one other work in Caravaggio's entire known _\u0153uvre_ is painted in the sadly attenuated post-assault style of his last year, and that is _The Martyrdom of St Ursula_ , discussed below, pp. 423\u20134. That picture is securely datable on the basis of original documents concerning its consignment. These two works are utterly distinct in style, and they clearly show a tragic falling off in the painter's manual dexterity that can only be accounted for by his injuries.\n\n135. For all the documents concerning _The Martyrdom of St Ursula_ , see Vincenzo Pacelli, 'Caravaggio 1610: la \"Sant'Orsola confitta dal tiranno\" per Marcantonio Doria', _Prospettiva_ , vol. 23 (Oct. 1980), pp. 24\u201330. They are helpfully translated in John T. Spike, _Caravaggio_ , in the CD-ROM catalogue entry on the picture.\n\n136. The date of his departure can be inferred from the journey time by sea from Naples to Palo, where he tried to go on land with his things \u2013 roughly seven days \u2013 and the date of his death, which must have occurred sometime between 18 and 21 July 1610.\n\n137. See Helen Langdon, _The Lives of Caravaggio_ , p. 85.\n\n138. The details of the deal emerge in Deodato Gentile's letter to Borghese about Caravaggio's death, of 29 July 1610; see below, p. 429.\n\n139. See Walter Friedlaender, _Caravaggio Studies_ , p. 292.\n\n140. See Baglione's original Italian, as reprinted in Walter Friedlaender, _Caravaggio Studies_ , p. 233. I have given my own translation.\n\n141. Baglione uses the words _in cambio_ , literally, 'in change', a phrase that has frequently been misleadingly translated as 'mistakenly', on the assumption that Baglione meant to imply that Caravaggio was arrested 'in exchange' (so to speak) of someone else. But in sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century Italian usage, _in cambio_ is most frequently a phrase of emphasis with little actual meaning, carrying more or less the same thrust as 'in fact'. It can also sometimes imply the idea of a swift change, in which case the English word 'suddenly' is a good equivalent. Baglione probably meant it in this latter sense. The modern mistranslations take their cue from Bellori, who clearly based his own account of Caravaggio's death on that of his predecessor, Baglione. He himself seems to have misunderstood Baglione's use of _in cambio_ , amplifying it into his own tale of a case of mistaken arrest \u2013 as will be discussed below, p. 427.\n\n142. Apart from the word 'suddenly' \u2013 explained in the note above \u2013 I have used the translation given in Walter Friedlaender, _Caravaggio Studies_ , p. 236.\n\n143. See n. 141 above.\n\n144. I have used the translation given in Walter Friedlaender, _Caravaggio Studies_ , pp. 251\u20132.\n\n145. Ibid., p. 258.\n\n146. See Sandro Corradini, _Materiali per un processo_ , document 138, 28 July 1610.\n\n147. Ibid., document 140, 31 July 1610.\n\n148. Much has been made of this reference to Procida, and many a paranoid theory has been erected on its shaky foundations. But whoever told Borghese that Caravaggio died there may just have been making a logical guess based on the knowledge that the painter had left from Naples. Boats from there hitting bad weather often took refuge in Procida. The English traveller George Sandys had exactly that experience when he left Naples to travel to Rome a few years after Caravaggio: he got caught in a storm and ended up making an unscheduled visit to the island before continuing on to Rome, via Nettuno.\n\n149. Borghese's side of the correspondence has been lost. But the content of his letter of 23 July can be inferred from Gentile's letters back to him, which do still survive. All these documents were discovered by Vincenzo Pacelli, through brilliant sleuth work in the Neapolitan archives. They are conveniently brought together with much other archive material in Sandro Corradini, _Materiali per un processo_.\n\n150. The courier must have travelled post haste, changing horses as he rode, since Naples is a little over 120 miles from Rome.\n\n151. See Sandro Corradini, _Materiali per un Processo_ , Document 139, 29 July 1610.\n\n152. See, in particular, the fanciful closing sections of Peter Robb's quasi-biography of the painter, _M_ (Sydney, 1998), in which the pope, Costanza Colonna and the Knights of Malta are held to have conspired to have Caravaggio assassinated. Vincenzo Pacelli, who located Gentile's correspondence with Borghese in the first place, also believes in a plot. In his view, the Knights of Malta, Costanza Colonna and Scipione Borghese conspired to have Caravaggio killed. He told me so in conversation in 2001. The plotters' motive, according to Pacelli, was their shared belief that Caravaggio had not only become an atheist but that he was using his most important commissions to profess, as it were, in subtle code, his heretical non-belief in God. The prime example given to me by Pacelli of a supposedly atheist painting infiltrated by Caravaggio into a Catholic church was _The Seven Acts of Mercy_. I am grateful to him for sharing his theories with me, but I have to say that I find them implausible.\n\n153. I am indebted to the Maltese naval historian Joseph Scibberas for explaining how transport by _felucca_ really worked in early seventeenth-century Italy.\n\n154. When George Sandys went there from Naples a few years later, he went via the much sleepier port of Nettuno (see n. 148, above) to avoid detection as an Englishman and a Protestant.\n\n155. I noticed this on a visit to Palo in 2001. The old fortress is still in existence, although nowadays it is a luxury hotel patronized by prominent Italian politicians, playboys and their supermodel girlfriends. The insignia of the old postal service can still be seen on the wall.\n\n156. Besides, to make the journey on foot would have been to defeat its very purpose, which was to get to Porto Ercole preferably before or, at worst, at the same time as the boat. If Caravaggio had arrived four or five days after leaving Palo, the boat would already have got to Porto Ercole, unloaded and left. So if a horse or horses had not been available, there would have been no point in his even attempting the journey.\n\n157. He refused to record any of the names of the dead for the entire year of 1610. I am grateful to Giuseppe La Fauci for showing me the book of the dead for the relevant period in the archives of the town, and for explaining the absence of records for the year in question. The death certificate that was 'found' in 2001 in Porto Ercole, a separate piece of paper with Caravaggio's name on it, is entirely inconsistent with the manner in which deaths were conventionally noted down in Porto Ercole \u2013 i.e., as entries in the book of deaths. I am sure that document is a forgery.\n\n158. In Langdon, _Caravaggio: A Life_ , p. 388, the author wrongly takes this phrase to mean 'high seas', as in tall waves, and suggests that a storm was brewing and the sea was swelling, which forced the boat to pull away from shore. However _alto mare_ does not mean that; it simply means 'the open sea'.\n\n159. See Sandro Corradini, _Materiali per un processo_ , document 141, 31 July 1610.\n\n160. See Walter Friedlaender, _Caravaggio Studies_ , p. 293.\n\n161. See Sandro Corradini, _Materiali per un processo_ , document 144, 10 Dec. 1610.\n\n162. Quoted in Carlton Lake, _In Quest of Dal\u00ed_ (Michigan, 1969), p. 46.\n\n163. Martin Scorsese's remarks have been directly transcribed from his conversations with the author in December 2005, which included an interview filmed for and subsequently transmitted by _The Culture Show_ (BBC Television, directed by David Shulman).\n\n## Further Reading\n\nDetailed references to nearly all of the many sources I have consulted in writing this book will be found in the Notes (see pp. 447\u2013 above). What follows here is a short list of texts that I would recommend to any non-specialist reader wishing to pursue an interest in Caravaggio and his world.\n\nWietse de Boer, _The Conquest of the Soul: Confession, Discipline and Public Order in Counter-Reformation Milan_ (Leiden, Boston and Cologne, 2001). A fascinating, highly detailed account of the religious milieu created in Milan by Archbishop Carlo Borromeo during Caravaggio's youth.\n\nMaurizio Calvesi, _Le realt\u00e0 del Caravaggio_ (Turin, 1990). For those who can read Italian, this is highly recommended. A broad-ranging, discursive study of many aspects of Caravaggio's life and work, full of biographical insights and intuitions that have been borne out, to a remarkable extent, by later documentary finds. Also worth reading for Calvesi's many ingenious iconographical interpretations of the pictures.\n\nSandro Corradini, _Caravaggio: materiali per un processo_ (Rome, 1993). Hard work, requiring a mastery of demotic Italian as it was spoken in Caravaggio's day, as well the ability to read the judicial Latin used by the notaries of the time. Hard to get hold of too, since it was published in a tiny edition. But I cannot omit it from this list. Containing the fruits of more than two decades of privately conducted research in the archives of Rome, Corradini's book is the essential anthology of documents concerning the darker and more violent aspects of Caravaggio's life.\n\nWalter Friedlaender, _Caravaggio Studies_ (Princeton, 1955). Pioneering study of the painter's life and work, superseded in some respects by the research of later scholars, but still remarkably fresh, and full of wise and heartfelt responses to the individual paintings. Contains useful translations of numerous primary documents as well as dual-language versions of Mancini, Baglione and Bellori's biographies, and is supplemented by the short biographical remarks written by Karel van Mander and Joachim von Sandrart, also both in the original and in English translation.\n\nHoward Hibbard, _Caravaggio_ (London, 1983). Deeply unreliable on the facts of the painter's life, but still worth reading for some of the author's interpretations of the pictures themselves. Also contains a useful translation of Francesco Susinno's eighteenth-century life of Caravaggio.\n\nHelen Langdon (ed.), _The Lives of Caravaggio_ (London, 2005). A handy, pocket-sized edition of the three principal early biographies of the artist, by Giulio Mancini, Giovanni Baglione and Pietro Bellori.\n\nHelen Langdon, _Caravaggio: A Life_ (London, 1998). Much the best twentieth-century biography of Caravaggio, outstanding in particular on the painter's years in Rome. The last few chapters should be read with care, however, because some of Langdon's assumptions and conclusions concerning Caravaggio's later life have been overtaken by subsequent archival discoveries.\n\nRoberto Longhi (ed. Giovanni Previtali), _Caravaggio_ (Rome, 1982). For those who can read Italian, these are collected writings on the artist by arguably the greatest and certainly the most influential Caravaggio scholar of the twentieth century. Full of pithy, down-to-earth descriptions of the paintings.\n\nDiarmaid MacCulloch, _Reformation: Europe's House Divided 1490\u20131700_ (London, 2003). A brilliant, panoramic overview of the religious history of the period.\n\nMaurizio Marini, _Caravaggio. Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, 'pictor praestantissimus'_ (Rome, 1989). Another for the reader of Italian. Marini's book draws together a great number of the primary documents relating to Caravaggio's paintings, and reprints many of them in facsimile.\n\nJohn T. Spike, _Caravaggio_ (New York, 2001). Somewhat marred by the author's attributional optimism (so much so that both the front and back covers of the book show pictures that Caravaggio never painted!). But the accompanying CD-ROM catalogue is tremendously useful, bringing together just about all the primary sources for all of the major paintings. In his catalogue Spike also furnishes remarkably long and comprehensive lists of bibliographical references for every single one of Caravaggio's paintings \u2013 a monumental endeavour, making his catalogue indispensable to anyone wanting to explore any particular work in great depth and detail.\nPENGUIN BOOKS\n\nPublished by the Penguin Group\n\nPenguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England\n\nPenguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA\n\nPenguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3   \n(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)\n\nPenguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen's Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)\n\nPenguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)\n\nPenguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi \u2013 110 017, India\n\nPenguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand   \n(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)\n\nPenguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa\n\nPenguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England\n\nwww.penguin.com\n\nFirst published by Allen Lane 2010\n\nPublished in Penguin Books 2011\n\nCopyright \u00a9 Andrew Graham-Dixon, 2010\n\nMaps copyright \u00a9 Alan Gilliland, 2010\n\nThe moral right of the author has been asserted\n\nThe acknowledgements on pp. ix\u2013xii constitute an extension of this copyright page.\n\nEvery effort has been made to trace and contact copyright holders. If there are any inadvertent omissions, we ask that you contact the publisher.\n\nAll rights reserved\n\nWithout limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book\n\nISBN: 978-0-14-196294-8\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":"\n\n\n\nProduced by Chris Curnow, Joseph Cooper, Christian\nBoissonnas, The Internet Archive for some images and the\nOnline Distributed Proofreading Team at http:\/\/www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n  BIRDS AND NATURE.\n\n  ILLUSTRATED BY COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY.\n\n  VOL. VIII.       SEPTEMBER, 1900.       NO. 2.\n\n\n\n\n  CONTENTS.\n\n\n                                                         Page\n  SEPTEMBER.                                               49\n  THE MALLOWS.                                             50\n  EAGLE LORE.                                              53\n  THE SNOWDROP'S PHILOSOPHY.                               55\n  THE GLADNESS OF NATURE.                                  56\n  FLOWERS AND THEIR INVITED GUESTS.                        59\n  THE ASTERS.                                              62\n  SCHOOL GARDENS.                                          65\n  THE FLICKER'S MISTAKE.                                   66\n  TIGER-LILIES.                                            68\n  FLOWERS IN THE CRANNIED WALL.                            68\n  THE WILD YELLOW LILY.                                    71\n  WHAT DO WE OWE THE BIRDS?                                72\n  TO THE VESPER BIRD.                                      73\n  THE VESPER SPARROW.                                      74\n  THE WORSHIP OF NATURE.                                   77\n  BIRD-STUDY.                                              78\n  THE OREGON JUNCO.                                        80\n  THE CALICO BASS.                                         83\n  THE GROWTH AND VARIATION OF FISH.                        84\n  THE ORIGIN OF THE FISH.                                  90\n  THE BANANA.                                              95\n\n\n\n\nSEPTEMBER.\n\n\n    The golden-rod is yellow;\n      The corn is turning brown;\n    The trees in apple orchards\n      With fruit are bending down.\n\n    The gentian's bluest fringes\n      Are curling in the sun;\n    In dusty pods the milkweed\n      Its hidden silk has spun.\n\n    The sedges flaunt their harvest,\n      In every meadow nook;\n    And asters by the brook-side\n      Make asters in the brook.\n\n    From dewy lanes at morning\n      The grapes' sweet odors rise;\n    At noon the roads all flutter\n      With yellow butterflies.\n\n    By all these lovely tokens\n      September days are here,\n    With summer's best of weather,\n      And autumn's best of cheer.\n                                        Helen Hunt Jackson.\n\nCopyright, 1900, by A. W. Mumford.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MALLOWS.\n\n\nA number of interesting plants are found grouped under the name of\nthe Mallow Family (Malvaceae). They are the common Mallow, a weed of\nwaysides and cultivated grounds; the Indian Mallow or Velvet-leaf, with\nits large velvety leaves and yellow flowers, a visitor from India which\nhas escaped from cultivation and become a pest in corn and grain fields\nand waste places; the Musk Mallow, which has also escaped from our\ngardens; the Marsh-Mallow, the root of which abounds in a mucilage that\nis extensively used in the manufacture of confections; the Hollyhock of\nour gardens, which was originally a native of China and the beautiful\nRose-Mallow of our illustration.\n\nThe Mallow Family includes about eight hundred species which are widely\ndistributed in the temperate and tropical countries. The technical name\nis from a Greek word having reference to the soothing effect produced\nby many of the species, when applied to wounded surfaces.\n\nAll are herbs. Most of those found in the United States have been\nintroduced from Europe and Asia. Only a very few are native, and no one\nof these is very common.\n\nThe flowers and fruits are all similar in structure to that of the\ncommon hollyhock.\n\nThe disk-like fruits of the common round leafed Mallow of our dooryards\nare often called \"cheeses\" by the children and are frequently gathered\nand eaten by them. The cotton plant, one of our most important economic\nplants, is also closely related to the Mallow. The Cotton of commerce\nis the woolly hair of the seeds of this plant which is a native of\nnearly all tropical countries and is cultivated in temperate regions.\n\nThe beautiful Rose-Mallow has its home in the brackish marshes of the\nAtlantic sea coast. It is also occasionally found on the marshy borders\nof lakes and rivers of the interior.\n\nThe plants grow to the height of from three to eight feet. The leaves\nare egg-shaped and the lower ones are three-lobed. The under side of\nthe leaves is covered with fine and soft whitish hairs.\n\nThe flowers, produced in August and September, are large, varying from\nfour to eight inches in diameter, and may be solitary or clustered\nat the top of the stem. The color of the petals is usually a light\nrose-pink, but occasionally white, with or without crimson at their\nbases.\n\nNeltje Blanchan in \"Nature's Garden\" speaks of this beautiful plant as\nfollows:\n\n\"Stately ranks of these magnificent flowers, growing among the tall\nsedges and 'cat-tails' of the marshes, make the most insensate traveler\nexclaim at their amazing loveliness. To reach them one must don rubber\nboots and risk sudden seats in the slippery ooze; nevertheless, with\nspade in hand to give one support, it is well worth while to seek them\nout and dig up some roots to transplant to the garden. Here, strange to\nsay, without salt soil or more water than the average garden receives\nfrom showers and hose, this handsomest of our wild flowers soon makes\nitself delightfully at home under cultivation.\"\n\n  [Illustration: SWAMP ROSE-MALLOW.\n                 (_Hibiscus Moscheutos._)\n                 FROM \"NATURE'S GARDEN\"\n                 COPYRIGHT 1900, BY\n                 DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY.]\n\n\n\n\nEAGLE LORE.\n\nCURIOUS STORIES OF THE OLD-TIME FAITH IN THE \"KING OF THE FEATHERED\nTRIBES.\"\n\n\nBirds were trusted, honored and made the symbols of wisdom and power\nin the old time, and they have not, at least in their emblematical\nsignification, been neglected in modern times. The eagle, in\nparticular, is exalted to a high and potential distinction. On the\nbanner of a hundred States he is displayed as a conquering symbol and\nfloats to-day over many a fair realm where Rome's imperial standard\nnever penetrated.\n\nThe eagle has always been considered a royal bird, and was a favorite\nwith the poets. They called him king of the air and made him bear the\nthunderbolts of Jove. Euripides tells us that \"the birds in general are\nthe messengers of the gods, but the eagle is king, and interpreter of\nthe great deity Jupiter.\"\n\nThe eagle figures in the early legends of all people. When the ancient\nAztecs, the mound-builders of the Mississippi Valley, were moving\nsouthward under Mexi, their king, their god, Vitziputzli, whose image\nwas borne in a tabernacle made of reeds and placed in the center of the\nencampment whenever they halted, directed them to settle where they\nshould find an eagle sitting on a fig-tree growing out of a rock in a\nlake. After a series of wanderings and adventures that do not shrink\nfrom comparison with the most extravagant legends of the heroic ages\nof antiquity, they at last beheld perched on a shrub in the midst of\nthe lake of Tenochtitlan a royal eagle with a serpent in his talons and\nhis broad wings opened to the rising sun. They hailed the auspicious\nomen and laid the foundation of their capital by sinking piles into the\nshallows. This legend is commemorated by the device of the eagle and\nthe cactus, which forms the arms of the modern Mexican Republic.\n\nA goose, it is said, saved Rome once upon a time, but it was an\neagle that directed the selection of the ancient Byzantium--now\nConstantinople--as the capital of the Eastern Empire. The site of\nancient Troy had been settled upon by Constantine, and the engineers\nwere engaged in surveying the plan of the city, when an eagle swooped\ndown, seized the measuring line, flew away with it and dropped it at\nByzantium. At any rate, this was the story told to the soldiers and\nmarines, in order to reconcile them to the change of plan, which they\nmight otherwise have deemed an unfavorable omen, though the splendid\nsituation of the new capital and its long prosperity, prove how\nadmirably sagacious was the choice of its founder.\n\nIn the reign of Ancus Martius, King of Rome, a wealthy man, whose name\nwas Tarquin, came to that city from one of the Etruscan States. Sitting\nbeside his wife in his chariot, as he approached the gates of Rome, an\neagle, it is said, plucked his cap from his head, flew up in the air,\nand then, returning, placed it on his head again. Not a few suspect\nthat the eagle was a tame one and had been taught to perform this\ntrick. If so, however, the apparent prodigy lost none of its effect in\nthe popular belief, and Tarquin succeeded Ancus as King of Rome. The\neagle's head on the Roman sceptre, and later on its standard, took its\norigin from this occurrence.\n\nPlutarch, in his life of Theseus, relates that when Cymon was sent by\nthe Athenians to procure the bones of that hero, who had long before\nbeen buried in Scyros, to reinter them in his former capital, he found\ngreat difficulty in ascertaining the burial place of the ancient\nmonarch. While prosecuting his search, however, he chanced to observe\nan eagle that had alighted on a small elevation and was trying with\nhis beak and claws to break the sod. Considering this a fortunate\nomen, they explored the place and discovered the coffin of a man of\nextraordinary size, with a lance of brass and a sword lying by it.\nThese relics were conveyed to Athens amid great rejoicing, where they\nfound a resting place in the famous temple of Theseus, whose ruins are\nstill in existence.\n\nThe old historians state that the Greek poet Aeschylus lost his life\nthrough an eagle's mistaking his bald head for a rock and dropping a\ntortoise upon it in order to break the shell of his amphibious prey,\nbut which broke, instead, the poet's skull. That an eagle, proverbially\nthe keenest-sighted of created things, should mistake a man's head\nfor a stone is absurd beyond the necessity of comment. The story is\nprobably intended for an allegory, showing how stupidity can overwhelm\ngenius, or a dull criticism smash a lively poet.\n\nIn A. D. 431 there was war between the Emperor Theodosius II. and\nGenseric the Vandal, and Marcian, the general of the former, was taken\nprisoner. The unfortunate captive was doomed to death. At the place\nof execution an eagle alighted on his head and sat there some time\nundismayed by the tumult around it. Upon seeing this, and believing\nthat the captive was destined for some exalted fortune, Genseric\npardoned him and sent him home. About eighteen years afterwards\nTheodosius died, and, as his sister had married Marcian, the latter\nbecame Emperor of Constantinople.\n\nDuring the wars between the Christians and the Moors, of Spain, a\nSpanish knight engaged in combat with a gigantic Moslem. The conflict\nremained undecided for a long time, but at last the Spaniard began to\nlose ground. At this juncture an eagle, swooping from above, flew into\nthe face of the Moorish giant, and, taking advantage of this sudden and\nmiraculous intervention, the Spanish champion plunged his sword into\nthe heart of his antagonist, thus winning the battle.\n\nRudolph, count of Hapsburg, one morning was looking out of his castle\nwindow upon the surrounding country, and while thus engaged noticed an\neagle circling strangely above a certain place in the forest. Taking\nsome men at arms he proceeded to the spot, where he found a beautiful\nand high-born lady held captive by a band of robbers. He rescued her\nand afterwards married her. When a new emperor was wanted in Germany he\nobtained the election through the influence of his wife's relatives. In\nthis romantic fashion began the glory of the present reigning house of\nAustria.\n\nI have alluded to the prominence of eagles in the arms of nations and\nindividuals. The famous ensign of the Roman legions verified the text\nof Scripture when, in referring to the eagle, Job says: \"Where the\nslain are there is she,\" for the Roman bird flew over nearly the whole\nknown world and delighted in destruction and in threatening it. The\nByzantine Caesars sported a double-headed eagle to indicate that they\nwere lords of both the Eastern and the Western world. The Russians\nadopted the symbol from those princes. About four hundred years ago a\nlady, who claimed to be the heir of the Byzantine Emperor, married Ivan\nIII., Czar of Russia, who, therefore, assumed the Greek arms, which may\npossibly be restored again to Constantinople by Russian arms.\n\nThe United States chose for her emblem the same imperial and triumphant\nbird. Some have considered it as not altogether an appropriate device\nfor our republican government. Students of natural history have\nobserved that the eagle is mean and cowardly. He lives, moreover, a\nlife of rapine, plundering birds that are bolder and more industrious\nthan himself. This is rather a bad character for our national bird.\n\nThe ancients would probably be horrified at such a criticism of their\nroyal bird, and, after all, it is not surprising that they held him\nin such reverence. These people of the long ago had no books nor\nnewspapers, but they were proficient students in the book of nature.\nBy them the birds were accounted prophets, and by their varied flights\nthey foretold future events and regulated the movements and enterprises\nof nations.\n\nWe call the wisdom of birds instinct, but they considered it divine\nintelligence. Nor was it strange that they should take them for the\ninterpreters of fate, seeing that in many things the birds were wiser\nthan themselves, for they seemed to have a knowledge of the future\nthat was denied to man.\n\nWe have some idea of how these people regarded the movements of the\nbirds from one of the ancient Greek writers, who, in a play entitled\n\"The Birds,\" makes them give the following account of themselves: \"We\npoint out to man the work of each season. When the crow takes his\nflight across the Mediterranean it is seed-time--time for the pilot\nto season his timber. The kite tells you when you ought to shear your\nsheep; the swallow shows you when you ought to sell your watch-coats,\nand buy light dresses for the summer. We birds are the hinge of\neverything you do. We regulate your merchandise, your eating and\ndrinking, and your marriages.\"\n\nThis Greek play-writer probably voiced the sentiments of the majority\nof the people, who had implicit faith in what they called \"the\nprophecies of the birds;\" and it is not surprising that they endowed\nthe eagle--the king of the feathered tribes--with almost supernatural\nwisdom.\n                                        Phebe Westcott Humphrey.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SNOWDROP'S PHILOSOPHY.\n\n\n    \"I should think you'd lose heart in this frosty air,\"\n    Said a sparrow one day to a snowdrop fair.\n    \"You're almost hidden down there in the snow,\n    And I see you shiver whene'er the winds blow.\n    If I were you I wouldn't bloom\n    If I couldn't grow with the roses in June.\n    What right have they any more than you,\n    To live in the summer when skies are blue\n    And bright with sunshine the whole long day?\n    They have it easy enough, I must say;\n    But you're so meekly quiet and white,\n    You're afraid to speak up when you have the right.\"\n\n    \"But, my dear,\" said the snowdrop, \"can't you see\n    That summer can do very well without me?\n    My place is to blossom right here in the snow,\n    No matter where the roses grow.\n    It's lovely to be a summer flower,\n    But I am content to do all in my power\n    To sweeten the gloom of this wintry day,\n    And be brave if the sky is so cold and gray.\n    I cannot be helpful by being sad;\n    I have my work and that makes me glad\n    To bloom my fairest and grow my best,\n    And let kind nature do all the rest.\"\n                                        Wildea Wood.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GLADNESS OF NATURE.\n\n\n    Is this a time to be cloudy and sad,\n      When our mother Nature laughs around,\n    When even the deep blue heavens look glad,\n      And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground?\n\n    There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren,\n      And the gossip of swallows through all the sky;\n    The ground-squirrel gaily chirps by his den,\n      And the wilding-bee hums merrily by.\n\n    The clouds are at play in the azure space,\n      And their shadows at play on the bright green vale,\n    And here they stretch to frolic chase,\n      And there they roll on the easy gale.\n\n    There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower;\n      There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree;\n    There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower,\n      And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.\n\n    And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles\n      On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray;\n    On the leaping waters and gay young isles--\n      Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away!\n                                        William Cullen Bryant.\n\n  [Illustration: LADY'S SLIPPER.\n                 (Cypripedium hirsutum.)\n                 COPYRIGHT 1900, BY\n                 A. W. MUMFORD, CHICAGO.]\n\n\n\n\nFLOWERS AND THEIR INVITED GUESTS.\n\n\nIt must be taken for granted in this paper that the reader has such\nknowledge of the parts of the flower as could be obtained from the\npaper on \"A Typical Flower,\" printed in the June number.\n\nWhen flowers first appeared it became necessary to secure the transfer\nof the pollen grains to the stigmas. This was necessary in order that\nthe ovule might be developed into a seed containing a young plant or\nembryo. At first the currents of air were selected as the agents of\nthis pollen transfer, and the flowers were adapted to what is known\nas wind-pollination. As the wind is an inanimate agent any transfer\nby it is largely a matter of chance. In order to increase the chances\nof successful pollination it was necessary for pollen to be developed\nin enormous quantities, so that it might fall like rain. In this way\nstigmas would be reached, but at the same time an enormous amount\nof pollen would be wasted. The evergreens are good illustrations of\nwind-pollinated plants, and their showers of pollen are very familiar\nto those who live near pine forests. When these showers come down in\nunaccustomed regions they are often spoken of as \"showers of sulphur,\"\nand the local newspapers are full of accounts of the mysterious\nsubstance.\n\nIn wind-pollinated plants not only must the pollen be excessively\nabundant, but it must also be very light and dry. Sometimes the\nbuoyancy is increased by the development of wings on the pollen grains,\nas in the case of pines. This habit of pollination is found not only\namong the evergreens, but also among many important families of the\nhigher plants, as in the ordinary forest trees, the grasses, etc.\n\nWhen the higher forms appeared, however, flowers of a different\ncharacter gave evidence that a new type of pollination was being\ndevised. Instead of the old wasteful method, insects were called in to\nact as agents of the transfer. By securing an animate agent there is\na definiteness in the pollination and a saving in pollen production\nwhich is quite in contrast with the wind method. It must not be\nsupposed that all flowers have learned to use insects with equal skill,\nfor many of them may be said to be clumsy in their arrangements. On the\nother hand, certain families have reached a high degree of organization\nin this regard, and arrange for insect visits with a skill and\ncompleteness of organization which is astonishing.\n\nIn order to secure visits from insects, so that pollination may be\neffected, flowers have been compelled to do several things. In the\nfirst place, they must provide an attractive food. This has taken two\nprominent forms, namely, nectar and pollen. There are insects, such\nas butterflies, which are not only attracted by the nectar, but whose\nmouth parts have only been adapted for sucking up a liquid. There\nare other insects, however, like the bees, wasps, etc., which are\nable to take the more substantial pollen as food. Accordingly insects\nwhich visit flowers may be roughly divided into the two classes,\nnectar-feeders and pollen-feeders.\n\nIn the second place, the flower must notify the insect in some way that\nthe food is present. This is done primarily by the odors which flowers\ngive off. It must not be supposed that odors which are sensible to\nus are the only ones sensible to insects, for in general their sense\nof smell is far keener than ours. It is also probably true that the\ndisplay of color, which is so conspicuously associated with flowers, is\nan attraction to insects, although this has become somewhat doubtful\nlately by the discovery that certain insects which were thought to be\nattracted by color have proved to be color blind. At present, however,\nwe have no reason to suppose that color is not associated in some\nprominent way with the visits of insects.\n\nIt should be noticed, also, that two kinds of pollination are possible.\nThe pollen may be transferred to the stigma of its own flower, or it\nmay be carried to the stigma in some other flower, and this other\nflower may be some distance away. The former method may be called\nself-pollination, the latter cross-pollination. It seems evident that\nflowers in general have made every effort to secure cross-pollination.\nThis would seem to imply that it is a better method for some reason,\nalthough we may not be able to explain why. Apparently, however, while\nflowers in general have tried to secure cross-pollination, they have\nnot entirely abandoned the chances of self-pollination, so that if\none should fail the other may be used. In this way it will be found\nthat a great many plants have two kinds of flowers, the ordinary showy\nkind, and in addition to them inconspicuous flowers which are never\nseen except by those acquainted with their presence. For example, in\nthe common violet, in addition to those flowers with which everyone\nis familiar, others are developed which are concealed by the cluster\nof leaves, which never open, but which are able to produce very well\ndeveloped seeds.\n\nWith nectar and pollen provided as food, and with odor and color\nnotifying the insects of their presence, it remains to be noted that\nthe suitable insects are those which fly. A creeping insect is of no\navail in the work of pollination, since the pollen will be rubbed from\nits body as it crawls from one flower to the next. How the flowers ward\noff the visits of creeping insects, which are attracted as well as the\nflying ones to the food provided, will be described in a subsequent\npaper.\n\nA good illustration of the workings of insect pollination may be found\nin the sweet pea, or in any member of the pea family. The flower has a\nrough resemblance to a butterfly, whose projecting body is represented\nby a structure like the keel of a boat. In this keel is a cluster of\nstamens, and also the pistil with its stigma at the top. While lying in\nthis keel the stamens shed their pollen upon the style, which usually\nhas hairs or some sticky surface to receive it. Accordingly the style\nbears the stigma on top and masses of pollen stuck to its sides below.\nAn insect being attracted to such a flower naturally lands upon the\nkeel as upon a shelf, with its head toward the center of the flower,\nwhere the nectar is deposited. If the insect is heavy enough the\nweight of its body pushes down the keel, but the contained style is\nanchored, so that it seems to dart out, and strikes the insect's body,\nfirst with the stigma at the tip, and then glancing along rubs its\nside against the body of the insect. The insect flies away with pollen\nrubbed upon its body, and when it goes through the same performance at\nanother flower, the new stigma strikes it first and gets some of the\npollen, and then some more pollen is smeared on, and so the pollen is\ncarried from one flower to the stigma of another flower. It is easy to\nsee the effect of the weight of a heavy insect by pressing down the\nkeel with a pencil, when the style will be seen to dart forth at the\ntip.\n\nPerhaps one of the most common ways of securing pollination is that in\nwhich the pollen and stigma are not ready at the same time in the same\nflower. The pollen may be ready to shed, but the stigma is not ready to\nreceive, or the reverse may be true. This would seem very effective in\npreventing self-pollination. Illustrations of this kind are exceedingly\nnumerous, but perhaps as common a one as any is furnished by the great\nfireweed, Epilobium. It has a conspicuous purple flower, and if a patch\nof the plants be examined the flowers will be found in two conditions.\nIn one set the cluster of stamens will be found projecting straight\nout from the flower, while the style with its stigma is turned back\nout of the way under the flower. In the other set the stamens, having\nshed their pollen, are turned back behind the flower, while the style\nhas straightened up, and the mature stigma holds the same position\nthat the anthers did the day before. An insect, in visiting such a\ngroup, therefore, may fly straight towards a flower whose stamens are\nprojecting and shedding, and its body will be dusted with the pollen.\nIf it now flies to a flower which is a little older, whose stamens\nare out of the way, but whose style is projecting, its body carrying\nthe pollen will strike the stigma. In this way the pollen is very\neffectively transferred from one flower to another.\n\nIt would be impossible to give any adequate account of the subject of\ninsect-pollination in general, as it is an immense subject with an\never-increasing literature. Every kind of flower has its own particular\nway of solving the problem, so that the subject will never be completed\nuntil all flowers have been questioned and their answers obtained.\n\nAny account, however brief, should not omit mention of the orchids,\nwhich in the matter of insect-pollination have reached the highest\ndegree of organization. So detailed are their adaptations that\neach kind of flower is adapted to a particular kind of insect. The\naccounts given of the various ways in which orchids attract insects\nand secure pollination really surpass belief, until one has actually\nobserved some of the plants and their insects at work. Any greenhouse\nfurnishes abundant examples of orchids, and our illustration represents\none of the most common of our native orchids, the ordinary yellow\nLady-slipper. In most orchid flowers there is a long tubular spur, at\nthe bottom of which the nectar is found, which is to be reached by\nlong probosces, such as can be found only in moths and butterflies. In\nLady-slippers, however, there is a different arrangement. The flowers\nhave a conspicuous pouch in which the nectar is secreted, and a flap\noverhangs the opening of the pouch. Behind the flap are the two pollen\nmasses, between which is the stigmatic surface. A bee crowds itself\naway into the pouch and becomes imprisoned, and may frequently be found\nbuzzing about uneasily. The nectar is in the bottom of the pouch, and\nafter feeding the bee moves toward the opening overhung by the flap,\nand rubs itself against the stigma and then against the anthers,\nreceiving the pollen on its back. A visit to another flower will result\nin rubbing some of the pollen upon the stigma, and in receiving more\npollen for another flower.\n\nOne of the most remarkable cases of insect-pollination is that shown\nby the ordinary Yucca, which is pollinated by a small moth, the plant\nand the moth being very dependent upon one another. The flowers of\nYucca occur in very large prominent clusters, and hang like bells. In\neach bell-shaped flower there are six hanging stamens, and a central\novary ribbed lengthwise like a melon. At the tip of the ovary is a\nfunnel-shaped opening, which is the stigma. During the day the moth\nhides quietly in the recesses of the flower, but at dusk she becomes\nvery active. She travels down the stamens, and, resting on the open\nanthers, scrapes out the somewhat sticky pollen with her front legs.\nHolding the little mass of pollen she runs up on the ovary, stands\nastride of one of the furrows, pierces through the wall with her\novipositor, and deposits an egg in an ovule. After depositing several\neggs, she runs to the apex of the ovary and begins to crowd the mass\nof pollen she has collected into the funnel-like stigma. These actions\nare repeated several times, until many eggs are deposited and repeated\npollination has been effected. As a result of all this, the flower is\npollinated and seeds are formed, which develop abundant nourishment for\nthe moth larvae, whose eggs had been laid in the ovule. Just how the\ninsect learned that this behavior on her part would secure food for her\nyoung is hard to imagine.\n\nIn studying any flower there are three questions that should be asked:\n(1) How does it hinder self-pollination?; (2) How does it secure\ncross-pollination?; (3) How does it discourage the visits of unsuitable\ninsects?\n                                         John Merle Coulter.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ASTERS.\n\n\nThe mythical origin of the Asters is set forth in an old Greek story,\nwhich states that after the gods had abandoned the earth, because of\nthe crimes and dissensions that came with the Brazen Age, Astraea,\nthe goddess of innocence and purity, alone remained, endeavoring to\nredeem the degenerate race of mortals. She, too, finally left, and\nbecame known among the stars as the constellation Virgo, or the Virgin.\nAfter the wrath of Jupiter had been appeased by the destruction of the\nearth by water, Virgo, noticing that the summit of Mount Parnassus had\nalone escaped the flood, planted there a seed, whose flowers should\nreflect the azure hue of her new home and whose heart should typify the\nGolden Age that some day will come again to mankind. This plant, Virgo\ndestined as a symbol of her mission of purity and so she gave it her\nearly name, Astraea or Aster. That the plants might bloom for all races\nof men, Zephyrus, the lover of Flora, queen of the flowers, took the\nseeds and distributed them throughout the earth from polar snows to the\nsun-kissed lands of the equator. Hence it is that the Aster, in some of\nits varied forms, is found in all countries, over two hundred and fifty\nspecies being known to botanists. Although the plant is cosmopolitan,\nit is essentially an American form, one hundred and fifty of the total\nknown species belonging to North America. Of the balance, Russia claims\ntwenty, Europe ten and Canada sixty or seventy.\n\nIt seems as though Nature, after the first blush of spring, relaxed her\nefforts for a supreme endeavor towards the close of the floral season.\nThen she assumes her festal robes and the woodlands and fields become\ngorgeous with the purple of the Asters, the gold of the sunflowers and\ngolden-rod, with here and there the cardinal and blue of the lobelias.\n\nAmong all this symphony of color, no plant is more lavish of its\ncharms than the New England Aster (Aster Novae Anglae). Botanically\nconsidered, the Asters belong to the Compositae, a family of plants\nincluding from ten to twelve thousand species and characterized by\nlarge numbers of flowers, crowded together into single heads, each\nof which gives the impression of a single flower. What appear to be\npetals, are known as ray flowers and give the characteristic color, as\nthe purple, blue or white of the Aster or the yellow of the Sunflower.\nThese rays consist of flowers, whose petals have been joined together\nand spread out flat, the points of the petals usually appearing on\nthe end of the ray. In the case of the Asters, the ray flowers, which\noccur in a single row, are pistillate or have a pistil and no stamens\nand hence are capable of producing seeds. The center or disk flowers\nare tubular, yellow in color and perfect, containing both stamens and\npistils. The heads are surrounded by an involucre, having leaf-like\ntips and are variously massed or branched along the stems of the plant.\n\nWith few exceptions, the Asters are perennial, coming up each year from\nthe old underground portions and flowering in autumn. They vary in\nheight from a few inches to eight feet or more, but in the case of the\nNew England Aster, the completed growth is generally from two to seven\nor eight feet. This species has a stout and somewhat hairy stem clothed\nwith many leaves which are pointed, have entire edges and a clasping\nbase. The ray flowers in the common form are purple, but in the two\nvarieties of the species, they are rose-purple or white.\n\nThe plant derives its name from the fact that its general distribution\nin the Eastern States together with the beauty of its flowers gained\nit an early recognition among the pioneers of New England, where it\nsoon became a favorite. The statement is made that it was the chosen\nflower of John Alden and Priscilla and, on many occasions, old books,\nhanded down from revolutionary days, have been found to contain dried\nspecimens of the flowers.\n\n  [Illustration: NEW ENGLAND ASTER.\n                 (_Aster Novae-Angliae._)]\n\n  [Illustration: LATE PURPLE ASTER.\n                 (_Aster patens._)\n                 FROM \"NATURE'S GARDEN.\"\n                 COPYRIGHT 1900, BY\n                 DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY.]\n\nThe Late Purple Aster (Aster patens) while not an uncommon form,\nis one of the most beautiful of all the Asters. The rays are long and\nshowy, in color purplish-blue or deep violet. The plants attain a\nheight of from one to three feet, the stems having rigid, bristly hairs\nand the leaves, which are entire, have a clasping base.\n\nThe Asters have been highly considered from very early times. Virgil\nstates that the flowers were used to decorate the altars of the gods\nand the ancients placed great faith in the efficacy of the leaves as a\ncharm against serpents. The American Indians have always prized these\nplants as a cure for skin diseases, calling them the bee flower, as\nthey supposed that the frequent visits of honey bees, concentrated in\nthe Asters the virtues of many other forms of flowers.\n                                        Charles S. Raddin.\n\n\n\n\nSCHOOL GARDENS.\n\n\nThere is nothing more desolate than the average surroundings of the\npublic school, and it would be cheerful news to learn that the recent\npamphlet brought out by the United States Department of Agriculture\nupon the School Gardens of the Rhine might bring about a reform in\nthis direction. Attention is called to the matter by a writer in the\nOutlook, who finds the pamphlet highly suggestive. Says the writer: \"It\nis a common experience to enter from an absolutely barren schoolyard\ninto a schoolroom decorated with botanical and natural history charts,\nand to find these charts and text-books are the only mediums used for\nteaching these branches of the natural sciences. The pamphlet above\nnamed shows the practical application of the schoolroom work. The\ngrounds are cultivated entirely by the pupils, two hours' work per week\nbeing compulsory. The result is that the community life is affected.\nThe farms and gardens are cultivated with new knowledge; the boys\nand girls work in the home grounds with greatly increased interest.\nDestructive insects and disease are watched for. The products of the\nfarms and gardens in this district bring the best prices, because\nthey are handled with care and intelligence. The first requisite for\nsuch work is such practical knowledge as will make success possible.\nThe introduction of the school garden into this country is entirely\nfeasible. It would create a new avenue of employment for the students\nin our agricultural colleges and experiment stations; it will make\nanother avenue for the use of the knowledge collected by our Department\nof Agriculture. Our township system would make a practical division\nfor the control of one agricultural supervisor and instructor.\"--The\nWestern Journal of Education.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FLICKER'S MISTAKE.\n\n\n\"My dear,\" said Mrs. Flicker, one bright day, as Mr. Flicker came\nflying home in high feather, \"we have made a mistake--a horrible\nmistake.\"\n\nNow, Mr. Flicker was a very polite bird, but he was so used to his\nwife's little peccadilloes that, though sometimes he listened patiently\nto her tale of woe, at other times he just tossed his head, absolutely\nwithout fear of what man might do to him. On this particular day the\nwarblers were whistling and flashing in and out of willow trees across\nthe stream, the wild grape and strawberry and the sweet clover made\nthe air fragrant, the sun shone out gaily from a cloudless sky, far\nand wide on the earth lay greens upon greens, and overhead stretched\nheaven's blue--a June day--why should Mr. Flicker fear? With Mrs.\nFlicker it was different; she had laid the eggs, she had patiently kept\nthem warm; she was now watching her little baby Flickers jealously;\nwhat wonder that she grew morbid and fearful, and exaggerated every\nsmall annoyance! Mr. Flicker saw now that she was trembling with\nexcitement, as she said again, \"We have made a horrible mistake.\"\n\n\"What about?\" asked he.\n\n\"Do you know,\" she said, solemnly, \"what kind of a tree this is in\nwhich we have put our nest?\"\n\n\"A very good tree, indeed,\" said Mr. Flicker, bristling, for he had\nselected the tree; \"a remarkably fine tree, with this hollow limb in\nthe midst of so much foliage.\"\n\n\"But, my dear, it is a cherry tree.\"\n\n\"So much the better,\" said the gay Mr. Flicker; \"most birds like cherry\ntrees.\"\n\n\"Yes, and boys like cherry trees!\"\n\n\"Well, and what of that?\"\n\nIt will plainly be seen that Mr. Flicker was no logician, but then, he\ncould fly far, far away toward the heavenly blue, while logicians--the\nvery wisest of them--\"on their feet must go plodding and walking.\"\n\n\"What of that!\" mocked Mrs. Flicker, nervously. \"Well, there have been\nboys in this tree this very morning, picking cherries, and I am worn\nout with fluttering and fussing and calling, to attract their attention\nfrom the nest.\"\n\nMr. Flicker thought he knew boys, and while he might be considered a\nfair and generous-minded bird in most things, it is a lamentable fact\nthat he never could quite understand why Nature in her infinite wisdom\nhad thought it necessary to produce anything so incongruous as a boy.\nBut, as has been said, Mr. Flicker's reasoning powers were limited.\nHe was sober now--boys always sobered him. But after all, he had the\nspirit and digestion of a bird, and even the fussy Mrs. Flicker fussed\nonly in a bird-like manner. So they talked it over and hoped for the\nbest, especially as the babies showed signs of the greatest precocity\nand bade fair to fly away in a few days and be safe from harm.\n\nThe next day as Mr. Flicker was returning from his favorite ant-hill,\nhe was startled by the frightened screams of his wife, and for some\ntime after he reached the nest she could do nothing but scream and\ncry and hop distractedly from branch to branch. Mr. Flicker followed\nher about and tried to comfort her, though he felt that this was no\nimaginary grievance.\n\n\"What is it, my love; what is it?\" he begged softly.\n\n\"Go look in the nest,\" said she.\n\nHe flew to the nest, and then his cries and shrieks rose above hers,\nand they hopped from branch to branch like demented bird-folk. Mr.\nFlicker, when quite himself, was gay and trustful and debonair, but\nhe was, besides all this, a proud and natural parent, and when he\nfound that one of his precious babies was missing, his grief, though\nloud, was sincere. Mrs. Flicker told him how a dreadful, hideous boy,\nwith frightful sprawling legs and arms had climbed the tree to pick\ncherries--how he had found the nest in spite of all that she could\ndo--how he had pushed his long arm down into the hollow limb and taken\nout and examined one baby after another, and had then run off with\none, putting the others back in the nest.\n\n\"Oh, help! help!\" suddenly cried poor Mrs. Flicker, \"here they come\nagain! They will take all the others. What shall we do?\"\n\nMr. Flicker looked, and, true enough, there they were, coming over\nthe hill through the orchard--two boys, and another. The agonized\ncries sounded through all the trees, coming not so much from the\nFlickers themselves as from the friendly cat-birds and robins and cedar\nwaxwings and sparrows who, forgetting the slights they had received\nfrom the Flickers, joined in a noble effort to attract the attention\nof the intruders and keep them away from the cherry tree. On they\ncame, however, paying not the slightest heed to the medley of cries\nabout them--two boys and a gray insignificant person who seemed to be\ndirecting the cruel expedition. Straight to the cherry tree they made\ntheir way, up went the sprawling boy, and before the crazy birds could\ntell what had happened, the three were making their way back through\nthe orchard again. The cat-birds followed them and the others kept up\ntheir cries for some time afterward.\n\nAt first Mrs. Flicker refused to return to her empty nest, but as night\ncame on she grew calmer and decided not to abandon her home. She knew\nshe could lay more eggs and raise another family, but she would not\nbelieve that there could ever again be such brave and beautiful babies\nas her stolen ones. As she at last came to the nest, she heard a soft\nlittle familiar call, and peeping in--lo! there were the babies just\nas she had left them except that the stolen one had been returned and\nlay cuddled safe and warm beside the others! There was a happy Flicker\nfamily in the old cherry tree that night.\n\nNot long after this the cherries disappeared, and the baby Flickers,\none by one, took their flying lessons and flew away on their own strong\nwings. Then the nest was molested no more. And when the banks of the\ncreek were bright with golden-rod and asters, and the milkweed pods\nwere bursting, the Flickers started on their southern journey. Of\ncourse the next summer is a long way off, and no one can tell what may\nhappen. But it might be that even if the Flickers cannot forgive, they\ncan forget--which is the better, after all, if you can do but one. And\nwhen the April days come round again, remembering only the fragrant\nair and the fat ant-hills of the orchard, they may return again to the\ncherry tree. Who knows?\n                                        Nell Kimberly McElhone.\n\n\n\n\nTIGER-LILIES.\n\n\n    I like not lady-slippers,\n    Nor yet the sweet-pea blossoms,\n    Nor yet the flaky roses,\n      Red, or white as snow;\n    I like the chaliced lilies,\n    The heavy Eastern lilies,\n    The gorgeous tiger-lilies,\n      That in our gardens grow.\n\n    For they are tall and slender;\n    Their mouths are dashed with carmine;\n    And when the wind sweeps by them,\n      On their emerald stalks\n    They bend so proud and graceful--\n    They are Circassian women,\n    The favorites of the Sultan,\n      Adown our garden walks!\n\n    And when the rain is falling,\n    I sit beside the window\n    And watch them glow and glisten,\n      How they burn and glow!\n    O, for the burning lilies,\n    The tender Eastern lilies,\n    The gorgeous tiger-lilies,\n      That in our garden grow!\n                                        Thomas Bailey Aldrich.\n\n\nFLOWERS IN THE CRANNIED WALL.\n\n    Flower in the crannied wall,\n    I pluck you out of the crannies;\n    Hold you here, root and all, in my hand,\n    Little flower--but if I could understand\n    What you are, root and all, and all in all,\n    I should know what God and man is.\n                                        Alfred Tennyson.\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration: WILD YELLOW OR CANADIAN LILY.\n                 (_Lilium Canadense._)\n                 FROM \"NATURE'S GARDEN.\"\n                 COPYRIGHT 1900, BY\n                 DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY.]\n\nTHE WILD YELLOW LILY.\n\n\nAmong our common wild flowers, that quickly attract the attention of\nthe observer is the Yellow Lily (Lilium canadense). Its home is in the\nswamps, the wet meadows and fields of Canada and the United States,\neast of the Missouri river. It is also called the Canada, the Field and\nthe Meadow Lily.\n\nThis plant, with about forty-five sister species--all beautiful,\nbelongs to the genus Lilium. All are natives of the Northern Hemisphere\nand are found distributed around the world. About sixteen species are\nnatives of the United States. The flowers vary in color. Some are red,\nothers white or yellow and some are more or less mottled.\n\nNo plants are more frequently mentioned in Ancient Myths and by the\nclassical poets. Though the white lily (Lilium candidum) was, even\nbefore the time of Homer, known as a garden flower, yet the earliest\ndescriptions of the lilies found in cultivation were written by Gerard\nin the year 1597.\n\nIt is thought by some that the \"lilies of the field,\" spoken of in the\nseventh chapter of Matthew, are the red lily described by Pliny. The\nwhite lilies have long been considered the symbol of purity and were\noften used by the great masters in the pictures of the Annunciation,\nin which they were represented as held by the Angel Gabriel. How\nappropriate is the white lily, with its glossy and pure white petals\nfor the decoration of Easter time!\n\nThe slender stalk of the Yellow Lily arises from a scaly bulbous and\nthickened underground stem, growing to a height of from two to five\nfeet. The leaves are narrow and lance-shaped, from two to six inches\nin length and usually attached in whorls of from three to eight. Each\nstalk bears from one to fifteen flowers, the ground color of which is\nyellow or reddish with brownish spots toward the base of each division,\nwhich are six in number and are spreading and gracefully arched. The\nflowers, appearing in June, July and August, are nodding and vary in\nlength from two to four inches. The fruit pods are oblong, large, and\nbear numerous seeds.\n\nClosely related to the plant of our illustration, and at times closely\nresembling it, is the beautiful Turk's Cap Lily (Lilium superbum).\nThis species is wonderfully prolific in the production of flowers,\nsometimes bearing forty or more on a single stalk. It is one of the\ntallest of the lilies, and frequently the marshes of the eastern states\nare transformed by its presence into striking masses of color, orange,\norange-yellow or red.\n\n\n\n\nWHAT DO WE OWE THE BIRDS?\n\n\nThe answer to this question needs to be presented from two distinctly\ndifferent points of view--the commercial and the esthetic. In\npresenting the commercial point of view it will be necessary to ignore\nthe use of any bird as an article of food, because we are now speaking\nof the living bird. Likewise it will be necessary to ignore the side\nwhich might be presented by the millinery trade, because that, too, has\nto do with the dead bird. We shall have occasion to present the general\nsubject of the demands of fashion at a later time. This paper, then, is\nconcerned only with our debt to the living bird.\n\nIn the June number of Birds and Nature some general remarks were made\nabout what the birds eat. In this paper it will be necessary to go more\ninto particulars in order to get clearly before us just wherein our\ndebt lies.\n\nFirst of all, we owe our physical comfort to the birds, because they\ncheck the increase in insect life. The mosquito and gnat, the horse\nfly and common housefly would soon rival the plagues of Egypt were the\nbirds to disappear. If anyone doubts this let him go into the Cascade\nmountains where the scarcity of the birds gives great liberties to the\n\"deer flies.\" And they take all liberties without so much as a \"thank\nyou, I guess I will!\"\n\nWe owe our fruits largely to the birds. This statement anyone may prove\nby simple experiment. First drive the birds from your garden because\nyou think they are eating the buds and blossoms, instead of the insects\nwhich sting the buds. You will be rewarded with a scanty and stunted\nfruit crop. Next conclude that you won't get fruit anyway, and so let\nthe birds do as they please. You will be pretty sure to harvest a\nfairly good crop at least. Lastly, encourage the birds to visit your\ngarden and orchard in their northward passage, as well as during the\nsummer season. Build nesting boxes for the swallows, wrens and martins.\nPlant a mulberry tree for the fruit-loving robins and cat-birds. Now\nyour fruit and garden are returning an abundant yield of the best\ngrade. If the birds take a little for themselves have they not earned\nit? There is enough and to spare.\n\nWe owe corn and other grains largely to the birds, because they help\nto keep in check the insects which attack the cereals. During the\ngrasshopper plagues very many birds feed upon the grasshoppers which\ndo not usually touch grasshoppers. Probably chief among our grain\nfield helpers is the Bronzed Grackle, who is so much in disfavor for\nthe ravages he makes upon those same fields when the corn is in the\nroasting-ear stage. But he earns far more than he eats. The birds of\nprey destroy vast numbers of the little rodents which help themselves\ntoo freely to the planted grains.\n\nWe owe the preservation of the remnant of our forests, and all our\ntrees and bushes largely to the birds who eat the insects which attack\nthe trees and bushes. The woodpeckers are after the insect which is\ndestroying the tree, not after the life of the tree.\n\nSpace would fail us to speak of the debt we owe to all the birds. There\nare the scavenger water-birds--gulls, terns and the like--the scavenger\nland birds--the vultures--the ducks, geese and swans, who check the\nencroachments of vegetable life upon our streams, ponds and lakes; the\nherons, cranes, rails, coots, gallinules and shore-birds, which feed\nupon the water and mud-inhabiting insects and other small animals; the\nsparrows and grouse, which destroy vast quantities of the seeds of\nharmful plants. In short, the only birds about whose usefulness there\nis any doubt are the English Sparrow, Crow, Blue Jay and four of the\nhawks. These are far too few for us to condemn all birds.\n\nWe cannot afford to overlook the esthetic side of this question. How\nmuch of our pleasure and happiness do we owe the birds directly for\ntheir intensely busy lives, the neatness and beauty of their dress,\nthe perpetual joy of their songs? Can you imagine a world without\nbirds? Are the returned warmth and the green vegetation all that make\nthe summer months more pleasant than the winter season? Rob the tropics\nof their birds and you rob them of their heart. Pasadena, California,\nis a bird paradise, but take away its mocking birds, its orioles, its\ntowhees, its gorgeous humming birds, and the many other birds which\nenliven every lawn, and you have taken away one of its chief charms.\n\nBut it is not simply that we are entertained by the birds, nor even\nthat we are pleased with their neatness and beauty. Where their lives\ntouch ours we feel an uplifting influence. We are better fitted for the\nservice which it is our privilege to render to the world by the touch\nof the bird life. Our horizon is broadened beyond the self-interest,\nthe egoistic, to the altruistic conception of life. We cannot live in\nthe presence of these creatures so full of life without being spurred\nto more earnest effort ourselves. When we fail to see in the world of\nnature about us what it is our privilege to see we are losing that much\nof life. Let us open our eyes to all the influences that may shape our\nlives toward best living.\n                                        Lynds Jones.\n\n\n\n\nTO THE VESPER BIRD.\n\n\n    Sweet bird of twilight wake in me\n    Bright memories of melody\n    Outpoured from every nesting-tree\n        At early morning gray.\n    O sing that I may ponder on\n    The songs away with noontide gone,\n    Ere shadows troop across the lawn\n        And voices die away.\n    Long have I waited wistfully;\n    And lest thy gift unheeded be,\n    Lo, now my gardens are for thee,\n        Thou truant all the day!\n                                        Frank English.\n\n\n\n\nTHE VESPER SPARROW.\n\n\nIn the fields, the pastures and along the roadsides of the Eastern\nUnited States and the British Provinces may be found the unobtrusive\nVesper Sparrow (Poocaetes gramineus). It is also known by other\nnames such as the Bay-winged Bunting or Sparrow, the Grass-Finch and\nsometimes, though incorrectly, it is called the Field Sparrow. The\nlatter name should only be applied to one of the Chipping Sparrows\n(Spizella pusilla).\n\nThe characteristics of the male and the female are the same. The\nexposed part of the outer and the tip of the second tail feathers are\nwhite. This character is very marked as the bird alights. The feathers\nof the underside of the body are usually yellowish-white and the tops\nof the wings are a light chestnut-brown. It does not seem to shun one's\npresence, but will run along the side of the road, a short distance\nahead, occasionally stopping for observation.\n\nThe Vesper Sparrow builds its nest on the ground without reference\nto any special plant protection except that of grass and other low\nherbage. The eggs are usually four in number, the general color of\nwhich is light gray marked, in a variable manner, by dull reddish-brown\nspots or blotches.\n\nWhen frightened from her nest the mother-bird will endeavor to attract\nthe attention of the intruder by slowly flying away and occasionally\nfeigning injury by falling.\n\nMr. John Burroughs, in his little book, \"Wake Robin,\" writes in an\nadmirable manner of the song and habits of this little bird. He says:\n\"Have you heard the song of the Field-Sparrow? If you have lived in a\npastoral country, with broad upland pastures, you could hardly have\nmissed him. Wilson, I believe, calls him the Grass-Finch, and was\nevidently unacquainted with his powers of song. The two white lateral\nquills of his tail, and his habit of running and skulking a few yards\nin advance of you as you walk through the fields, are sufficient to\nidentify him. Not in meadows or orchards, but in high, breezy pasture\ngrounds, will you look for him. His song is most noticeable after\nsundown, when other birds are silent, for which reason he has been\naptly called the Vesper Sparrow. The farmer following his team from the\nfield at dusk catches his sweetest strain. His song is not so brisk and\nvaried as that of the Song-Sparrow, being softer and wilder, sweeter\nand more plaintive. Add the best parts of the lay of the latter to\nthe sweet vibrating chant of the Wood Sparrow (Spizella pusilla), and\nyou have the evening hymn of the Vesper-bird--the poet of the plain\nunadorned pastures. Go to those broad, smooth, uplying fields, where\nthe cattle and sheep are grazing, and sit down on one of the warm,\nclean stones, and listen to this song. On every side, near and remote,\nfrom out the short grass which the herds are cropping, the strain\nrises. Two or three long, silver notes of rest and peace, ending in\nsome subdued trills or quavers, constitute each separate song. Often\nyou will catch only one or two of the bars, the breeze having blown the\nminor part away. Such unambitious, unconscious melody! It is one of\nthe most characteristic sounds in Nature. The grass, the stones, the\nstubble, the furrow, the quiet herds, and the warm twilight among the\nhills, are all subtly expressed in this song; this is what they are at\nleast capable of.\"\n\n  [Illustration: VESPER SPARROW.\n                 (Poocaetes gramineus.)\n                 1\/2 Life-size.\n                 FROM COL. CHI. ACAD. SCIENCES.\n                 COPYRIGHT 1900, BY\n                 A. W. MUMFORD, CHICAGO.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE WORSHIP OF NATURE.\n\n\n    The ocean looketh up to heaven\n      As 'twere a living thing;\n    The homage of its waves is given\n      In ceaseless worshiping.\n\n    They kneel upon the sloping sand,\n      As bends the human knee,\n    A beautiful and tireless band,\n      The priesthood of the sea!\n\n    They pour the glittering treasures out\n      Which in the deep have birth,\n    And chant their awful hymns about\n      The watching hills of earth.\n\n    The green earth sends its incense up\n      From every mountain-shrine,\n    From every flower and dewy cup\n      That greeteth the sunshine.\n\n    The mists are lifted from the rills,\n      Like the white wing of prayer:\n    They lean above the ancient hills\n      As doing homage there.\n\n    The forest-tops are lowly cast\n      O'er breezy hill and glen,\n    As if a prayerful spirit pass'd\n      On nature as on men.\n\n    The clouds weep o'er the fallen world,\n      E'en as repentant love;\n    Ere, to the blessed breeze unfurl'd,\n      They fade in light above.\n\n    The sky is as a temple's arch,\n      The blue and wavy air\n    Is glorious with the spirit-march\n      Of messengers at prayer.\n\n    The gentle moon, the kindling sun,\n      The many stars are given,\n    As shrines to burn earth's incense on,\n      The altar-fires of Heaven!\n                                        John Greenleaf Whittier.\n\n\n\n\nBIRD-STUDY.\n\n\nTo be intimate with Nature is as important to the investigator as the\nability to technically classify the things found therein.\n\nIn this connection we copy, by permission, the words of Olive Thorne\nMiller, from the \"School Room Methods and Nature Study:\"\n\n     \"Recognizing a bird on sight or hearing, knowing his nest and\n     eggs, when he arrives in the spring, and when he departs in the\n     fall, does not by any means imply that one is acquainted with the\n     bird himself. All these facts are easily acquired; they have been\n     set down in the books these many years.\n\n     But whoso really desires to know the little being so beautifully\n     enshrined; to see his home ways with his mate and little ones; to\n     find out his personal habits; his likes and dislikes; his tastes;\n     his disposition; in a word his personality, for him is something\n     very different from book study. He must go into the field and\n     observe for himself; for well as we may know our common birds\n     by sight, glibly as we can explain their anatomy, give their\n     scientific names, and their place in our classification, of their\n     lives and habits we are in almost total ignorance.\n\n     This is a field of inquiry as fascinating as it is fresh and\n     unexplored. Nothing but the greed of collecting and the passion\n     for classifying, could so long have blinded men to the charm of\n     studying life instead of death, the individual instead of the\n     skin. And this is the beautiful work left for us to do, to make\n     the world acquainted with the lives of our little brothers in\n     feathers.\n\n     For this work are needed, patience that knows no fatigue,\n     accuracy of observation, enthusiasm that scorns such trifles\n     as wet feet, torn garments, insect bites and stings, burning\n     sun or blistering wind, and above all--lacking which all else\n     is useless--truthfulness that will report correctly, without\n     exaggeration or coloring. To one possessing these qualities a\n     whole world of delight is open.\n\n     Nor is this world so difficult to enter as it seems at first.\n     Science--whose help is needed--has, to be sure, shrouded itself\n     in technicalities, buried its facts under scientific terms, and\n     hidden its names in a dead language. But all this, which perhaps\n     was necessary, can be got over. With a little courage, and some\n     perseverance, this bristling array of difficulties may be broken\n     through, and the charming goldfinch be as lovely and bewitching\n     under the name of Spinus tristis, as of thistle bird, or yellow\n     bird.\n\n     How shall we go to work? This is the first question always.\n     Let me give you a few hints: Some fine morning dress yourself\n     in modest-hued array, dull olive of medium shade best; discard\n     all conspicuous details of costume; take off ribbons and\n     veils, and all fluttering things; reject the spring hat with\n     its eccentricities of flowers, fruits, feathers, or general\n     fluffiness, and put on a plain shade hat, as near the color of\n     the dress as possible; leave parasol, bag or basket and book all\n     at home. Slip into a flat pocket on the outside of your gown or\n     coat, a small note book with sharpened pencil attached to it,\n     and suspend by narrow ribbon around the neck, so that it will\n     hang above the waist and be ready for instant use, an opera glass\n     without its case. On your left arm carry a light folding camp\n     stool--and start out.\n\n     Bid adieu to your friends, and go alone, for the temple of Nature\n     can never be entered in crowds, nor even in pairs. Turn your\n     steps to the best place you know of; an old orchard, a grove with\n     underbrush near a house, a ravine, a swamp, or the edge of woods.\n     Walk slowly and leisurely along, with little noise of footsteps,\n     and without swinging arms.\n\n     Arrived in your chosen spot look sharply around for the flitting\n     forms of the birds. When you see one, stop at once; quietly slip\n     your stool off your arm and sit upon it, with as little motion as\n     possible. If you place it against a tree trunk, to furnish a back,\n     you can be comfortable in that one position an hour without moving.\n\n     Now slowly raise your opera glass to your eyes, adjust the focus\n     to bring the bird clearly before you, and proceed to study him.\n     First you want his description so that you can name him. Look\n     very carefully at him, his size and shape, his coloring above and\n     below, his peculiar markings, the shape of his tail at the end,\n     and the color and shape of the beak. As you settle one point write\n     it in your note book, which you have quietly drawn out of its\n     pocket.\n\n     His description recorded, proceed to note his manners; whether\n     quiet or restless, whether he jerks his tail, or his head; walks\n     or hops. See what he is doing; picking up insects, digging them\n     from bark or ground, seeking them among flowers or leaves, or\n     whether he is eating seeds from the grass or weeds. Sit there as\n     long as that bird is in sight, and note down everything he does,\n     even his calls and his song as it sounds to you.\n\n     When you go home take your manual and look for a description that\n     matches yours. This is where troubles begin, not only the obscure\n     scientific terms, and the Latin names, but the knowing where in\n     that big book to start. You will be helped by observing what the\n     bird ate. If he hammered on the bark and picked his food from tree\n     trunk or limb, look among the woodpeckers; if he flew out, made a\n     turn or two and back to his perch seek him among the fly-catchers;\n     if he was eating seeds, look among the finches; and so on.\n\n     When by a little work you have passed this Rubicon--where so many\n     turn back discouraged--you will reap your reward, success. Having\n     persevered, and named your bird without help, you will feel a new\n     pleasure in his acquaintance, as if he belonged to you, and you\n     will never forget him.\n\n     Then go out and make acquaintance with another. You will find\n     him easier to identify, and as you will become familiar with its\n     idiosyncrasies the manual will lose its terrors for you.\n\n     Of course all this trouble will be avoided if you begin with the\n     study of scientific ornithology. But in that case you are in\n     danger of becoming absorbed in the science, and getting to care\n     more for the dry bones and the dead skin, than for the living\n     bird, and thus adding one more to the ornithologists, and taking\n     one from the students of life.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE OREGON JUNCO.\n\n\nResidents of the Atlantic, Middle, Southern and Middle Western States\nare, doubtless, well acquainted with the slate-colored Junco. This\nlittle feathered specimen is more familiarly known as \"Snowbird.\"\n\nThe Oregon Junco (\"Junco hyemalis var. Oregonus\") is a sub-species, and\nis found throughout the Pacific coast region from California to Sitka.\nIt is, by no means, confined exclusively to Oregon. Its darkest-hued\nplumage makes the bird very conspicuous when the ground is covered with\na soft and spotless mantle of snow.\n\nThe sooty-black head, flesh-colored bill and white breast, sharply\ncontrast in color. On the sides are pinkish colored feathers; the back\nis rufous-brown and the two outer tail feathers pure white, showing\nwhen the bird flies. In western Oregon it is a winter visitant,\narriving with the first cool days of autumn.\n\nAs winter approaches these snowbirds become more plentiful, hopping\nabout in the small bushes in quest of food. A great deal of pleasure\nand interest may be found in studying these birds, especially when the\nground is covered with snow. By casting bread crumbs on the snow, the\nlittle fellows flock around, and are easily tamed. In winter their\nonly note is a sort of chirp, sometimes uttered several times in quick\nsuccession when alarmed. With the warm days of spring they begin their\nsong, sometimes many singing at once, and soon the majority disappear\nto a higher altitude to breed.\n\nThe Oregon Junco builds its nest in hollows in the ground under low\nbushes. The nest is constructed flush with the surface and in holes\namong the roots of bushes and trees, and under woodpiles. Usually,\nthe nest is made of dry grasses rather loosely placed together, with\na lining of cowhair, and contains four and sometimes five handsome\ngreenish-white eggs, spotted and wreathed with purple.--J. Mayne\nBaltimore.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOlive Thorne Miller, in her fascinating little book, \"The First Book\nof Birds,\" speaking of how the birds work for us, says: \"Chickadees\nlike to eat the eggs of cankerworms; and for a single meal one of\nthese tiny birds will eat two hundred and fifty eggs, and he will take\nseveral meals a day. Now, cankerworms destroy our apples. When they get\ninto an orchard in force, it looks, as Miss Merriam says, as if it had\nbeen burned over. Robins, cat-birds, and shrikes, and several others,\nlike to eat cutworms, which destroy grass and other plants. As many as\nthree hundred of them have been found in the stomach of a robin, of\ncourse for one meal. Ants are very troublesome in many ways, and three\nthousand of them have been taken from the stomach of one flicker.\"\n\nWhy kill these birds that are so useful to us and so beautify nature?\nMany others are just as useful and some that occasionally do damage\namply repay us in other ways.\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration: THE CALICO BASS.\n                 (Pomoxys sparoides.)\n                 COPYRIGHT 1900, BY\n                 A. W. MUMFORD, CHICAGO.]\n\nTHE CALICO BASS.\n\n\nThe Calico Bass (Pomoxys sparoides) is so called because of the mottled\nand variegated coloring of the body and fins. It is also called the\nStrawberry Bass, the Grass Bass, the Bitter Head, the Lamp-lighter and\nthe Barfish.\n\nIt is abundant in all the lakes and ponds of the region of the Great\nLakes and the upper Mississippi river, where it shows a preference for\nquiet, cool and clear water and grass covered bottoms.\n\nThe Calico Bass is closely related to the Crappie (Pomoxys annularis)\nof the lower Mississippi valley. It is, however, seldom seen where the\nCrappie is abundant, as the latter prefers muddy sloughs and bayous and\nis not found as far north as the former.\n\nThe body of the Calico Bass is elongated, is much compressed and of a\nbright, silvery olive-green color. The sides and fins are mottled with\na darker green or brownish-green, the blotches being gathered into\nirregular bunches. The vertical fins also have markings in the form of\na network surrounding paler spots. The mouth is large and oblique. The\nusual length of the adult is about twelve inches.\n\nThe Calico Bass obtains its food largely from the lower forms of animal\nlife, such as crustaceans, worms and insects.\n\nIt is said that \"from the fact that it thrives well in slow-moving\nwaters, it deserves the favorable consideration of owners of large\nmill ponds, where there is a steady flow of water, as it requires very\nlittle care, except the first planting of it in waters suitable to its\nnature. It is not averse to an occasional minnow, but is not regarded\nas peculiarly aggressive, though provided by nature with an armature\nthat enables it to defend itself against all comers.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    \"Forthwith the sounds and seas, each creek and bay\n    With fry innumerable swarm, and shoals\n    Of fish, that with their fins and shining scales\n    Glide under the green wave, in sculls that oft\n    Bank the mid sea: part single, or with mate,\n    Graze, the seaweed their pasture, and through groves\n    Of coral stray, or, sporting with quick glance,\n    Show to the sun their waved coats, dropt with gold.\"\n                                        --Milton, \"Paradise Lost.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE GROWTH AND VARIATION OF FISH.\n\n\nHow can you tell the age of a fish? This question is often asked and\njust so often is the answer unsatisfactory.\n\nA fish is a cold-blooded animal; that is, his temperature is nearly\nthe same as that of the water in which he lives. His circulation is\nsluggish and his appetite is a variable quantity. He has the capacity\nto take in large quantities of food at one meal and properly assimilate\nit; on the other hand he is able to fast for weeks at a time. He has\nhis own notions about eating, and it is quite impossible to induce him\nto change them, and all this has considerable influence on his rate\nof growth. It is out of the question to expect him to grow when he is\nfasting; on the other hand he must draw on the fat he has stored up in\nhis body to furnish him energy for his muscular movements and to carry\non the ordinary functions of nutrition. The fish here has an advantage\nover the warm-blooded animals, for he does not need to generate heat\nto keep his body at a constant temperature. The amount of food often\neaten at one time is quite remarkable. I remember once of taking nearly\none pound of sunfish from the stomach of a Large-mouthed Black Bass.\nThis does not indicate that a bass must eat such meals three times each\nday, it only shows his capacity to make use of a large quantity of food\nwhen it is abundant and his stomach feels the need of it. A trout is a\ngood feeder; his stomach and mouth are large, much in size like that\nof the black bass. From experiments conducted at Neosho, Missouri, by\nMr. Page, he found that a young trout did best on a daily ration of\nsolid food equal to about seventy-five per cent of its weight. On this\namount the trout would reach an average length of six inches in one\nyear. The average amount of solid food consumed daily by a man is from\none and one-half to two per cent of his weight, or more than twice that\nconsumed by our active, growing young trout. As mentioned before, the\ntrout is relieved from generating heat to keep his body at a constant\ntemperature, and at one usually much higher than the medium in which he\nlives.\n\nAs an example of the ability of fishes to go for some time without\neating, we need only mention our Pacific salmon. There are five species\nof these large fishes on the Pacific coast. In the early spring (April)\nmany of the largest species, the Chinook, start up the Columbia river\nfor the purpose of spawning. They reach the headwaters of the Columbia\nin Idaho early in September. During this journey they eat nothing. We\nknow they do not eat, for of the thousands caught each year for the\ncanneries none are found with food in their stomachs; besides, this\norgan has become much shrunken. If they did eat on this journey there\nwould not, I believe, be enough animal and plant life in the Columbia\nto furnish each salmon with more than one meal. Now many of them make\nthe journey against a strong current for more than one thousand miles,\nand reach an elevation of about eight thousand feet above the sea.\nWhen they leave the ocean they are in excellent condition, by the time\nthey have reached their journey's end they are thin and haggard, their\nvitality is so reduced that soon after spawning they die--literally\ndie of starvation. Their eggs hatch during the winter. By the next\nwinter the young salmon are from four to five inches in length, and by\nthe following fall or early winter they go to the sea, having reached\nan average length of about ten inches. After leaving the fresh water,\nwhich only afforded them a scant subsistence for nearly two years,\nthe generous ocean gives them plenty of sea room and an abundance of\nfood, which in a few years prepares them to repeat the long journey\nof their parents. We are, in case of most fishes, ignorant of their\nlife histories, as we are of the salmon's. We know the average rate of\ngrowth of the salmon for the first two years, but we know nothing more\nof them until they return to fresh water to spawn.\n\nI mentioned that trout in the Neosho Fish Hatchery grew, under\nfavorable circumstances, to a length of six inches in one year. It must\nnot be taken for granted, however, that trout six inches in length are\none year old. In their native streams, in cooler regions, they will not\noften attain this length in two or more years.\n\nIn general we do not find large fishes in small bodies of water;\nneither do we find the fish in our small aquaria growing at an alarming\nrate. The fish disdains to outgrow his surroundings; he may feel his\nimportance, and consider himself in many ways superior to the other\nfishes in the pond with him, but he will not permit himself to grow to\nsuch a size as to make the question of securing a living a difficult or\nirksome one.\n\nFishes spawn but once each year, and the time and length of the\nspawning season is not the same for all species. With some species\nthe season is short, while with others it may extend through three\nor more months. In the latter case those produced the first part of\nthe spawning season are at the end of six months much larger than\nthose which appear at the close. It is therefore evident that the\nfishes of any single brood by the end of the year will vary greatly in\nsize, often to such an extent that the broods of one season cannot be\nseparated from those of the preceding season; especially is this true\nof our smaller species. Mr. Moenkhaus, in making a study of the two\nspecies of darters, the Sand Darter or \"Johnny,\" and the Log Perch,\nfound by collecting a large, miscellaneous lot of these fishes, from\na given locality, that it was possible to separate them in groups\naccording to size of one, two or three years of age, which indicates a\nquite uniform rate of growth for these two species.\n\nMr. Voris collected a miscellaneous lot of over five hundred specimens\nof the Blunt-nosed Minnow from Turkey Lake in Indiana, varying from\none to three inches in length. These, when separated as far as\npossible, according to sizes, did not fall into distinct groups of\ndifferent ages. In my own collecting and study of fresh water fishes\nI have always been impressed with the difficulty of recognizing the\nage of fishes, except that the smallest taken was considered to be\nthe product of the preceding spawning season. Here is an interesting\nquestion to which but little attention has been given. Any one will\nfind much interest in studying the rate of growth of fishes under\ndifferent circumstances. We know that the rate of growth is in no way\nuniform, as is the case with our warm-blooded animals. We also know\nthat among fishes there is no uniform adult size, as there is in case\nof warm-blooded animals (birds and mammals). In general, we cannot\nspeak of a fish as being full-grown; at the same time there seems to be\na limit of size for each species in each body of water, beyond which\nonly a few go. The Chinook salmon we mentioned reach an average weight\nof twenty to thirty pounds, although individuals are occasionally taken\nof forty, sixty or even one hundred pounds weight. These large fishes\nare by no means common, the other species of salmon never attain the\nsize of the Chinook.\n\nThere is an interesting family of fishes in our fresh waters known as\nMinnows; these fishes are too small and too full of bones to become\na favorite for the table. They are the most helpless of all our\nfresh water fishes, being soft, and, as they are slow swimmers, they\nbecome an easy prey to larger fishes, and form a large part of their\nfood supply. They have been constantly driven into smaller streams\nand shallow water, until they have become exceedingly dwarfed. Their\nonly use in the economy of fish life seems to be to assimilate small\norganisms, converting them into such shape that they can be taken by\nthe larger fishes. Now the Minnows of all the United States east of the\nRockies are small and, except in case of a few species, they are less\nthan six inches in length. The predatory fishes, such as the Sunfishes\nand Perches, Pike and Pickerel, are their worst enemies. In the Rocky\nMountains there are none of these fishes, and many minnows there grow\nto a length of two feet or more. The only enemy of importance they\nhave is the trout, but the minnow finds a more congenial climate in\nthe larger bodies of water, too warm for the trout. The struggle for\nexistence has been a severe one, especially so in our streams where\nspecies of fish are the more numerous. It has greatly limited the\ngrowth of most species beyond an average size, and is in many places\nresponsible for the fact that often a species may become dwarfed in\ncertain bodies of water. In the Salmon river in Idaho it was not an\nuncommon thing to catch trout of three or four pounds weight. In the\nsmaller tributaries and in the smaller mountain lakes it was unusual\nto catch one weighing over one-half pound, the average being less than\none-fourth pound. I have no doubt that many of those from the small\nlakes of one-half pound were as old as the large ones taken from the\nSalmon river.\n\nFish eat and grow very irregularly. The average size of individuals,\nwhich we would ordinarily call adults, for some species, is different\nin different bodies of water. Their growth is influenced largely by the\nsize and depth of the body of water in which they live, also by its\ntemperature and the amount of suitable food it contains. The value or\nextent of each of these influences is imperfectly understood.\n\nThe forms of fishes are very numerous. Some are extremely long and\nslender, as many of the species of Eels, Pipe-fishes and the like,\nwhile others are extremely short, like Sunfish of the ocean. Others,\nlike the Trunk Fishes, are nearly equal in all dimensions. The average\nform and the one which best suits our idea of a fish, is the Black\nBass, or other fishes of similar pattern. To know the advantages of\nthese forms one must study the fishes in their native element. The\npeculiar forms which many species take are the most noticeable in those\nfound in the tropics. The struggle for existence there is the most\nsevere, and it seems as if each species had labored to take on some\npeculiar form which would assist most in its preservation. In this\nrespect color also plays an important factor. It is in the tropics and\namong the many species of corals that we find the most highly-colored\nfishes.\n\nMany fishes have the power to change their color, and this they can do\nin a very short time. The flounders are a peculiar family, the young\nwhen born are symmetrical. Early in life they take on the habit of\ntheir parents and lie on one side, the eye on the underside disdains to\nlook downwards and so begins to move toward the other side. The bones\nof the head suit themselves to this change and soon our flounder has\nboth eyes on the same side of the head. The upper side is colored much\nto resemble sand, and the under side becomes nearly white. The flounder\nprotects himself by covering his body, except the eyes, with sand.\nFlounders live on sandy bottoms, some in shallow water, while others\nare found in deepest parts of the ocean. If flounders are placed in an\naquarium and arranged so the light can fall on the under side of their\nbodies, this, too, becomes dark, much like the other side.\n\nIt is interesting to study the habits of fishes in a small aquarium,\nand to especially notice their ability to change color, and how rapidly\nthey do it. So many persons seem to be saturated with the idea that an\naquarium must have in it one or more gold fish. This seems to me to be\na mistake when our streams contain so many species suitable for the\naquarium which are far more handsome than the gold fish, and which,\nif you give them half a chance, will teach you something of interest.\nMr. Ford, of Berwyn, Illinois, has a small aquarium, in his house, in\nwhich he keeps from fifteen to twenty-six species of native fishes.\nAmong these are several species of Darters, the most beautifully\ncolored and the most interesting of all our fresh-water forms. Then\nthere are Minnows, Suckers, Catfishes, Sunfishes, the Pike, Mud\nMinnow, Top Minnow, and so on. To one who would know fishes, any one\nof these species is more desirable than gold fish. The study of fishes\nin an aquarium, such as the one possessed by Mr. Ford, is extremely\ninteresting. They will teach you much about their habits, besides\ngiving you many lessons showing their ability to change color and adapt\nthemselves to their surroundings.\n\n  [Illustration: A MOUNTAIN LAKE.\n                 CHICAGO:\n                 A. W. MUMFORD PUBLISHER.]\n\nThe Blind Fishes, which inhabit caves in this country, are very\ninteresting. They have lost their color, if they ever had any, being\nwhite. In many the eyes have become so degenerated as to be entirely of\nno service when the fish is in the light. The head is furnished with\ntactile organs, which enables them to feel their way in the dark. In\nfact, they are well adapted for the life they lead. Dr. Eigenmann tells\nus that Blind Fishes were not accidentally swept into caves or driven\nthere by their enemies, \"but entered them deliberately and avoided\ncoming out into the light.\" In other words, they preferred \"darkness\nrather than light.\" Having simplified eyes and highly developed sense\norgans, they were able to live in the dark. The many ages they have\nlived in the caves has better fitted them for their existence in total\ndarkness. The Blind Fishes were not always blind, but have become so\nbecause of their own preferences.\n\nThe readers are, if they will only study fishes, sure to find them\nextremely interesting. There are a wonderful variety of fishes, each\nwell adapted for the life it leads. You will find them in the brooks,\ncreeks, rivers and lakes or ocean, wherever you happen to be, and you\nare sure to be highly repaid for all the study or attention you may\ngive them.\n                                        Seth E. Meek.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ORIGIN OF THE FISH.\n\nA BIRD-FISH STORY.\n\n\nOnce upon a time, and that was in the long ago, there lived a Koko-bird\nalong the forest shores of the Boozoo river. I am not quite certain in\nwhat country this river is but I believe it is somewhere in Gazazuland.\nIt does not matter much where it is or was, but of one thing I am\nabsolutely certain, and that is that the river did exist, else how\ncould the bird have lived along its shores? Now this bird was quite\nbeautiful, could sing quite well, and could fly quite gracefully;\naccomplishments which all of the other birds of the community willingly\nadmitted, but the Koko-bird was very boastful. In a loud, arrogant\nvoice he would proclaim himself the handsomest, the most musical and\nthe most graceful of all the feathered tribe. At first his neighbors\ntried to ignore these boasts, hoping that the Koko-bird would in time\nlearn better manners, but he did not; on the contrary, he became more\nboastful every day, in fact every minute, so that his presence became\nalmost unbearable, causing great mental irritation and a feeling of\nnausea in those who were obliged to listen to him. A bird committee\nwas therefore appointed to obtain an audience with the Golden Eagle,\nwho was then the ruler of all the birds, and petition his majesty to\nconvene the bird council in order that suitable punishment might be\nmeted out to the boastful Koko. The very next day the meeting was\ncalled by special and very swift bird messengers. The Koko-bird was\nbrought a prisoner before the king of the birds, the bird council and a\nvast concourse of birds from far and near, who had come to witness the\ntrial. In a measured and stentorian voice the king asked the following\nquestions of the culprit:\n\n\"Are you the handsomest of birds?\"\n\n\"I am,\" replied the Koko-bird.\n\n\"Are you the best singer among birds?\"\n\n\"I am,\" again replied the boastful bird.\n\n\"Are you the most graceful and the highest flyer among birds?\"\n\n\"I am,\" replied the braggart for the third time.\n\nThe king of birds then flapped his right wing and there came forth\nthe gorgeous bird of paradise, with the beautiful and wonderful\ntail feathers and crown, at the sight of which the members of the\nbird council individually and collectively flapped their wings in\nadmiration. The eagle once more turned to the Koko-bird and in a\nterrible voice demanded:\n\n\"Are you still the handsomest among birds? Heed well your answer.\"\n\nThe Koko-bird gave one sidelong squint at the beautiful bird and said:\n\n\"I am,\" in a very indifferent tone of voice; whereat the assembled\nbirds were astonished.\n\nThe king of birds then flapped his left wing and there came forth a\nnightingale which began to sing so sweetly that some of the listeners\nfell from their perches out of sheer ecstasy and they would have been\nhurt by the fall had they not caught themselves in the air by means of\ntheir wings. Even the king of birds was greatly moved, for he was seen\nto brush a tear from his right eye before he turned to the Koko-bird\nand spoke in a thunderous voice:\n\n\"You have heard this marvelous singer. Are you still the best vocalist\namong birds? Heed well your answer.\"\n\nThe Koko-bird merely yawned and said, \"I am,\" and again the birds were\ngreatly astonished.\n\nThe king of birds now nodded his head and there arose out of the\nmultitude of birds a blue crane, whose home was near the Gingago\nriver in farthest India. Its wings moved in even, silent, graceful\nundulations. It gradually rose higher and higher. All of the birds,\nwith the exception of the Koko-bird, watched it spellbound until it\nappeared a mere speck in the distance. The Koko-bird gave one glance\nat the high flyer, then curled one foot up in his feathers, shook his\nhead, closed his eyes and dozed peacefully.\n\nFor the third time the king of birds turned toward the Koko-bird and\nspoke in a voice even more terrible than on previous occasions.\n\n\"Are you the most graceful and highest flyer among birds? Answer me\nquick and heed well your answer.\"\n\nThe Koko-bird merely opened one eye and said sleepily, \"I am,\" whereat\nthe vast concourse of birds were astonished for the third time. Some\nopened their bills in amazement at such unheard-of audacity; others\nhooted and screamed, clamorously, demanding that the wicked Koko be\nseverely dealt with.\n\nThe king of birds now flapped both wings to demand silence and\nattention. Those who had their bills open closed them with a snap and\nthe clamorous ones became perfectly quiet. The king then turned toward\nthe council and spoke in an even, stentorian voice, as follows:\n\n\"Gentlemen birds of the council. The prisoner, otherwise known as the\nKoko-bird, stands before you, self-accused and self-condemned. I commit\nhim to your judgment. Let his punishment be as severe as the bird law\nwill permit.\"\n\nThe bird council then adjourned to the large council tree where they\nremained in closed session for one hour. They then returned to the bird\nassembly and the leader thus addressed the king of birds:\n\n\"Your majesty, the grand council of this bird assemblage, convened by\nyou, find the prisoner guilty and fix upon the following punishment:\n\n\"1. Because of his boast that he is the handsomest of birds his tail\nand wing feathers shall be pulled out and all other feathers shall be\nshorn close.\n\n\"2. Because of his boast that he is the best singer among birds he\nshall be struck dumb.\n\n\"3. Because of his boast that he is the most graceful and highest\nflyer among birds, he shall forever be prevented from moving in the\natmosphere in which we move.\"\n\nNo sooner had the speaker finished when the handsome feathers of the\nKoko-bird disappeared. This so surprised Koko that he actually awoke\nfrom his slumber. He tried to say, \"Well! well! what has happened,\" but\ncould not utter a sound. The king of birds now flew away, which was\nthe signal for the adjournment of the assembly, for, you see, their\nwork was done. All of the birds began to depart for their respective\nhome trees, but before doing so each one said something sarcastic\nor insulting, hoping to humiliate the forsaken culprit. This merely\nannoyed Koko a little. He tried to retaliate by boldly declaring that\nhe was the handsomest, the most musical and the most graceful of all\nbirds, as he had often done before, but he could not, for had not the\ncouncil decreed that he be \"struck dumb?\" He tried to catch the little\nsparrow, who, by his derisive twitterings, annoyed him even more than\nthe vulture, by his coarse insults, but his wings would not carry him.\nHe merely succeeded in falling into the Boozoo river.\n\n\"Now I shall be drowned,\" he thought, for you remember he could not\ntalk. But behold! he did not drown; by means of his featherless wings\nand tail he could swim beautifully on top of the water as well as in\nit. His body feathers being gone, they did not become water-soaked and\ngive him the snuffles, a severe cold, or perhaps pneumonia. Koko was\nastonished to find that water, which he had formerly feared, was not\nbad at all. He could drink whenever he wanted to without having to\nstand at the edge of the river bank, as he formerly did and get his\nfeet all mud. In time his wings and feet became fins and the feather\nstumps became scales; in other words, the erstwhile boastful Koko\nbecame a fish.\n\nThe Koko-fish (for so must the Koko-bird be called now), would have\nlived in the Boozoo river peacefully had not an owl noticed him one day.\n\n\"O, ho! What is this?\" said the wise one, blinking both eyes. \"Such a\ncreature was never seen before. I must investigate closer.\" So saying\nhe flew to a lower limb and looked hard at Koko. Koko, in turn, stared\nat the owl out of one eye; he did not wink or blink but simply stared\nand said nothing.\n\n\"By my wisdom,\" said the owl, \"if this isn't Koko. I know him by his\neye. Well! well! what may not happen next?\"\n\nThat night the wise owl repaired in all haste to Urtzook in Tartary,\nwhere the bird council was again in session, and reported his wonderful\nfind, whereat the king of birds and all present were greatly astonished\nfor the fourth time. They expressed a fear that Koko would some day\nleave his watery element and return to them. The king turned to the\nwise one and said:\n\n\"How know you that the creature which you beheld in the limpid waters\nof the Boozoo is the erstwhile Koko? and let me remind you, heed well\nyour answer.\"\n\n\"Uh! how do I know, indeed,\" replied the owl, \"by his eye, by his cold\nstare.\"\n\n\"Our enemy, the Boa, also hath an eye with a cold stare; is he\ntherefore also a metamorphosed Koko? Again heed well your answer,\"\ncontinued the king in a somewhat sarcastic tone.\n\nThe owl winked and blinked, adjusted his spectacles and made answer.\n\n\"The undeniable evidence that the creature referred to is the\nmetamorphosed Koko-bird is as follows: All the wise birds of your\nkingdom, including your humble servant, have searched far and near and\nhave found no Koko-bird. We, ahem, I, have found this creature with the\ncold stare; therefore, it follows that this staring, scaly, wingless\nand featherless creature must be the metamorphosed Koko-bird, for how\ncould it be otherwise?\"\n\nAll doubt vanished at such display of wisdom and the king of birds at\nonce dispatched the Flipflap bird to the banks of the Boozoo river,\ninstructing him to keep a sharp lookout on the now scaly Koko and to\ndrive him back into the water should he attempt to leave it. Even\nto this day the guardian of fish may be seen perched upon a stump,\nclosely watching the rippling waters. As soon as one of the finny tribe\napproaches near the surface he makes a dash for it, compelling it to\nreturn with all speed. For his faithful services the Flipflap bird has\nbeen dubbed Kingfisher, which is a much nicer name.\n                                        Albert Schneider.\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration: BANANA.\n                 2\/3 Natural-size.\n                 COPYRIGHT 1900. BY\n                 A. W. MUMFORD, CHICAGO.]\n\nTHE BANANA.\n\n\nTall and stately, capped by a gracefully arched group of leaves and a\nnodding spike of numerous flowers, the banana is noted alike for its\nbeauty, its nourishing fruit and its many qualities of economic value.\nSome one has said, \"The banana is the queen among ornamental herbs, and\nthe household god of the laborer's cottage.\"\n\nTo him who dwells in the tropics the banana is as wheat and rice are to\nthe inhabitants of more temperate regions.\n\nNearly all the authorities on the distribution of plants believe the\nbanana to be a native of Asia and that it was not found in the New\nWorld previous to its introduction by man. An argument which strongly\nsupports this theory is the lack of native names for the plant in\nMexico and in South America. It was mentioned by the early Latin and\nGreek writers, but seems to have been unknown to the ancient Egyptians.\n\nBotanical authorities quite generally agree that the numerous varieties\nof our common banana are produced from Musa sapientum. The generic\nname, Musa, is by some claimed to have its origin in the Arabic word\nMoux, their name for this group of plants. Others claim that the name\nwas given in honor of Antonius Musa, a physician who cured Augustus\nCaesar of a disease that had been considered incurable. The specific\nname has its origin in the myth that the groves of the banana plant\nwere used by the sages or wise men (sapientes) of India for their\ncouncils and for rest, they also partaking of the fruit.\n\nAnother species of the genus Musa is called paradisiaca from the\nmythical story that it was the forbidden fruit of Paradise. The common\nname of this species is the plantain and by many it is considered\nthe parent of the numerous varieties in cultivation in Asia and the\nadjacent islands and also in the New World. Many eminent authorities\nbelieve that both the banana and the plantain, with the numerous\nvarieties of each, are the same species.\n\nThe banana plant is herbaceous and dies down to the ground after\nfruiting. The true stem is underground and perennial, sending up new\nshoots each season, which grow rapidly and in a few months bear ripened\nfruit.\n\nThe stalk that bears the flowers grows to a height of from fifteen to\ntwenty feet and is surrounded by the sheathing bases of the leaves. The\nflower cluster or spike is terminal and from two to four feet in length\nand nodding. The oblong leaves are dark green in color, from five to\nten feet in length, and from one to two feet in width. The beautifully\narching leaves and the pendulous cluster of flowers or fruits forms an\nattractive foliage and makes the plant a noted ornament for the garden.\n\nThe many varieties of both the banana and plantain, which vary in\ntaste, color, form and size, are very widely distributed throughout the\nworld, being usually found in a zone bounded by 38 degrees North and 38\ndegrees South latitude. It is said that a single plant will produce, on\nthe average, in one year three bunches of fruit weighing fifty or more\npounds. The amount of labor required in its cultivation is very small,\nespecially in the older plantations.\n\nThe number of bananas on a single stalk of the ordinary variety varies\nfrom about one hundred to two hundred, with an average of about one\nhundred and thirty. When a plantation is fully developed growth is so\nrapid and so constant that ripe bunches of fruit may be gathered each\nweek.\n\nFor the best results a good, fertile soil is required. It is\ninteresting to note that but little moisture is needed, for the plants\nattract water, either from the air or the waters deep under ground, and\nthe surface of the ground is always moist even in a time of unusual\ndrought.\n\nThe stalk that bears the heavy bunch of fruit, occasionally weighing as\nmuch as eighty pounds, may be easily cut down by a single stroke of a\nscythe or a machete.\n\nUnder cultivation the fruit seldom produces perfect seeds, but if\ndeveloped in a state of nature it is said that they will mature and\nthat many varieties are produced.\n\nThe banana is frequently used in coffee plantations to make the\nnecessary shade for the young coffee plants and at the same time it\nyields an income while the planter is waiting for the production of the\ncoffee berry.\n\nNatives of the tropics have found the leaves a cool and useful\nthatching for the roofs of their huts.\n\nThe unripe fruits contain a large percentage of starch and the pulp,\nwhen dried and reduced to a powder, makes an excellent and nutritious\nflour or meal. The ripe fruit contains about twenty per cent of starch,\nthe remainder having been changed into sugar during the process of\nripening. Even intoxicating drinks are made by the Africans from the\njuice, known as \"banana beer\" and \"banana wine.\" It is not the fruit\nalone that is used as food, as also the pith, the top of the flower\ncluster and the young and tender shoots delight the taste and nourish\nthe body.\n\nThe economic value of the fibers of some of the species was known to\nthe Chinese and Japanese from remote times. The fiber obtained from\nthe leaves of both the banana and the plantain are valuable in the\nmanufacture of paper and fabrics of various kinds.\n\nOne of the most interesting and valuable of the species of Musa is the\nWild Plantain (Musa textilis) of the Philippine Islands. The fiber\nobtained from this plant is the Manila or Cebu hemp of commerce, which\nis used, in this country, mainly for the manufacture of binding twines,\ncordage and mats. In France the finer fibers are quite extensively used\nfor the manufacture of fine veils, crapes, hats, delicate underclothing\nand many other articles of apparel. The natives of the Philippines call\nthis fiber Abaca. It is called Manila because most of the fiber is\nexported from the seaport of that name. We are told that \"Manila hemp\nbegan to be used extensively in this country, in Salem and Boston, in\n1824 to 1827.\"\n\nProbably the most peculiar of all the species is the Chinese banana\n(Musa Cavendishii), which is extensively cultivated in China and\nthroughout the South Sea Islands. It is a dwarf, the plant seldom\nattaining a height of more than six feet. It is robust and yields a\ngreat harvest of fruit, a single bunch bearing from two hundred to\nthree hundred bananas, the flavor of which is excellent.\n\nThe opposite of the Chinese form is the Abyssinian (Musa ensete), which\nmay be called the giant plantain. It attains a height of thirty or more\nfeet and the leaves are sometimes twenty feet long by three feet wide.\nThe fruit is pulpless and dry, but the inner part of the stalk and the\nyoung stalks are boiled and used for food. It is without doubt the most\nhandsome species of this wonderfully useful and beautiful group of\nplants.\n                                        William Kerr Higley.\n\n\n\n\n  +----------------------------------------------------------------- +\n  | Transcriber's Note:                                              |\n  |                                                                  |\n  | Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note.     |\n  |                                                                  |\n  | Punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant |\n  | form was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed.    |\n  |                                                                  |\n  | Ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained.            |\n  |                                                                  |\n  | Italicized words are surrounded by underline characters,         |\n  | _like this_.                                                     |\n  |                                                                  |\n  | The Contents table was added by the transcriber.                 |\n  +------------------------------------------------------------------+\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Birds and Nature, Vol. VIII, No. 2,\nSeptember 1900, by Various\n\n*** ","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":"\n\nAll rights reserved.  \nPublished in the United States by Ten Speed Press, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.  \nwww.crownpublishing.com  \nwww.tenspeed.com\n\nTen Speed Press and the Ten Speed Press colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2011 by Sunset Publishing Corporation\n\nFor photograph copyright information, see Credits.\n\nLibrary of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the publisher\n\neISBN: 978-1-60774-059-9\n\nv3.1\n\n# Contents\n\n_Cover_\n\n_Title Page_\n\n_Copyright_\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\nThe One-Block Garden Warm-Season Planting Plan and Timeline\n\nThe One-Block Garden Cool-Season Planting Plan and Timeline\n\nESSENTIAL GARDENING GUIDELINES\n\nBefore You Plant\n\nHow to Plant\n\nHow to Water\n\nHow to Fertilize\n\n**SUMMER**\n\nTHE STORY OF OUR SUMMER FEAST\n\nGARDEN\n\nSummer Garden Plan\n\nPROJECTS\n\nHow to Raise Honeybees (and Make Honey)\n\nHow to Make Cheese (Part I)\n\nFresh Chive Cheese\n\nOregano Queso Blanco\n\nHow to Make Beer\n\nSummer Wheat Beer\n\nBelgian Abbey Ale\n\nHow to Raise Chickens\n\nRECIPES\n\nSkillet-Roasted Edamame\n\nDeviled Cucumber Cups\n\nTempura Squash Blossoms\n\nTomato and Herb Salad with Fresh Chive Cheese\n\nWatermelon-Chile Salad\n\nPurslane-Cucumber Salad\n\nCr\u00e8me Fra\u00eeche\n\nCorn Soup with Roasted Poblanos and Zucchini Blossoms\n\n'Trombetta' Zucchini and Its Flowers\n\nOven-Baked Steak Fries with Green Chile Mayonnaise\n\nRosemary Potatoes Anna\n\nGrilled Summer Succotash\n\nPattypan Squash with Eggs\n\nWhole-Wheat Pizzas\n\nFresh Chive Cheese and 'Sweet Million' Tomato Sauce\n\nCorn and Zucchini\n\nCherry Tomato, Ricotta, Mint, and Chile\n\nPotato, Onion, and Gouda\n\n'Sweet Million' Tomato Sauce\n\nSummer Lemongrass Custards\n\nWatermelon, Cantaloupe, or Honeydew Sorbet\n\nPeppermint-Lemongrass Tisanes\n\n**Summer Preserved**\n\nCanned Heirloom Tomatoes\n\nDried Herbs\n\nDried Chiles\n\nDried Corn\n\nRoasted Poblanos for the Freezer\n\nSlow-Roasted Tomatoes for the Freezer\n\n**FALL**\n\nTHE STORY OF OUR FALL FEAST\n\nGARDEN\n\nFall Garden Plan\n\nPROJECTS\n\nHow to Make Wine\n\nSyrah\n\nChardonnay\n\nHow to Make Vinegar\n\nHow to Make Cheese (Part II)\n\nRicotta\n\nFromage Blanc\n\nFeta\n\nGouda\n\nHow to Grow Mushrooms\n\nHow to Make Olive Oil\n\nRECIPES\n\nFresh Apple Cider and Applesauce\n\nPickled Cocktail Mushrooms and Onions\n\nQuinoa Bites with Walnut Romesco\n\nCreamy Flageolet Dip with Red Pepper Sticks\n\nRoasted Spiced Butternut Squash Seeds\n\nRoasted Tomato-Fennel Soup\n\nHerb Vegetable Broth\n\nButternut Squash and 'Cipollini' Onion Soup\n\nGrilled Radicchio and Fennel Salad with Apples and Toasted Walnuts\n\n'Scarlet Emperor' Rago\u00fbt\n\nStuffed Poblanos with Red Pepper Sauce\n\nQuinoa Huaraches with Egg and Parsley Salad\n\nButternut Squash Gnocchi with Chard and Sage Brown Butter\n\nAncho Chile\u2013Sauced Noodles with Shiitakes and Butternut Squash\n\nMexican Skillet Eggs\n\nCreamy Scrambled Eggs with Oyster Mushrooms\n\nWhole-Wheat Rosemary Shortbreads\n\nWalnut-Honey Crisps\n\nHoney Ice Cream\n\nLemon-Thyme Ice Cream Sandwiches\n\nApple Cheese Puff\n\nButternut Squash Compote with Honey and Toasted Walnuts\n\nHomemade Butter and Buttermilk\n\nLast-Minute Pineapple Guava Preserves\n\n**WINTER**\n\nTHE STORY OF OUR WINTER FEAST\n\nGARDEN\n\nWinter Garden Plan\n\nPROJECTS\n\nHow to Make Salt\n\nHow to Make Escargots (from Your Own Garden Snails)\n\nGarlic Butter Escargots\n\nHow to Make Mead (Honey Wine)\n\nRECIPES\n\nArugula and Red Butterhead Lettuce Salad with Tangerines and Hard-Cooked Eggs\n\nWheat Berry Ciabatta\n\nEgg Cloud ( _Nuvolone_ )\n\nFeatherlight Pancakes\n\nEgg and Gouda Crepes\n\nKale Colcannon\n\nVegetable Shepherd's Pie\n\nRicotta Manicotti\n\nWinter Vegetable Chowder\n\nWheat Berry \"Risotto\" with Roasted Tomatoes and Broccoli Rabe\n\nBraised Winter Greens with Preserved Lemons and Red Chile\n\nCaramelized Tangerine and Ricotta Tart\n\nTangerine Honey Flan\n\nSticky Chewy Tangerine Marmalade\n\nPreserved Lemons\n\n**SPRING**\n\nTHE STORY OF OUR SPRING FEAST\n\nGARDEN\n\nSpring Garden Plan\n\nPROJECTS\n\nHow to Own (or Co-Own) a Dairy Cow\n\nHow to Make Tea\n\nRECIPES\n\nRadishes, Fresh Homemade Butter, and Salt\n\nFavas and Ricotta on Buttermilk Crackers\n\nGouda Goug\u00e8res\n\nCarrot and Beet Chips\n\nGarden Borscht\n\nMesclun Salad with Spring Beets and Dill\n\nNasturtium Salad with Omelet Ribbons\n\nWhole-Leaf Radish and Herb Salad\n\nGrilled Carrot Salad\n\nRoasted Beets and Tops with Tarragon\n\nFresh Pickled Beets (and Eggs)\n\nFive Ways with Fresh Eggs\n\nFava Leaf and Parsley Quiche\n\nStrawberries with Fromage Blanc and Lemon Honey\n\nStrawberry Crepes\n\nStrawberry Cr\u00e8me Fra\u00eeche Sherbet\n\nStrawberry Lemonade\n\n**A Spring Tea Party (because we could)**\n\nScone Tarts: Lemon, Strawberry, and Tangerine\n\nClotted Cream\n\nLemon Curd\n\nStrawberry Oven Jam\n\nTea Sandwich Trio\n\nEgg Nasturtium\n\nGouda Arugula\n\nGreen Onion\u2013Parsley\n\nWhole-Wheat Honey Sandwich Bread\n\nEPILOGUE\n\nACKNOWLEDGMENTS\n\nTHE ONE-BLOCK TEAM\n\nAPPENDIX: Regional Planting and Harvesting Timelines for Your Own One-Block Feasts\n\nINDEX\n\nPhoto Credits\n\n_The garden at Sunset_\n\n# Introduction\n\nIt's the start of the day at Sunset magazine. On the way to the coffee machine, I pass Kimberley and Margaret. Kimberley is an imaging specialist; she color-corrects the cascade of photographs that streams into our office every month. Margaret is our production coordinator, adjusting every detail of the layouts until the pages are ready for publication. But right now, Kimberley and Margaret are beekeepers. They're both in bulky white jumpsuits, with veiled helmets tucked under their arms, heading out to inspect our hives.\n\nAs for me, I'm carrying a white bucket filled with leftover spinach, fennel trimmings, and chile seeds. With my coffee in the other hand, I go out to see the girls\u2014the squawking hens in Sunset's test garden who dive-bomb the bucket as soon as I set it down. I collect a couple of still-warm eggs from the nest box and go back inside, past the egg sign-up sheet with its list of colleagues waiting their turn for eggs, past the big crocks of vinegar with their bracingly tangy smell, and into the kitchen to put away the eggs. It makes me happy to know that our under-the-counter fridge holds wheels of Gouda that we made a few weeks ago from the milk of our own cow, that the latest batch of beer is percolating in a corner, and that the shelves in the pantry are lined with bottles of our own olive oil and jars of honey from the hives.\n\nAlthough it may sound like we're running a farm here, we aren't. Our main business is putting out a monthly lifestyle magazine about the West. But the Sunset office is a little different from other magazine offices.\n\nIt was designed by its longtime former owners, Bill and Mel Lane, to be what Bill liked to call \"a laboratory of Western living.\" On its five acres, landscape architect Thomas Church planted extensive gardens that start with the cacti of the Southwest and arc over to the ferns and firs of Washington and Oregon, with California redwoods in between. The Lanes installed a test garden, too, for trialing the newest flowers, fruits, and vegetables, so we could tell our readers which varieties to count on. The building itself, constructed in the early 1950s by architect Cliff May, embodied the then-new idea of outdoor living, with sliding glass doors to bring in the view, tile floors that flowed from inner rooms to outer patios, and courtyards with shady overhangs and comfortable seating. Many of the home stories in the magazine over the years have focused on bringing the outdoors in and vice versa. We've built patios in our parking lots, put together an adobe oven, and made all kinds of garden structures\u2014from tool sheds to benches to raised beds\u2014and published the plans. In the sand volleyball court we used to have, we once pit-roasted a pig, Hawaiian style. It ended in a visit from the fire department, but in a laboratory, not all experiments go smoothly.\n\nIn the kitchen, we made a point of celebrating Western foods like Meyer lemons and abalone, starting when some of them were barely known outside the West. (One of my favorite bits of display type, from a 1970 article: \"It's endlessly versatile. It's a dip, a sauce, a dressing, a spread. It's _guacamole_.\") We've been fans of local eating for a long time. So we were thrilled when, several years ago, it became a bona fide movement: People everywhere were seeking out ingredients close to home, grown by farmers they could meet or at least learn about. It was civilized and humane, healthy in the largest sense of the word, and it produced great-tasting food.\n\nAs we saw people (even restaurants) setting food-gathering boundaries for themselves, experimenting with 150-mile, 100-mile, and even 50-mile diets, we looked around at our living laboratory\u2014which occupies a full city block\u2014and thought, why don't we try a one-block diet? It would take local eating to its logical conclusion, since you can't get much more local than your own back yard. Starting in May, we'd grow everything we needed in our organic garden for an end-of-summer feast in August. (Our planting plans and timelines are included here.)\n\nTo make it interesting, we'd raise more than just plants. We would figure out how to make absolutely everything we needed for a well-rounded meal, from protein to cooking fat to seasonings to sweetener to even wine\u2014the kinds of ingredients you would typically buy at the store, even if you're a dedicated locavore.\n\nAlmost before we knew it, we had formed Team Chicken, Team Olive Oil, and Team Bee to explore exactly how to produce the eggs, oil, and honey that we wanted. Several other teams materialized\u2014you'll read about them in the first chapter\u2014and we became like an old-fashioned neighborhood of do-it-yourselfers heading for the best block party ever.\n\nAfter a little more thought, we decided that the block should be reduced to a medium- to large-size backyard, so that it would be easier for our readers to replicate all that we were planning. We began describing our adventures on a blog, called One-Block Diet (http:\/\/oneblockdiet.sunset.com), where we recorded what worked and what didn't, the practical tips we learned from experts, and the fun we had.\n\nBy the time we sat down to our summer feast in August, the project had assumed a larger life. Various strands of it were still evolving: for instance, the Syrah we'd made was nowhere near ready to drink (it was still aging); our cheeses were tasty, but we wanted to explore making different and more ambitious kinds; and we thought it would be fascinating to turn our honey into mead. We found ourselves not only continuing the projects we'd started, but coming up with new ones and planning menus for the seasons ahead. And pretty soon it all added up to this book, with extra recipes developed along the way.\n\nHowever, we ended up doing our research in fits and starts, skipping to winter and then to fall and back to spring. For the sake of seasonal continuity and flow, and so that our plan is helpful to anyone following it, I've condensed some of our experiences and adjusted dates where it made sense.\n\nWhen we started the project, we knew nothing about the time-honored skills we were trying to explore, apart from gardening and cooking. We had no idea how to make wine, or keep bees, or milk a cow. We are people with full-time office jobs and home lives, and yet we found that all of these things are completely possible and extremely rewarding.\n\nAlthough this book is as comprehensive as we could possibly make it, with recipes that use only what we grew or raised ourselves, we designed it to be a resource that anyone\u2014backyard garden or no\u2014could dip into and still really enjoy. All the recipes work with store-bought or farmers' market ingredients, for instance. And even if you choose just one project, like homemade vinegar, you will feel the undeniable pride that is part of what makes food from scratch so rewarding.\n\nBut if you want to dive in deeper, say, and collaborate with your neighbors so that one of you raises chickens and another bees, and maybe the woman on the corner grows tomatoes and corn, and your buddy across the street makes the beer\u2014then just imagine how great your block parties could be.\n\n**HOW TO USE THIS BOOK**\n\nAlthough there's a lot of advice and information in this book, we designed it to be used by all kinds of readers and meet different kinds of needs.\n\nMake a Fast Recipe\n\nSay it's a Monday night after work, and you want a quick recipe for that nice farmers' market produce you just bought. You'll find dozens of choices here\u2014actually, more than half of the recipes in the book take less than an hour.\n\nPlant a Vegetable or Two\n\nOr, try growing some of that produce yourself. We've provided planting and harvesting advice for every fruit or vegetable in the book, in the sections titled \"Garden.\" We also have a short section on gardening basics.\n\nGrow a Whole Feast\u2014or All Four\n\nIf you want to grow and cook an entire seasonal feast, like we did, you can decide which menu sounds appealing (every chapter begins with one) and then follow that menu's planting plan, which is included in the garden section. The recipes we cooked for our feasts\u2014plus more dishes we developed using that season's ingredients\u2014are at the end of the chapter. Or if you're an expert gardener who enjoys a challenge, check out the warm-season and cool-season planting plans that will take you through a whole year of one-block feasts\u2014and some really interesting plants, too.\n\nMake Food from Scratch\n\nMaybe you love the idea of from-scratch cooking and want to make as much of your own food as possible. Our project guides can help you make cheese, olive oil, vinegar, beer (from wheat, barley, and hops), and wine; and even salt from seawater. These are true adventures, and will change the way you look at food. You'll be surprised by how easy some of them are.\n\nRaise Food-Producing Animals\n\nOnce, \"A Chicken in Every Pot\" was a countrywide dream; now it seems to be a chicken (or flock) in every backyard. If you're curious about getting laying hens, read our guide on this page. We've also included guides to raising honeybees and a dairy cow.\n\nOr Just Read\n\nAnd, if you just want to plop on the sofa and read a story, we wrote one for you. The chapter introductions describe our successes and failures as we gardened, cooked, and otherwise worked our way toward making the book you have in your hands.\n\nLastly, if you see something you especially like in these pages (or omissions or errors), or want to share your stories about raising your own food, let us know! Come comment on our facebook page for this book, www.facebook.com\/SunsetMagazine, or stop by our blog about this project, <http:\/\/oneblockdiet.sunset.com>, whose readers have helped shape and improve everything we've done.\n\n## THE ONE BLOCK GARDEN:  \n _Warm-Season Planting Plan_\n\nThe illustrations and timelines on this page and immediately following show every plant we raised for our one-block feasts, with dimensions indicating how much space we allotted for each. Some plants from the warm-season garden (like the citrus trees, most of the herbs, the fennel, and the butternut squash) remain in the cool-season garden plan, either because we used them during the cool season or because we relied on them year-round.\n\nPlanting and Harvesting Timeline for Northern California\n\nThe timeline below shows when we planted and harvested all the crops for our four seasonal one-block feasts in Menlo Park, California; the information on specific crops in the garden section of each chapter reflects the general guidelines for each plant. If you live outside Northern California, turn to this page for other region-specific planting and harvesting timelines. To learn how to produce your own transplants (seedlings) from seed, see Starting Plants from Seed.\n\n10 feet\n\nKey\n\nColors indicate the seasonal feasts that use these crops and in which chapter you'll find growing instructions for them:\n\n  = summer (see this page)\n\n  = fall (see this page)\n\n  = winter (see this page)\n\n  = spring (see this page)\n\n  = seed\n\n  = transplant\n\n  = plant (gallon-can size or larger)\n\n  = bare-root\n\n  = start any time of year\n\n### MARCH\n\n**PLANT**\n\n**25.** Chives\n\n**21.** Lemon tree (any time in mild climates, but best in spring after last frost)\n\n**19.** Marjoram (and year-round)\n\n**7.** Nasturtiums\n\n**18.** Oregano (and year-round)\n\n**20.** Parsley (and for fall and spring feasts; succession sow; replant in cool season)\n\n**10.** Peppermint\n\n**3.** **11.** Potatoes (from seed potatoes; plant in towers or trenches)\n\n**14.** Rosemary (and year-round)\n\n**15.** Tangerine tree\n\n**16.** Tarragon, French\n\n**17.** Thyme (and year-round)\n\n**PROJECTS**\n\nBEER (for spring feast)\n\nBEES (through April)\n\n### APRIL\n\n**PLANT**\n\n**26.** Basil (in batches, every 2 weeks through August)\n\n**2.** Beans (through August)\n\n**5.** Chiles (and for fall feast; through May)\n\n**30.** Corn (in batches, every 2 weeks through August)\n\n**22.** Cucumbers\n\n**24.** Edamame (in batches, every 2 weeks through May)\n\n**13.** Hops (through May)\n\n**23.** Lemongrass\n\n**12.** Pattypan squash, 'Bennings Green Tint' (in May)\n\n**12.** Pattypan squash, 'Sunburst' (in May)\n\n**5.** Peppers (through August)\n\n**8.** Pineapple guava\n\n**6.** Purslane\n\n**4.** Quinoa\n\n**28.** Tomatoes (through May)\n\n**32.** Zucchini\n\n**PROJECTS**\n\n**9.** TEA\n\nCOW\n\n### MAY\n\n**PLANT**\n\n**31.** Butternut squash (through June)\n\n**29.** Melons (through June)\n\n**1.** Florence fennel (through August)\n\n**HARVEST**\n\n  All crops for spring feast\n\n### JUNE\n\n**HARVEST**\n\n  Barley (planted in November)\n\n  Onions, 'Spanish White' (planted in October) and let cure\n\n  Potatoes\n\n  Wheat (planted in January)\n\n**PROJECTS**\n\nBEER (for summer feast)\n\nCHEESE\n\n### JULY\n\n**HARVEST**\n\n  Garlic (planted in October) and let cure\n\n  Onions, cippolini (planted in February) and let cure\n\n### AUGUST\n\n**HARVEST**\n\n  All other crops for summer feast\n\n**PROJECTS**\n\nCHICKENS (buy chicks; raise indoors until fully feathered, 8 to 10 weeks)\n\n## THE ONE BLOCK GARDEN:  \n _Cool-Season Planting Plan_\n\nPlanting and Harvesting Timeline for Northern California\n\n10 feet\n\nKey\n\nCrops not numbered or mentioned are carryovers from the warm-season planting plan. Colors indicate the seasonal feasts that use these crops:\n\n  = summer (see this page)\n\n  = fall (see this page)\n\n  = winter (see this page)\n\n  = spring (see this page)\n\n  = seed\n\n  = transplant\n\n  = plant (gallon-can size or larger)\n\n  = bare-root\n\n  = start any time of year\n\n### SEPTEMBER\n\n**PLANT**\n\n(If using seeds for crops below, start them in August)\n\n**18.** Arugula (also for spring feast; succession sow through March)\n\n**9.** Broccoli rabe\n\n**10.** Broccoli romanesco\n\n**16.** Cabbage, Savoy (through October)\n\n**11.** Cauliflower\n\n**14.** Kale, Tuscan\n\n**15.** Kale, Curly-Leafed\n\n**17.** Lettuce, Red Butterhead\n\n**12.** Mustard (every few weeks through December)\n\n**20.** Radicchio\n\n**13.** Swiss chard (and for winter feast; through January)\n\n**19.** Thyme\n\n**HARVEST**\n\n**26.** Hop flowers and let dry\n\n### LATE SEPTEMBER\u2013EARLY OCTOBER\n\n**PLANT**\n\n**23.** Parsley (also for spring and summer feasts; succession sow February through March)\n\n**22.** Sage\n\n**HARVEST**\n\n**1.** Quinoa\n\n**PROJECTS**\n\nWINE (harvest and crush grapes)\n\n### OCTOBER\n\n**PLANT**\n\n**2.** Fava beans\n\n**27.** Garlic (late October to early November, from cloves)\n\n**25.** Onions, 'Spanish white'   or sets\n\n**HARVEST**\n\n  All crops for fall feast\n\n**PROJECTS**\n\nMUSHROOMS (order logs  ; plant morels)\n\n### NOVEMBER\n\n**PLANT**\n\n**1.** Barley (after harvesting quinoa; through February)\n\n**PROJECTS**\n\nOLIVE OIL\n\nVINEGAR\n\n### JANUARY\n\n**PLANT**\n\n**24.** Strawberries (into February)\n\n**28.** Wheat\n\n**PROJECTS**\n\nSALT\n\nESCARGOTS\n\nMEAD\n\n### FEBRUARY\n\n**PLANT**\n\n**4.** Beets (through August)\n\n**3.** Carrots\n\n**7.** Chervil (through March)\n\n**8.** Dill\n\n**21.** Green onions\n\n**6.** Mesclun (through mid-March for late spring harvest)\n\n**5.** Radishes (through June)\n\n**26.** Onions, cippolini (very end of February)     or sets\n\n**HARVEST**\n\n  All crops for winter feast\n\n# Essential Gardening Guidelines\n\nThe following information is bare-bones basic for organic gardening. If you would like to learn about mulching (to keep soil moist and squelch weed growth), ways to protect young plants (with row covers, netting, or fencing), training and staking plants, and other details about organic fruit and vegetable gardening, see our _Western Garden Book of Edibles_ (Sunset Publishing Corporation, 2010). For specifics on how to grow each plant we raised for our feasts, see the garden guides at the beginnings of the first four chapters in this book. Because growing conditions vary by region (and even within neighborhoods), the best source for local planting information is your county's agricultural cooperative extension office; find yours at www.csrees.usda.gov\/Extension\/index.html.\n\n## BEFORE YOU PLANT\n\nIt is extremely tempting to put your seeds and seedlings in the ground right away. But if you want them to flourish and feed you well, you must create a hospitable environment for them first. The two most important elements are sun and soil.\n\n### Sun: More Is Better\n\nMost vegetables, herbs, and fruits need 6 to 8 hours of full sun daily. Plant them in a spot that is not shaded by buildings, trees, or shrubs. Shadows lengthen in fall and winter to the north of tall structures, so use a compass to figure out where north lies, and make sure any tall plants or structures to the south won't cast shadows over your growing bounty.\n\n### Soil: The First Ingredient\n\nRich, well-drained soil gives your plants the edge they need to produce abundant, flavorful harvests with minimal attention. If your garden is organic, as ours is, keeping the soil healthy is key to plant health, too.\n\n#### ASSESSING YOUR SOIL\n\nHow do you know whether your soil is good, just okay, or a plant-killing disaster? Most soils fall more or less into one of these three categories.\n\n**Loam** This is the good stuff, dark, rich, crumbly, and wonderful-smelling, especially when slightly damp. It drains well but doesn't dry out too fast, can hold nutrients longer than other soil types, and contains enough air for healthy root growth. Give it the squeeze test: Thoroughly wet a patch of soil and let it dry out for a day. Then, pick up a handful and squeeze it firmly in your fist. If it is slightly crumbly but still holds a loose ball, it's loam.\n\n**Clay (heavy) soils** These are made up of very small particles that pack together tightly, producing a compact mass with microscopic pore spaces (the areas between soil particles). Because water and nutrients percolate slowly through the tiny spaces, drainage usually takes a while. It's not easy for roots to penetrate clay soil, and during long rainy spells (or if overwatered), the soil stays wet, sometimes to the point of causing root rot. When subjected to the squeeze test, heavy soil forms a tight, slippery ball.\n\n**Sandy (light) soils** At the other end of the spectrum are soils with large, irregularly rounded particles and large spaces between them that allow water and nutrients to drain away freely. Plants growing in sand are unlikely to suffer root rot, but you need to water them more often to keep their roots moist. The frequent watering leaches nutrients away, so you'll have to fertilize more often, too. Try the squeeze test: If the soil feels gritty, doesn't hold its shape, and crumbles in your hand, it's sandy.\n\n#### FIXING YOUR SOIL\n\n**Compost** This \"gardener's gold\" is an easy, natural way to create good soil. Plenty of compost loosens clay soils and improves drainage. Added to sandy soils, it increases moisture retention by wedging into the large pore spaces between the soil particles. To learn how to make it yourself, see Cultivating Compost, below. You can also buy bagged compost at nurseries.\n\nA few days before planting, dampen the soil slightly to make it easier to dig. With a spading fork (also known as a digging or garden fork), dig to a depth of about 10 inches, breaking up clods of earth and removing any stones, weeds, and debris as you go.\n\nSpread a hefty layer of compost (3 to 6 inches) over the soil and fork it in, along with granular controlled-release fertilizer (see How to Fertilize). Then level the bed with a rake, breaking up any remaining clods. Water well and let the improved soil settle.\n\nEach time you replant a bed with new crops, you'll first need to rejuvenate the soil by repeating these steps, but adding only 1 to 2 inches of compost instead of 3 to 6 inches. Your soil will get progressively fluffier and richer.\n\nCULTIVATING COMPOST\n\nIn the Sunset test garden, we have two side-by-side wooden-slat bins that look like big open crates. We also like the three-bin system often used for composting, which can handle a greater amount of material, but our garden doesn't have room. One of our two bins holds a \"hot\" pile and the other a \"cold\" pile. The \"hot\" pile you build all at once, and you get finished compost in about 3 months. The \"cold\" pile, which you build gradually, breaks down more slowly. Having the two piles gives us a way to deal with both a whole load of raw materials at once and a smaller, steadier stream from the garden and kitchen.\n\nBuild a Two-Bin Compost System\n\n**1. Set up bins** You can use pretty much any kind of bin\u2014wooden, plastic, or chicken wire shaped around rebar\u2014set directly on the soil. That way, beneficial fungi, bacteria, and worms have a better chance of finding their way into the compost, and the bins keep the piles from getting messy. Ours are 3 feet square (the minimum size for efficient \"hot\" composting), about 3 feet tall, and\/or open on the top and one end for easy pile turning.\n\n**2. Add materials** Any compost pile has four main ingredients: **browns** (carbon), including dried grass, dried leaves, woody stems, straw, and eggshells, with the biggest pieces no larger than 6 inches; **greens** (nitrogen), including animal manure (not dog or cat), fresh grass, fresh leaves and other fresh plant parts (stalks, roots), coffee grounds and kitchen scraps (no fat or meat), and coffee grounds (with the biggest pieces no larger than 6 inches); **water,** usually with rainfall and condensation providing all that is needed to keep the pile as moist as a wrung-out sponge; and **air,** which reaches the compost through the open top and front of the bin. **To keep out of your compost:** Weeds with seedheads, cat and dog feces, disease- or insect-infested plants, meat scraps, and copious amounts of other food scraps (keep the food scraps to less than 50 percent of the greens; otherwise, they will rot and attract flies and rodents). Feed both piles a good range of greens and browns. Treat your compost like your diet\u2014diversity is best.\n\n**3. Build and tend the hot pile** Alternate 6-inch-thick layers of browns and greens, watering each layer thoroughly and ending with a brown layer. This is a great place to toss the still-green summer crops you ripped out at the end of the season.  \nThe pile will heat up from the inside over the next week or so. Then use a spading fork to \"turn\" (that is, mix) the pile, and keep turning it once a week. We drag all of it out onto a tarp to turn it and then pile it back in the bin.  \nYou'll have finished compost in about 3 months. It's ready when the majority of the contents smell and look like lush, earthy, dark brown soil. It might need to be sifted if harder-to-break-down additions (like branches) haven't decomposed.\n\n**4. Build the cold pile** You worry less about the ratio of browns to greens in a cold pile. Just toss in whatever might be coming from the garden or kitchen. It decomposes from the bottom up and no turning or any other maintenance is necessary: If it starts to smell, add more browns. It's ready when it turns a rich, dark brown; smells earthy; and has the look and feel of coffee grounds, which can take from 6 to 12 months.\n\nOur two-bin setup is not a perfect system. The space isn't big enough to hold all of the garden scraps, and can't produce enough compost to feed all of our new plantings, so we end up buying bagged compost from the garden store.\n\nBut it's a start, and we have one thing working strongly in our favor: readily available chicken excrement from our coop to add to both piles. This amendment, high in nitrogen, jump-starts any pile's breakdown. You need to let it age in the compost pile for at least a month, however, before you can use the compost on plants. Otherwise, it will burn them.\n\nWe get immense satisfaction out of shoveling the chicken poop into the compost bin, and a satisfaction just as great from putting finished compost back out into the planting beds. We feel like we're helping along one of nature's most miraculous systems: using \"waste\" to become food once again. Not everyone would get such pleasure out of shoveling crap. But we like seeing the loop close, so we wouldn't have it any other way.\n\n _\u2014Johanna Silver_\n\n_The \"hot\" pile_\n\n## HOW TO PLANT\n\nOnce you have prepared your soil and let it settle for a few days, your garden is ready to be planted. You can buy seeds and start your own plants, sow seeds directly in the ground, or buy transplants (seedlings) from a nursery. With seeds, you can order exactly what you want from a mail-order company if your local nursery doesn't carry it. Seek out All America Selections (AAS) seeds whenever possible. They have been judged as winners for their stellar performance in trials across the country by the AAS, a nonprofit organization whose mission is to promote new garden-seed varieties. Nursery transplants are more expensive, and the choice is more limited, but they can be planted immediately.\n\n### Starting Plants from Seed\n\nWhen you start your plants from seed, you can experiment with more varieties than you ever knew existed. (Many of our one-block crops are only available as seeds.) It's also a fascinating science project and an exercise in patience and care.\n\nSeeds are dormant until placed in a moist medium (such as potting mix) that encourages germination. We start ours in cell packs left over from buying seedlings, and either keep them in our garden's greenhouse until the seedlings are up before planting them outdoors, or sow them directly into the ground. Seed starting flats or peat pots, available at nurseries and home-supply stores, work too, and you don't need a greenhouse\u2014a bright indoor windowsill will work fine.\n\nWhen do you start seeds? For most warm-season vegetables, seeds should be sown in early spring (except in hot desert climates), so the plants are ready to set out in the garden when the weather has warmed up. For cool-season crops, you want the seedlings ready to plant in early spring or in fall. Each packet will give you exact guidelines for when to start that particular seed. The label will specify any special care the seedlings might need, too, like a heating mat set underneath the cell pack to speed germination. The packet will also tell you whether the plant does best sown directly in the ground (certain crops, like carrots, prefer not to be transplanted). For tips on direct sowing, see opposite.\n\n#### FOUR SEED-STARTING SECRETS\n\n**1. Use a light, fluffy soil mix** Make sure you use potting mix instead of planting soil or compost. Potting mixes or soils contain all the necessary ingredients (perlite, vermiculite, peat moss) to stay light and fluffy and drain properly. Dampen the soil before you sow your seeds.\n\n**2. Plant more seeds than you need** Whether sown directly in the ground or into cell packs, it's a good idea to plant double the amount of seeds you think you need. In the ground, this means to drop two seeds, instead of one seed, into each hole. In cell packs, sow eight tomato seeds if you want four tomato plants. That way, you'll have backups in case any of the seeds fail to germinate. You can always carefully separate the starts, pot up the extras, and pass them along to friends or coworkers.\n\n**3. Plant shallow** Sow seeds twice as deep as the seed is wide. This means barely under the surface for tiny seeds like lettuce or carrots and about \u00bc inch deep for crops such as squash. And you don't need to pat the seeds into the soil. You can just sprinkle soil on top of them; it really is okay.\n\n_Shallow-furrow sowing_\n\n**4. Water thoroughly** Once you have sown your seeds, sprinkle them gently but thoroughly with water. Be extremely diligent about keeping the seeds moist until they germinate (sprout).\n\n#### PLANTING SEEDLINGS (TRANSPLANTS)\n\n**1. Move the seedlings to a halfway house** Once the seedlings have developed their first true leaves, transplant each one to its own pot (a 4-inch-deep pot is ideal) before hardening it off and putting it into the ground. Or, you can keep the seedlings in their cell packs until the second set of true leaves appear, then harden them off and transplant directly into the ground. If you opt to transplant the seedlings to pots, here is how to do it:\n\n\u2022 Fill the pots with potting mix, moisten the mix, and let it drain.\n\n\u2022 Remove each seedling from its cell pack by gently squeezing the sides of the pack with one hand, turning the pack on its side, and then cradling the soil ball between two fingers of your other hand as you tip the seedling out.\n\n\u2022 Poke a hole in the moistened potting mix. Carefully lift a seedling and its root-ball, keeping your fingers under it for support, and ease it into the hole in the potting mix. Firm the mix around the base of the seedling.\n\n\u2022 Once all the seedlings are transplanted, water them immediately, then set the pots in bright light in the greenhouse or indoors near a window (but keep them out of direct sunlight for a few days).\n\n\u2022 Feed the seedlings weekly with an all-purpose ferti\u00adlizer sold for starting seeds or with a liquid fertilizer diluted to half-strength. When they sprout a couple more leaves, they are ready to be hardened off.\n\n**2. \"Harden off\" the seedlings** The seedlings will need to be gradually acclimated to the outdoors before they are planted permanently outside. This process, called hardening off, prevents transplant shock and will help your seedlings thrive once they are in the ground. The seed packets will tell you when to begin the process.\n\nOver the course of a week or so, take the 4-inch pots of seedlings (or the seedlings in cell packs if you have decided against the halfway house) outdoors for several hours each day, steadily increasing the amount of time until you are leaving them outdoors all night. Bring your babies indoors, though, should the temperature suddenly spike or drop. If you buy your transplants at a nursery, they are already hardened off and can be planted directly in the garden (see next step).\n\n**3. Transplant the plants into the garden** Dig a hole the same depth as the 4-inch pot and an inch or two wider. Ease the plant out of the pot. Try not to disturb the roots, unless the root-ball is very tight. If that's the case, tease apart the roots a little to encourage them to grow out, rather than around and around in a coil. Place each plant in its hole so that the top of the root-ball is even with the soil surface. (Tomatoes are an exception; they are planted more deeply.) Firm the soil around the roots, then water with a gentle flow that won't disturb the soil or the roots.\n\n#### SOWING SEEDS DIRECTLY IN THE GARDEN\n\nMany vegetables grow best if you plant the seeds in the garden from the start. These include root crops (carrots, beets, radishes, turnips, and parsnips), as well as corn, peas, and beans.\n\nSow the seeds after the soil has warmed up to at least 60\u00b0F. You can check the temperature with an instant-read kitchen thermometer or a soil thermometer, available at garden shops. Read the seed packet (or the plant entries in this book) for more information on when to sow each crop. Make sure that the soil is loose and finely crumbled, so the tiny seedlings can push through. Refer to the plant entries or to the seed packet for the proper planting depth; seeds planted too deep won't sprout. As with seeds you start indoors, plant them twice as deep as the seed is wide.\n\nTo be sure you get enough plants, sow a lot of seeds close together. Then, when the seedlings are 1 to 2 inches tall, thin the seedlings to their proper spacing (specified in the plant entries and on seed packets).\n\nYou can sow three different ways:\n\n**_Shallow furrows_** This is the most common way to sow. Use a trowel or the corner of a hoe to make a furrow the correct depth for the seeds you are planting. Sow the seeds evenly, then pat the soil gently over them. To make straight rows, stretch a string between two stakes and plant beneath it. Or, lay a board on the soil and plant along its edge.\n\n**_Clusters_** This is a traditional way to grow sprawling plants like squash and melons, because it gives them more room. Sow five or six seeds in a circle and pat soil over them. Check the plant entries or the seed packet for how far apart to space the circles.\n\n**_Broadcast_** Scattering seeds in wide bands instead of planting in rows is more space efficient for smaller crops, such as lettuces, carrots, or radishes. Scatter the seeds evenly over the soil. Cover by scattering soil over the seeds or by raking gently, first in one direction and then perpendicular to it.\n\nAfter sowing, water the planted area with a fine mist, being careful not to dislodge the seeds. You want to keep the soil moist but not soggy, and also prevent it from forming a crust (so that the germinating seed won't bang its head against a ceiling). In hot weather, covering the soil with damp burlap helps retain moisture. Be sure to remove the burlap as soon as the seeds begin to sprout. If you plan to water with basins or furrows, dig them before you sow your seeds.\n\nHOW TO STORE LEFTOVER SEEDS\n\nUsually a packet gives you more seeds than you can use. If the leftover seeds are stored airtight in a cool, dark place, they will last for at least another year, especially if they were fresh when you bought them. (Check the date on the packet before buying.)\n\nTo store the seeds, put them (in their packets for easy identification) in mason jars, resealable heavy plastic bags, or sturdy plastic containers, and stick them in the freezer. If you're not certain whether your seeds are viable, wrap them in a moistened paper towel, pop them in a resealable plastic bag, and put the bag in the sun. If they sprout in the time specified on the packet, they're good for planting.\n\n## HOW TO WATER\n\nEvery garden has different needs depending on the weather, the soil, the age and variety of the plant(s), and a host of other factors, so figuring out the best way to water is an ongoing learning process. What follows are general guidelines. For more specific information on the watering requirements of a particular crop, see the plant entries in each season.\n\n### Frequency\n\nWater new transplants at least once a day in 60\u00b0 to 70\u00b0F weather and up to two or three times a day when it's hot and windy. Your goal is to keep the soil moist but not soggy. As the plants grow and their roots reach deeper, you can water less frequently. In general, vegetables that are flowering or beginning to set fruit, form heads, or develop edible roots need to be watered more often than older plants.\n\nYour soil texture also influences how often you need to water. Clay soils need less frequent watering than loam soils, and loam soils can be watered less frequently than sandy soils. (For more on soil types, see this page.)\n\n### Amount\n\nOnce the plants are established, water them deeply enough to moisten the entire root zone. This encourages roots to grow down farther. Deeper roots have access to more moisture, which allows the plants to go longer between waterings. Frequent shallow sprinklings are inefficient because they encourage shallow root growth, which leaves plants subject to stress from heat and drying winds. To check water penetration in your soil, dig a hole with a trowel after watering.\n\n### Ways to Water\n\nWe used the following methods in our one-block garden:\n\n**By hand with a sprinkler hose or watering can** Using a sprinkler nozzle on the end of a hose or a watering can with a sprinkler snout is useful for newly seeded beds, new transplants, and container plants because you can apply the water gently and put it exactly where it's needed. This method also rinses away dust and discourages certain pests (especially spider mites). Sprinkling has some disadvantages, as well. It wastes water through evaporation, particularly in windy weather. It may also encourage leaf diseases on some crops, especially in humid climates. The best time to water by hand is in the morning (leaves will dry off during the day) when the air is still.\n\n**By hand, flooding a basin or furrow** Basins, which are used to water large fruiting plants such as our lemon tree, tea bushes, and pineapple guava tree, are doughnut-shaped depressions in the soil surrounding the plants. As the plants grow, you need to expand the basins. Furrows, or shallow ditches, dug near smaller plants that are growing in rows work well on level ground. Broad, shallow furrows are generally better than deep, narrow ones: The wider the furrow, the wider the root area you can soak, since water moves primarily downward rather than sideways. To avoid damaging the roots, dig basins and furrows before you set out plants or sow seeds. Furrows are great because they are a fast, efficient way to reach the plants' roots.\n\n**Soaker hoses** These are long tubes made of perforated or porous plastic or rubber with hose fittings at one end. When you attach a soaker to a hose and turn on the water supply, water seeps or sprinkles from the soaker along its entire length. Soakers are ideal for irrigating rows of vegetables. To water beds, snake the soaker back and forth around the plants. To water trees, coil a soaker around the outer edges of the root zone. Soakers water efficiently and evenly, but you have to be there to turn on the hose.\n\n**Drip irrigation** Drip systems deliver water slowly by drip emitters that you attach to plastic tubing yourself, or by emitter lines, tubes with factory-installed emitters spaced at regular intervals. Emitters can be adjusted so that the water is applied directly over plant roots, reducing your water use. Because most of the surface is not moistened, drip systems also cut down on weed growth. Drip-irrigation kits and supplies are sold by agricultural-supply stores, retail nurseries, garden centers, and mail-order suppliers.\n\n_Drip irrigation_\n\n## HOW TO FERTILIZE\n\nFirst, you'll need to figure out the label. All fertilizer labels list the percentage by weight of three primary nutrients, in this order: nitrogen (N), phosphorus (P), and potassium (K). Fertilizers labeled \"general purpose\" or \"all-purpose\" are complete fertilizers, meaning they contain all three nutrients. For example, a fertilizer labeled 10-10-10 contains 10 percent nitrogen, 10 percent phosphorus, and 10 percent potassium. A fertilizer labeled 20-10-5 contains more nitrogen (N) than the other nutrients, so it's sometimes called a high-nitrogen fertilizer. Complete fertilizers can be liquid, granular, or pellets.\n\n### Choosing Fertilizers\n\nLight feeders such as lettuce, radishes, and tomatoes that have been planted in rich soil well amended with compost rarely, if ever, need supplemental fertilizer. But many other crops, including melons and onions, need extra food to thrive. Where fertilizer is called for in this book, we most often use the types listed below.\n\n**Fish emulsion** This creamy, brown, sometimes fishy-smelling liquid fertilizer is made from whole fish, or oils and by-products of processed fish. Dilute it with water according to label directions and apply it with a watering can. (We also use it as a foliar spray for an added boost.) It is fast acting, slightly acidic, and relatively mild.\n\n**Granular organic blend** Dr. Earth granular fertilizer for tomatoes, vegetables, and herbs is a 5-7-3 formulation that combines fish bonemeal, kelp meal, alfalfa meal, soft rock phosphate, seaweed extract, potassium sulfate, and more. It is usually added during the growing season.\n\n**Controlled-release fertilizer** This is our one exception to organic gardening. We sometimes use it for containerized fruit trees, which tend to be heavy feeders. The beadlike granules release nutrients gradually\u2014the rate depends on temperature, weather, and moisture\u2014over several months. Scatter and dig the granules into freshly prepared soil at the rate of about 3 tablespoons for every 4 square feet.\n\n_\u2014Kathleen N. Brenzel and Johanna Silver_\n\n_The Summer Garden_\n\n#  SUMMER\n\n_The One-Block Summer Feast_\n\nSkillet-Roasted Edamame  \nDeviled Cucumber Cups\n\nCorn Soup with Roasted Poblanos and Zucchini Blossoms\n\nTomato and Herb Salad with Fresh Chive Cheese  \nRosemary Potatoes Anna  \nPattypan Squash with Eggs\n\nWatermelon, Cantaloupe, or Honeydew Sorbets  \nPeppermint-Lemongrass Tisane\n\nChardonnay and Summer Wheat Beer\n\nIt all started with the menu. In the Sunset kitchen in mid-May, we cooks dreamed about the end-of-summer dishes we wanted to make: Peppery arugula salads with a rainbow of ripe tomatoes in oranges and yellows, greens and purples, reds and pinks. A platter of avocados and oranges with paper-thin red onions. Sweet corn on the cob, definitely. Ripe figs, because we had spotted a vine growing out back.\n\nWith a tentative menu drawn up, we sat down with the garden department and got a reality check. Arugula, a cool-season crop, would wilt in our summer heat. Our fig vine had been pruned so severely the year before that it probably wouldn't bear much fruit\u2014not enough to plan on, anyway. We had no avocado trees, and even if we bought some young ones, they would take several years to produce.\n\nThere were consolations, however. We could grow good tomatoes, though they would be on the small side in our cool climate. Corn would not have the savory depth that it does in the Midwest, but it would be sweet and juicy. 'Yukon Gold' potatoes would be no problem. \"How about zucchini?\" suggested Lauren Swezey, our garden projects editor. \"Zucchini does really well here.\" Privately, I was crushed\u2014zucchini is just about the most boring summer vegetable I can think of. But then Lauren described a wondrous variety called 'Trombetta di Albenga'. She took out a seed packet with a picture on it. \"It curves like a trombone,\" she said. \"And it's sweet and a little crunchy. Completely delicious.\" We were sold.\n\nOver the next few days, we settled on a cooking fat (not peanut oil, because peanuts need a southern climate, or corn oil, because three cups would require about sixty pounds of corn, and we wanted to eat our corn). What Sunset did have were twenty-one olive trees, planted all around the property as landscaping back in the 1950s. They were loaded with fruit, and surely it wouldn't be too hard to figure out how to press it.\n\nFor seasoning, we would plant chiles, lemons, and potent summer herbs. And, because we lived close to the Pacific, it seemed worth trying to make some salt from seawater.\n\nWhat would we do for protein? Our menu sounded good, but gossamery. We asked ourselves what we were collectively capable of, and it did not include raising meat animals. Eggs and cheese seemed more doable. We could keep chickens right in the garden, and as for the milk for cheese, the closest dairy would do. We didn't dream (then) that we might someday have a cow.\n\nFor dessert, we'd need a sweetener, and honey seemed like the natural solution. Why not try keeping some bees? Plus, all those pollinators would help our crops produce.\n\nWithin a couple of weeks, we'd finalized our menu. I wandered out into the garden to imagine how it might all look. A pair of grapevines caught my eye. What if we made wine? Our little vines wouldn't supply enough grapes, but maybe we could find a vineyard nearby. Wine editor Sara Schneider loved the idea and agreed to launch Team Wine. In the meantime, Rick LaFrentz, our head gardener, volunteered to lead Team Beer. He had brewed at home using kits, and wanted to try planting barley, wheat, and hops to make beer from the ground up. It was intriguingly medieval of him.\n\nOur made-from-scratch project had not even started, and here we were, \"importing\" wine grapes and milk and ocean water. But we would transform the imports into foods that would be wholly our own: grapes into wine, milk into cheese, water into salt.\n\nItalians have a lovely word for the locally grown produce in their farmers' markets: _nostrani_ \u2014\"ours.\" It usually sells out first because it's often the best. That's exactly what this summer dinner would be, from start to finish. Ours.\n\nI walked around the office to see if any of my other colleagues wanted to join the project. Erika Ehmsen, our stately, calm copy chief, knew where we might get the hundreds of pounds of grapes we needed: Thomas Fogarty Winery, in the nearby Santa Cruz Mountains. Her dad and Dr. Fogarty, a cardiologist, had worked together, and she'd visited as a child and had always wanted to go back. She signed up for Team Wine. Researcher Elizabeth Jardina and art director Jim McCann liked the idea of chickens. Garden associate editor Julie Chai, whose heritage is Korean and German, wanted to join Team Vinegar (formed in the wake of Team Wine). \"I have kimchi on one side and sauerkraut on the other,\" she told me. \"I love all things fermented.\" Margaret Sloan, production coordi\u00adnator, and Kimberley Burch, imaging specialist, were drawn to Team Bee. Margaret had always thought bees were mysterious and fascinating, and Kimberley, concerned about colony collapse disorder, mainly wanted to help increase the bee population.\n\nBy early June, we had started researching our various projects and were ready to roll. The fact that we had no experience with any of them, except cooking and gardening and a bit of beer making, did not dim our enthusiasm a bit.\n\nThat was a good thing, because it would take us about a year and a half to create everything we needed for our summer feast. The wine grapes wouldn't be ready until October; then they'd need months to ferment and mature. The olives ripened in November. And we could not harvest the wheat and barley until the following summer.\n\nAt least we could get the chickens going. I personally yearned for fabulous-looking breeds like Silkies, whose feathers are as soft as kitten fur, or Polish, whose feather crests make them look like Tina Turner. Fancy chickens are not always the best layers, though. In the end, we just got what Half Moon Bay Feed & Fuel happened to have on the day we visited, which were tiny chicks from breeds known to lay well: Ameraucanas (exciting, since they would lay blue- and green-shelled eggs), Rhode Island Reds, and Buff Orpingtons.\n\nWe bought two of each, and fussed over them like crazy, hanging a heat lamp over their wire cage\u2014which we put in a storage shed behind our main office building\u2014and visiting them every couple of hours. The runt, a Rhode Island Red we called Ruby, immediately developed a condition that the feed store had warned us about: pasty butt. Untreated, it can block a chick's digestion and be lethal. This we handled as instructed by the feed store, gingerly applying cotton balls soaked in warm water to the tiniest butt imaginable. Ruby survived.\n\nAs our chickens grew that fall, we plunged into wine making. Fogarty Winery agreed to sell us both Syrah grapes (a relatively forgiving variety, so we would have a chance of making drinkable wine) and Chardonnay juice (since pressing white grapes is much trickier than pressing the red). On a golden October morning, we drove out to the winery and picked five hundred pounds of small, luscious Syrah grapes from Fat Buck Ridge, a vineyard with sweeping views to the west. It was surprisingly fast\u2014a couple of hours of snipping and we had all the grapes we could handle. We had a quick picnic in the vineyard, with a bottle of Fogarty Syrah from that very ridge\u2014\"the prototype, the goal... the competition,\" Sara joked later.\n\n_Among the Syrah vines at Fat Buck Ridge, in the Santa Cruz Mountains_\n\nWe had to crush the grapes as soon as possible. Waiting for us back at Sunset, with a giant pile of equipment, was Dan Brenzel, husband of our garden editor, Kathy Brenzel, and a serious home winemaker himself. His crusher-destemmer was entirely capable of handling our harvest. But a couple of us had seen the grape-stomping episode of _I Love Lucy_ at an impressionable age, so we did some foot crushing, too, there in the Sunset parking lot. We laughed so hard we practically fell out of the garbage cans we were using for crushing. As Erika pointed out, it was sort of like a StairMaster. Set in quicksand.\n\nThe next several days were tense for Team Wine. Sara woke up at 3:00 a.m. worried that our grape pulp (called must), which was soaking under the eaves in a big vat to give the juice as much flavor and color as possible, might be spoiling. So we added yeast to kick off the fermentation and crowd out any unwelcome microorganisms. (We'd already added yeast to our Chardonnay juice.)\n\nAnd at first everything went like it should. The yeast attacked the sugars and belched carbon dioxide gas, which made the pulp gurgle and foam as though it were alive. A warm, thick, seething cap of skins and seeds formed on the surface, and we punched it down a few times a day so it could deliver its goodness to the juice. But the sugar level wasn't dropping fast enough. This meant we risked a \"stuck fermentation\" that could lead to spoiled wine. We decided to move our vats into the warm building, hoping to prod the yeast into gobbling more sugar. It worked, and the sugar eventually hit zero. We had gotten through the hardest part.\n\nNow we eased the Syrah into a slower, secondary fermentation by sprinkling in powdery, freeze-dried malolactic bacteria. It was as easy as adding salt to a stew. A few days later\u2014once the bacteria had a chance to settle in\u2014we pressed our wine off its skins and seeds. This involved using Dan's homestyle basket press, which looked not unlike a toy rocket. We poured the inky slurry into the press and set up a tag team running buckets from the press's spigot over to several waiting carboys (big glass jugs). Then, once we'd popped airlocks into the tops of the carboys, we left our beast alone to be tamed by beneficial bacteria and the gentling hand of time.\n\nMeanwhile, our chicks had become fully feathered young hens and were ready for their coop in the test garden. The henhouse itself, which opened right into a fully enclosed yard\u2014to keep out raccoons and other chicken hunters\u2014was a grand sloping-roofed structure given to us by Wine Country Coops, in Napa. The hens took to it as though to the manor born, hopping up to its comfortable perches and exploring the nest boxes. Pretty soon, their personalities\u2014yes, they do have them, it turns out\u2014began to show: Rhode Island Red Carmelita was the boss lady, the most aggressive and the shiniest feathered. (Elizabeth worried that she might be a rooster.) Ruby was a talker, croaking insistently whenever we came to visit, as though cussing us out for something. Alana, slightly shy, was named for our managing editor, Alan Phinney, because her lustrous head feathers resembled his hair (he is a good sport about this). Her fellow Ameraucana, Ophelia, was much more outgoing and instead of clucking produced a sort of low foghorn tootle. The two Buff Orpingtons, Honey and Charlotte\u2014both big, fluffy, and blonde\u2014were the most inclined to jump on your lap for a pat. They weighed as much as house cats and liked to be stroked under their wings, where the down was softest. It made them burble happily, as did an ear of corn or a bulb of fennel thrown down for them to peck. And the burbling of a happy chicken is a very sweet sound.\n\nEverything was going well. Then, in late October, disaster struck. Olives began pelting the ground weeks before we had expected to harvest them. Not only that, the fruit looked shrunken and deformed. We sent some off to The Olive Press, up in Sonoma, for advice, and were told that we had the worst infestation of olive fruit fly maggots that the store's owner had ever seen.\n\nApparently, you can press olives with a small percentage of maggots\u2014although you might end up with a flavor flaw known in the olive oil trade as \"grubby\" (seriously). Our fruit, though, was riddled with them. We could try treating the trees in the future, but this year the grubs had won.\n\nWe badly wanted olive oil, and we really wanted to learn how to pick and press olives. Fortunately, Valencia Creek Farms, in the Santa Cruz foothills, agreed to sell us eight hundred pounds of olives, which we could pick ourselves. So we rented a U-Haul and drove off to the foothills again.\n\nAt the orchard, we picked big, fat green Ascolanos. The rest of our order had been harvested for us earlier that day, and although we felt a little sheepish about this, we were also very grateful when we realized that it would have taken our five Team Olive members about eleven hours to pick what we needed.\n\n_Ascolano olives at Valencia Creek Farms_\n\nAs with grapes, speed is of the essence when pressing olives. The second they are off the trees, they start to degrade. We loaded up our twenty-two crates and drove south, to Pietra Santa Winery, near Hollister, and its olive press. The olives were destemmed and washed, and then ground by three massive stones into a pinkish, brownish paste that looked exactly like chopped liver.\n\nWe tasted the olive oil right from the spigot. It was grass green, flecked with bits of olive, and extremely fresh and bright. The mild climate of Santa Cruz had tamed the olives, so the oil was not nearly as peppery as a typical \"three-cough\" Tuscan oil. We were absurdly and instantly proud of it. Our hens were not laying yet and our wine was still aging, but we had our olive oil and it felt great.\n\nWe were now in January, and with every passing day of the new year, we expected eggs. Chickens usually start laying when they are between four and six months old, and ours were past the five-month mark. Team Chicken was beside itself with anticipation, especially when the hens started showing the classic signs of being on the verge: fat pink combs and a tendency to suddenly crouch in front of you, tail up high. This is called the egg squat, and the chicken hopes you are a rooster bent on mating. We stroked the squatters from head to tail, which is supposed to relax them and help the egg form\u2014but still, no eggs! Elizabeth caught herself actually commanding the chickens to lay. Team leader Jim put a marble egg paperweight in the nest box to encourage them. We checked the nest boxes four or five times a day. And then, finally, in late January, on a quiet Sunday, our Ameraucana Ophelia laid a small and exquisite blue egg.\n\n_Our first egg (behind the decoy)_\n\nOver the next several days, Ophelia gave us two more eggs\u2014enough for a group taste. The yolks were deep orange-yellow and the whites so firm they actually were hard to break up with a fork. I scrambled them very slowly, and we all stood around and had small bites. They were velvety and voluptuous, with a rich, round flavor that made ordinary eggs taste like imitations.\n\nOne by one, the other chickens stepped into the nest box. Alana laid a light green egg the shape of a kiwifruit, with splotches of darker green. Carmelita, after half an hour of squawking and cackling and thrashing, produced a brown egg with a dent in the bottom (we figured out later that she was standing up when she laid it). Ruby's egg was brown too, but tiny and freckled. The Buff Orpingtons brought up the rear with creamy beige eggs. Pretty soon we were getting five or six eggs a day, and no two were ever the same.\n\nOur next project took us up into the hills again, but this time north, to Sonoma, and the home of cookbook author Paula Wolfert. Paula is famous for her meticulous research and had just finished a major investigation of vinegar. She gave Team Vinegar a start-to-finish lesson, complete with emphatic advice: \"If it smells like furniture polish, throw it out!\" We left with jars of her precious vinegar \"mother,\" the live starter culture for vinegar, which she had gotten from a friend who had brought it over from France. It was probably at least forty years old. The slippery, gelatinous bits of this venerable mother would convert part of our stash of Syrah into the best wine vinegar ever. Or, so we hoped.\n\nWe fed the mothers with cautious dribbles and then healthy pours of Syrah, and in a matter of weeks, we had some incredible vinegar. It was exhilaratingly strong, fruity, and complex, and left deep purple stains on whatever it touched. \"It knocked my socks off,\" said Kathy Brenzel, Sunset's garden editor and the team leader. \"I could've sipped it from a wineglass and been happy.\" This was nothing like grocery-store red-wine vinegar. We actually had to add water to it, just to tame its jets.\n\nBy now we were well into spring, a good time to get started on some cheese. We knew mozzarella would be tremendous with the big tomato and herb salad we had planned, but we also knew that making it was kind of difficult and also possibly painful (you have to stretch the cheese while it's boiling hot). Instead, Team Cheese bought a copy of Ricki Carroll's _Home Cheese Making_ and started experimenting with recipes.\n\nWe had only a handful of ingredients: organic milk, \"imported\" from the excellent Straus Family Creamery, just north of San Francisco; lemons and herbs from our garden; and sea salt, which recipe editor Amy Machnak had figured out how to make from pure Pacific Ocean water. (Her fianc\u00e9, Andrew, a diver, had hauled in forty gallons of it for her.) So it's not surprising that the recipes did not turn out exactly as Carroll described. Plus, we lost control of our heat, overwhisked the curds, and used too much lemon juice. But in the end we produced two simple cheeses (and have since fine-tuned the recipes): a crumbly, salty, oregano-flecked white cheese we could sprinkle into soup, and a firm, sliceable log flavored with chives, which we planned to use in the salad. We felt pleased with ourselves. \"I never thought you could really _make_ cheese,\" said features editor Christine Ciarmello, who had moved west the month before, from Florida. \"I've just come from the land of fast food, and here I've been responsible for the birth of this little cheese.\"\n\nSoon after, in May, when the weather grew soft and warm, we planted just about everything else we hoped to eat. Test-garden coordinator Ryan Casey, who was starting his own small farm in Half Moon Bay, turned the soil in our backyard-size plot with a digging fork until it was as loose and light as bread crumbs and then raked in a rich, dark layer of compost. He planted the little seedlings lightning fast, scooping out each hole with one tanned, bare hand and plopping the plant in with the other, then sliding soil around the stem. For seeds, he dropped them into furrows with an upswing of his hand and then pinched the furrows closed on the downswing. His grace and economy of motion were mesmerizing.\n\nThe warmth meant flowers, too, and nectar flow, the food supply for bees. It was time to set up our hives. We decided to get what are called nucs\u2014brand-new little colonies, each with a queen, bees, and brood (bee larvae)\u2014rather than packaged bees, which would take longer to get established. But we were nervous. Already all the equipment seemed overwhelming, and we were a little scared of the bees themselves.\n\nMaster beekeeper Randy Oliver had nucs to sell, and he offered to give us a crash course in beekeeping, too. Over the phone, he told me, \"You guys give me two hours and I'll shift your paradigm.\" In his lush, pine-scented bee yard, in the Sierra foothills, that is exactly what happened. He showed us that if we moved calmly among the bees, as though practicing tai chi, they would ignore us completely. He taught us how to hold the frames to catch the sunlight, so we could see the tiny eggs\u2014each smaller than a grain of rice\u2014to make sure the queen was laying. Bare hands, he said, are better for working with bees, because gloves can crush them. Then he carefully shook dozens of bees into our bare cupped hands. Holding them was electrifying. It felt like holding a mass of warm, vibrating air. No stings. By the end of the afternoon, we were completely smitten, and drove home with two hives of gentle, golden bees\u2014two living bee worlds\u2014in the back of our rented truck.\n\n_First beekeeping lesson_\n\nIn the meantime, a minor crisis had erupted in the chicken coop. Honey, our sweetest chicken, was being terrorized by the other hens. They would peck her little pink comb till it bled, and she'd hide in the nest box all day, not eating, not drinking. We tried all kinds of things to disrupt the pecking order, such as squirting the attackers with water guns, painting Honey's poor chewed comb with nasty-tasting liquid baby soap, and yelling \"No!\" repeatedly. Nothing worked. Honey was wasting away, her keel bone poking out like the prow of a ghost ship.\n\nFinally, we built her a separate enclosure within the coop, with her own little nest box. Elizabeth called it the Honeydome. Unfortunately, the minute we put her in it she flew out to join her oppressors. Elizabeth claimed Honey had \"a crazy form of chicken Stockholm syndrome.\" To block another escape, we extended the chicken-wire fence to the ceiling of the coop. But Honey just pressed herself against the mesh, and the other hens pecked away at her. We were at wit's end. And then, miraculously, the others started to leave her alone, and we put her back in the yard.\n\nThat was handy, because we suddenly had a new resident for the Honeydome: a half-grown chick we named Nugget, because it had been found (implausibly) in a McDonalds parking lot. The family that found the chick had taken her to their vet's office, where one of our cooks, there with her cat, heard the story and asked us to please adopt the little thing. It was too good a story to resist, so Nugget joined the flock, settling down in the Honeydome. Eventually the chickens would accept her (we sure hoped it was a her), and we would integrate them.\n\nAll was now calm on the chicken front, but our bees having a bumpy ride. Betty and Veronica\u2014the names we had given the hives\u2014had been attacked by ants right after they arrived. Scrub jays ate the bees in midair. Then varroa mites, horrible ticklike parasites that suck bees' blood and spread disease, invaded the hives. We did everything we could to help, throwing rocks at the jays, setting out ant bait, putting the hive legs in water to deter the ants, and dusting the bees with powdered sugar (which makes the mites lose their grip and fall off, and prompts the bees to clean themselves, knocking off more mites). We doused the hives with Apiguard, a foul-smelling mite-fighting gel, taking the risk that it might make any honey-in-progress taste like Listerine. Although it didn't get rid of the mites, it put a nice dent in the population.\n\nAs we tried to protect our poor bees, we explored the hives, too, learning to spot the queens, with their elongated abdomens, and the big-eyed, square-bottomed drones, whose main purpose in life was to mate with a virgin queen. All the rest were worker bees, and they each progress through a series of jobs, which we started to recognize. Guard bees stood sentry at the edge of the landing board and on the tops of the frames. House bees stayed in the hive, taking care of the queen and feeding the larvae. Mortuary bees carried the bodies of their dead sisters out of the hive. Foragers brought back food\u2014pollen and nectar\u2014and as they landed, we could see bright balls of pollen packed into pouches on their fuzzy back legs. On hot days, the house bees would stand on the landing board (and inside, too) and fan with their tiny wings, ventilating the hive. It was hypnotic and comforting to watch this orderly, intelligent, collective universe go about its business. Kimberley and Margaret became so fascinated that they started stashing their beekeeping outfits next to their desks, so they could get to the bees faster.\n\nRyan had put in drip irrigation in June, and the garden took off like something in a fairytale. The melon vines darted sideways, carpeting their beds. The pattpyan squash plants sprouted leaves as big as baby elephant ears, with bright yellow flowers underneath and nubbins of baby squashes. One day in early July, Ryan dipped a hand under the potato bed and pulled out a marble-size 'Yukon Gold'; they were coming along nicely. The much-anticipated 'Trombetta di Albenga' zucchini twirled up their arched trellis. The corn was already past my knees. Everywhere, bees zipped and buzzed and buried their shiny golden bodies in the blossoms.\n\n_'Trombetta' zucchini shooting out tendrils_\n\nWe were not having superb luck with our wheat and barley, however, which we'd planted back in the winter. Squirrels pillaged the wheat, and we worried the barley would be next. As insurance, Team Beer started up a batch of wheat beer using a kit, and the funky-malty smell of wort\u2014the sweet liquid that would ferment into beer\u2014hung in the kitchen as thick as fog. We poured it into the primary fermenter and slapped on an airlock to let carbon dioxide escape, and the yeast turned the wort into a bubbling mass that made the airlock dance for days.\n\nOur chickens had been healthy and strong, popping out eggs like Pez dispensers. Then champion layer Ophelia developed a strange, puffy chest. It was a hard lump about the size of a tennis ball. Elizabeth did some quick research and figured out that Ophelia's crop\u2014a little sac where a chicken's food sits and moistens before traveling down toward its two stomachs\u2014was stuffed with some kind of indigestible mass. Impacted crop, it was called, and it was serious. A chicken could die from it.\n\nWe turned Ophelia upside down and massaged her. This was ineffective and stressful. Our next option: carefully slice her open with a sterilized X-acto knife and remove the mass (apparently many chicken owners do this successfully), or take her to the vet. Worried we would botch the backyard surgery, we went to the vet, who extracted a giant wad of soggy straw from Ophelia's chest. She had, it seemed, been munching on the flooring of the coop. Before she returned, we removed every scrap of straw from the coop, and replaced the straw with largish hunks of pine bark. No chicken could possibly eat those.\n\nIt was August, and our first feast was now just a few weeks away. We did not have honey yet, but we had plenty of eggs, good olive oil, and our first beer (from the kit; we'd save our homegrown grain for round two). We had not yet bottled the Chardonnay, but we could pour some of it into bottles just for the occasion. (The Syrah wouldn't be ready for at least another six months.) Our own crops were finally ripe enough for us to see how they worked in the recipes we'd developed. It was the moment we cooks had been waiting for.\n\nWe brought in armloads of vegetables, so fresh they still seemed to be growing. The ears of corn were plump and firm, with tassels as fragrant as grass, and not sticky and brown the way they often are at the store and even the farmers' market. When we sliced kernels off the ears, sweet, milky juices ran down the knife\u2014they hadn't had time to thicken into starch. The cucumbers, picked small, were crisp and mild, without a hint of bitterness. We had grown edamame (soybeans) to see how they would do, and the pods were unexpectedly fat and fuzzy, with creamy beans inside. The sun-warmed tomatoes tasted like candy. Everything we had planned for the menu would work just fine.\n\nDays before the dinner, we got our final ingredient. Margaret and Kimberley rushed into the kitchen with four dripping frames of golden honey laid out on sheet pans. With pastry scrapers, we cut the combs from the frames, sending thick, shiny, voluptuous rivers of honey streaming into the bowls beneath. Margaret said she wanted to lick her fingers and sing like Pooh Bear. Kimberley was so happy she was practically quivering. I couldn't stop eating the honeycomb: It was soft and supple, and gushed honey with every chew.\n\nOn a hot late-summer evening, we set our table in the garden, a few feet from the plants that we had so carefully tended. We started with smoky, skillet-roasted edamame\u2014just soybeans and salt\u2014and cucumber cups with deviled-egg centers, courtesy of the flock. Our wheat beer had nice fizz and flavor. The Chardonnay was tart, clean, and incredibly refreshing, like biting into a cold green apple.\n\nNext came corn soup, cold and smooth, each bowl sprinkled with crunchy diced trombetta zucchini, spicy chopped poblanos, and crumbled oregano cheese, with a zucchini blossom laid on top. For the main course, we ate golden wedges of potato cake; pattypan squashes, each cupping a baked egg; and our tomato salad, with homemade chive cheese and the most labor-intensive vinaigrette we had ever made, even though it was just salt, olive oil, red-wine vinegar, and a drop or two of honey. We finished with sorbets made from nothing but melons and honey, and little glasses of warm peppermint-lemongrass \"tea.\"\n\n_Our summer feast_\n\nIt had taken us a year and a half to make this dinner. And in only a year and a half, we had learned to make wine, beer, cheese, olive oil, salt, and vinegar; grown thirty different herbs, fruits, and vegetables; successfully raised chickens and bees; and come to count on one another in ways we had not before. We would never again take any of these foods for granted. And we were all hungry for more. Fall lay ahead; we could live a whole new menu.\n\n# THE SUMMER GARDEN\n\nJuicy tomatoes and supersweet corn are warm-season edibles, meaning they need warm soil and air temperatures to grow steadily and produce crops. We grew these, and other heat lovers for our summertime feast, in a spot that gets full sun for at least six hours per day. The edamames and squashes are really easy to grow from seed. Other crops, including tomatoes, are easier and bear more plentifully if grown from nursery transplants.\n\n_Potatoes grown in \"towers\" made of reed screens_\n\n10 feet\n\n**SUMMER GARDEN PLAN**\n\n1. Potatoes (towers)\n\n2. Barley\n\n3. Chiles\n\n4. Purslane\n\n5. Peppermint\n\n6. Potatoes (trench)\n\n7. 'Spanish White' onions\n\n8. Hops\n\n9. Garlic\n\n10. Wheat\n\n11. Rosemary\n\n12. 'Benning's Green Tint' pattypan squash\n\n13. Cucumbers\n\n14. Lemongrass\n\n15. Edamame\n\n16. Chives\n\n17. Basil\n\n18. 'Sunburst' pattypan squash\n\n19. Tomatoes\n\n20. Melons\n\n21. Corn\n\n22. Parsley\n\n23. Thyme\n\n24. Oregano\n\n25. Marjoram\n\n26. 'Trombetta di Albenga' zucchini\n\n27. Lemon tree\n\n### Barley 'Lacey'\n\nThis high-yield, low-protein, six-row malting-type barley was developed for the brewing industry. We planted it in a 5-by-10-foot bed, with high hopes for harvesting the 9 pounds of barley we needed for making beer. Unfortunately, squirrels found our patch and ripped up a bunch of plants\u2014we think to use for building their nests. We ended up with just 2 pounds of barley!\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and well-drained soil.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 90 to 120 days from seed.\n\n**Planting and Care** Plant in November or December in moist, not wet, soil. Sow seeds 1 to 2 inches deep and about 3 inches apart. Space rows 7 inches apart. Water regularly.\n\n**How to Harvest** The following summer, when the stalks are thoroughly dry and golden brown, clip them off a couple of inches above the ground. For details about processing the barley, see the directions for making Belgian Abbey Ale.\n\n**Seed Source** Howe Seeds, www.howeseeds.com.\n\n### Basil 'Genovese'\n\nWe are constantly using the tender, spicy-sweet green leaves for flavoring tomato and Italian dishes. They make wonderful pesto and give a lift to salads. 'Genovese' is easy to grow from both seed and transplants and bees love it.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and well-drained soil enriched with compost.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 88 days from seed. For the best harvest, allow the seedlings to at least double in size before picking any leaves, and then pick them sparingly, pinching tips to induce bushiness, until the plant fills out.\n\n**Planting and Care** Sow seeds in batches every two weeks from midspring through early- to mid\u00adsummer. Plant in rows 18 inches apart, placing seeds 2 to 3 inches apart in each row and \u00bc inch deep. Once seedlings sprout, thin to 12 inches apart. If starting from seedlings, plant 12 inches apart. Water as needed to keep soil evenly moist.\n\n**How to Harvest** Pick leaves whenever you need them. To keep leaves coming, pinch off branch tips and flowers. To harvest lots of leaves for making pesto, cut plants back by half (they will regrow). Or, plant seedlings in succession every month and harvest the entire plant.\n\n**Seed Source** Stokes Seeds, www.stokeseeds.com.\n\n### Chile, Poblano\n\nA staple in Mexican cooking, especially for chiles rellenos, these fleshy, broad-shouldered, mildly spicy peppers grow on multistemmed plants about 2 feet tall. Often called pasillas, especially in California, they are 3 to 6 inches long. Flowers appear 50 days after sowing seed, followed by fruits that ripen from dark green to red. When dried, poblanos are known as anchos and have a deep, fruity taste.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and well-drained soil amply amended with compost.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 100 days from seed.\n\n**Planting and Care** Plant nursery seedlings when soil is warm in spring, placing the plants 18 to 24 inches apart. In containers, one or two plants are plenty. To start from seed, sow seeds indoors 6 to 8 weeks before the last spring frost. Let the soil dry out between waterings, and cut back on water as the chiles mature to concentrate their flavor.\n\n**How to Harvest** Poblanos are almost always harvested green; their flavor mellows as they ripen. Snip pods off with scissors or pruners.\n\n**Seed Source** Tomato Growers Supply Co., www.tomatogrowers.com.\n\n### Chile, Serrano\n\nAbout as long as your index finger, serranos start out green, then turn red as they mature. Hotter than jalape\u00f1os, they are extremely versatile in the kitchen, where they are added to everything from guacamole to stews. Plant heights vary from 1\u00bd to 5 feet tall; each plant produces about 50 pods.\n\n**Best Site** Same as for Chile, Poblano, above.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 75 to 80 days from seed.\n\n**Planting and Care** Same as for Chile, Poblano, above.\n\n**How to Harvest** Harvest serranos in the green or red stage. They are usually harvested green, when their heat has a lively, almost citrusy zing, but they are just as good red, when their flavor turns warm and ripe.\n\n**Seed Source** Same as for Chile, Poblano, above.\n\n### Chive\n\nChives are related to onions and garlic. They grow in delicate-looking clusters of narrow, slender green leaves that are loaded with flavor\u2014like a green onion, but more intense. In midspring, they produce round clusters of lilac-pink blossoms that look like puffballs. The flowers are edible and are pretty in green salads.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun or partial shade and fairly rich, well-drained soil.\n\n**Days to Harvest** Leaves can be harvested any time, once the plants begin to fill out.\n\n**Planting and Care** Grow from seed in spring or from nursery plants. Sow seeds \u215b to \u00bc inch deep and 8 to 12 inches apart. Space nursery plants 8 to 12 inches apart. Water regularly to keep soil evenly moist.\n\n**How to Harvest** Chives will send up pickable leaves from early summer until first frost. If you start from seed, harvest lightly in the first year, snipping stems near the base from the outside of the clump. For a more concentrated flavor, cut flowers while still in bud.\n\n**Seed Source** Renee's Garden, www.reneesgarden.com.\n\n### Corn 'Honey Select'\n\nTriple-sweet types like this one combine great corn flavor with especially sweet, tender kernels. 'Honey Select' hybrid sweet corn is so good you can even eat it uncooked, fresh off the stalk. If you are grilling, boiling, or steaming it, however, cook it for no more than a few minutes to preserve its juiciness and crunch.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and moist, deeply cultivated, well-drained soil. Fertilize and cultivate prior to planting.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 80 days from seed.\n\n**Planting and Care** Start in spring after soil has warmed in moist, not wet, soil. Plant in blocks of at least 16 plants, in 4 rows of 4 plants each, planting in batches every 2 weeks. Sow seeds 4 to 6 inches apart and 1 to 2 inches deep in rows 2 to 3 feet apart. Thin to 8 to 12 inches apart when seedlings are 6 inches tall. Water regularly and deeply.\n\n**How to Harvest** When silks start to turn brown (about 3 weeks after they first appear), pull back the husk and try popping a kernel with your thumbnail. If the juice is milky, it's time to pick. (Clear juice means the corn isn't ripe yet; pasty means it's overripe.)\n\n**Seed Sources** Ed Hume Seeds, www.humeseeds.com; Park Seed, www.parkseed.com.\n\n_'Honey Select' corn_\n\n### Cucumber 'Diva'\n\nA vining type that reaches 5 to 6 feet tall and 1 to 2 feet wide, 'Diva' is very productive. Its cukes are sweet and crunchy, with no hint of bitterness. They also have no spikes on the skin, common in other varieties, which makes harvesting them a pleasure. We tried to trellis the plants, but they still flopped over and required tying. In the end, our best method was to plant them in hills or rows and let them ramble over the ground.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and moist, well-drained soil.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 58 days from seed; 32 days from seedlings.\n\n**Planting and Care** Sow seeds in spring after the last frost date, or start seeds indoors 4 weeks before the last frost date. Space rows 3 to 6 feet apart, then sow seeds 8 to 12 inches apart and 1 inch deep, in clusters of 2 or 3 seeds. When seedlings are a few inches tall, thin them to a single seedling per cluster. Alternatively, you can grow plants in hills; make soil mounds 4 to 6 feet apart, and sow seeds 1 inch deep in each hill, in clusters of 4 to 6 seeds. When seedlings are a few inches tall, thin them to 2 or 3 per hill. Water cukes regularly through the growing season, especially when the fruits begin to swell.\n\n**How to Harvest** For cucumbers of supreme crunch and sweetness, harvest them while they are still young and no more than 6 to 8 inches long. To keep new cukes coming, harvest 3 to 4 times a week.\n\n**Seed Source** Park Seed, www.parkseed.com\n\n### Edamame 'Sayamusume'\n\nSoybeans are nutty, buttery, and high in protein, and we grew them to add substance to our summer table. We chose 'Sayamusume' for its plump beans; its sturdy, well-filled pods; and its high yield. Despite its productivity, we didn't grow nearly enough to satisfy our appetite. We would have welcomed double or even triple the harvest we got from 10 plants\u2014especially because 'Sayamusume' freezes well (we defrosted some in winter, and they were delicious).\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and well-drained soil.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 85 days from seed.\n\n**Planting and Care** Plant in spring after weather warms and night temperatures are consistently above 50\u00baF. Moisten the soil thoroughly before planting. Sow seeds 1 inch deep and 3 inches apart in rows 2 feet apart, and do not water again until seedlings have emerged; once growth starts, keep soil moist. Soybeans ripen all at once, so sow them in batches every few weeks for a continuous crop. When seedlings are several inches tall, thin to final spacing of 6 inches apart.\n\n**How to Harvest** Pluck off pods when they are nice and swollen (that means the beans have reached full size) but are still green.\n\n**Seed Source** Renee's Garden, www.reneesgarden.com.\n\n_'Sayamusume' Edamame_\n\n### Garlic 'Spanish Roja'\n\nThis heirloom \"hard-necked\" variety (meaning it develops large outside cloves and no inner cloves) is a Rocambole type known for its purple-blushed skin. The large, crisp, juicy cloves peel easily. Their flavor is pungent, though not bitingly so, and they turn buttery soft when cooked.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and rich, well-drained soil (where soils are poor, grow it in raised beds).\n\n**Days to Harvest** Set out cloves in fall for an early-summer harvest.\n\n**Planting and Care** Plant cloves with pointed tops up, placing them 1 inch deep, 4 to 8 inches apart, in rows 16 to 18 inches apart. In cold-winter climates, mulch heavily at the onset of winter to help prevent soil heaving, which can force the cloves out of the ground. Irrigate evenly and weed regularly or mulch. Rake back mulch in spring and pinch off any blossoms that develop. Once the leaf tips start to turn yellowish brown, stop watering.\n\n**How to Harvest** When green leaves begin to turn yellow around July, stop irrigating for about 2 weeks, then carefully lift the bulbs out of the ground with a garden fork. Pulling by hand may crack the bulbs and decrease shelf life. Hang the bulbs in bundles to dry in a dry, well-ventilated area until skins are papery, about 3 weeks. Brush off the dirt, cut off most of the roots, and clip off the tops to 1 inch (unless you want to braid them). Store bulbs in mesh bags or paper bags in a cool (around 50\u00b0F), airy place out of direct sunlight for 4 to 6 months.\n\n**Clove Sources** Irish Eyes Garden Seeds, www.gardencityseeds.net; and Peaceful Valley Farm & Garden Supply, www.groworganic.com.\n\n### Hops\n\nThe pretty little cone-shaped flowers grow on a mammoth climbing vine 12 to 18 feet tall, often much taller. They provide a key flavoring ingredient in beer, which is why we grew them. We chose 'Centennial' for its slightly bitter edge and 'Nugget' for its spicy and herbal notes. We lost most of the 'Centennial' to some sort of dieback. But 'Nugget' thrived, and donated the hops for making our beer. Our total bounty, from the single 'Nugget' rhizome we planted, was about 1 pound, and when you consider that you need only 2 to 3 ounces of hops to brew a 5-gallon batch of beer, that's a lot\u2014more than enough for a party!\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and light, well-drained soil. You must have a strong trellis for the vine to climb (for details on our trellis, see the directions on this page). Plant your hops at the base\u2014and the vines will race right up and attach themselves.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 150 days from rhizome.\n\n**Planting and Care** Plant in spring once the last frost date has passed. Hops of the same variety can be planted 3 feet apart; space different kinds at least 5 feet apart to keep them from becoming entangled. Plant the rhizomes vertically, about 2 inches deep, with the bud pointing up. Mulch the soil and keep it moist. Hops need watering three times per week to almost daily when weather is hot, windy, and dry.\n\n**How to Harvest** Flowers will be ready to harvest between July and September, though your first year's yield will probably be tiny. Harvest the flower cones when they turn pale green and the yellow lupulin glands are visible underneath the bracts. When squeezed, the cones should feel slightly papery and have a pronounced odor: 'Nugget' is woodsy, and 'Centennial' has a citrusy, floral smell.\n\n**Rhizome Sources** Freshops, www.freshops.com; Nichols Garden Nursery, www.nicholsgardennursery.com.\n\n_'Nugget' hops_\n\n### Lemon 'Eureka'\n\nA good all-around lemon tree, 'Eureka' yields fruits that are large, tart, juicy, and versatile. The tree is aptly named: It bears fruit year-round in mild climates.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and rich, fast-draining soil. Before planting, dig in a 4- to-6-inch layer of compost to a depth of 1 foot.\n\n**Days to Harvest** Depends on the age of the plant you buy. Fruit production generally begins when a tree is 3 or 4 years old. Ours was 5 years old when we started the project.\n\n**Planting and Care** Plant in spring after all danger of frost is past. Remove any fruit from the tree before planting from a nursery container. Add a 2-inch layer of mulch to help keep moisture in the soil and to prevent weeds. If your area is hot, wrap trunks of the newly planted trees with paper bands (available from nurseries) to prevent sunburn. Water consistently (twice a week in normal summer weather), and apply citrus fertilizer several times during the March to October growing season.\n\n**How to Harvest** When fruit feels heavy in your hand, looks fully formed, and is yellow (not green), pick it and try it. Citrus won't ripen off the tree, so you need to sample to know when to pick. Ripe lemons can hang on the tree for months and be fine, but if they get puffy, they are too old.\n\n**Plant Sources** Sold as grafted plants in 2- to 15-gallon cans in almost every nursery; Four Winds Growers, www.fourwindsgrowers.com.\n\n_'Eureka' lemon_\n\n### Lemongrass\n\nIntensely aromatic and citrusy, this grasslike plant is a key ingredient in many Southeast Asian cuisines. We used it to make a wonderful end-of-dinner drink and a hauntingly delicious dessert custard.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and rich, well-drained soil.\n\n**Days to Harvest** The flavor is best when the bulbous leaf base swells to about \u00bd inch in diameter. Plants grow fastest in tropical weather, so our stalks had relatively slender bases. It took 4 months for ours to produce harvestable stems.\n\n**Planting and Care** Buy a potted plant and repot in a larger pot or in the ground in spring once all danger of frost is past. Eventually it will grow into a multistem clump 3 to 4 feet tall and equally wide. During the growing season, water well and feed monthly with half-strength fish emulsion. Lemongrass is sensitive to frost, so in winter, move potted plants to a bright spot indoors or cover in freezing weather.\n\n**How to Harvest** Push an outside stem to the side, then twist and pull it off. Cut off and discard the leaves (or twist into knots and steep in boiling water for tea).\n\n**Seedling Source** Nichols Garden Nursery, www.nicholsgardennursery.com.\n\n### Marjoram, Sweet\n\nSweet marjoram (known just as \"marjoram\" in the culinary world) bears a strong resemblance to its kin, oregano. But its little leaves are softer and finer textured than those of oregano, and the plant has a tingly, spicy flavor, like a blend of mint, cloves, and cinnamon. We grow it along gravel paths and as a pretty edging for our vegetable beds.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and soil that drains especially well, or in a container indoors on a sunny windowsill.\n\n**Days to Harvest** About 70 days (leaves can be picked any time once plants are established and growing).\n\n**Planting and Care** Buy nursery plants in spring and plant them 9 inches apart. Keep the soil moist, not soggy, until the plants are established, then water less. Mature plants thrive on little water. Or, to plant from seed, sow in spring after the soil has warmed. Till the soil well, rake it smooth, then sow the seeds thinly and cover them lightly. Keep the seedbed moist and well weeded while seedlings are young.\n\n**How to Harvest** Pinch off leaves. For a stronger flavor, cut stems when they are in bud (the blossoms are edible, too).\n\n**Seed Source** Renee's Garden, www.reneesgarden.com.\n\n### Melons\n\nWe grew luscious, fragrant, cream-colored 'Sharlyn' melon, which tastes like a cross between a honeydew and a cantaloupe; seedless 'Sugar Baby' watermelon, a small, crisp, juicy melon that won't take up an entire shelf in the fridge; and deep orange, meltingly soft 'Ambrosia' cantaloupe (cantaloupes are also known as muskmelons). All these melons need plenty of heat in order to sweeten.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and rich, well-drained soil.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 85 days from seed.\n\n**Planting and Care** Plant outdoors in spring after the soil has warmed to at least 60\u00b0F (raised beds warm up faster than flat ground). Mix a 2- to 3-inch layer of compost into the soil. Plant seeds 1 inch deep and 4 inches apart, in rows 4 to 6 feet apart. As seedlings grow, thin them to 10 inches apart. Use drip irrigation or a soaker hose to avoid wetting the foliage, and water often. When the melons reach full size but are not yet ripe, cut back on watering to keep the fruits from splitting and to concentrate their flavors.\n\n**How to Harvest** When fully ripe, cantaloupes slip off the vine easily. 'Sharlyn', a honeydew cross, is ready when the fruit has a strong, fruity fragrance and there's an orange tone to the skin beneath the tan-colored netting. For watermelons, wait for the tendril next to the stem to wither and the \"resting spot\" on the underside of the melon to turn creamy yellow. Avoid twisting the melons as you check them. It can damage the stem and thus their nutrient supply.\n\n**Seed Source** Seeds of Change, www.seedsofchange.com.\n\n### Onion 'Spanish White'\n\nLarge and evenly spherical, with good steady onion flavor, 'Spanish White' won't turn sweet when cooked. We planted in fall with high hopes for a good crop. But by the following April, our plants weren't looking so good. The bulbs didn't swell; many just produced flowers. We wondered whether temperatures or erratic watering was the cause. By summer, half our plants had not produced bulbs. Luckily, the rest of them finally matured.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun (or light shade) and fine-textured (well-raked), loose, rich, well-drained soil.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 150 says from seed; 100 days from sets.\n\n**Planting and Care** Plant from seeds or sets (miniature, dormant onions). Sow seeds when the soil has warmed to at least 35\u00b0F and preferably 50\u00b0F, setting them about \u00bc inches deep in the soil, in rows 15 to 18 inches apart. Thin seedlings to 4 or 5 inches apart. Put out sets in spring, 4 to 6 weeks before the last frost date. Sets are easiest and produce quick results, but they may bolt into flowers, rendering the onion inedible. Select the smallest sets available, because they are less likely to bolt than large ones. To plant, push the sets under the soil, aligning their pointed ends with the soil level; space 4 to 5 inches apart. Water plants\u2014whether from sets or seeds\u2014regularly when green tops are growing. Weed regularly but carefully, because bulbs are easily damaged.\n\n**How to Harvest** Water less frequently toward the end of the growing cycle. When 25 to 50 percent of the foliage in your onion patch has fallen over, the onions are nearly ready. Stop watering, bend the rest of the green tops to the ground, and let the bulbs harden and cure in the soil for 3 weeks before you pull them. Store the bulbs in a cool, dry spot.\n\n**Seed\/Sets Source** Gurney's Seed & Nursery, www.gurneys.com.\n\n### Oregano, Italian\n\nA familiar seasoning for bean dishes, pastas, and vegetables, Italian oregano ( _Origanum_ x _majoricum_ ) grows about 30 inches tall, producing tiny, pointy green leaves with an intense, spicy flavor. It is used in Mexican recipes, too, which means we relied on it a lot in our one-block cooking.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and soil that drains especially well, or in a container indoors on a sunny windowsill.\n\n**Days to Harvest** Leaves can be picked any time once plants start to fill out.\n\n**Planting and Care** Buy nursery plants in spring and plant them 18 inches apart. Keep the soil moist, not soggy, until the plants are established, then water less. Mature plants thrive on little water.\n\n**How to Harvest** Pinch off leaves any time; for a stronger flavor, cut stems when they are in bud (the flowers are edible).\n\n**Seedling Source** Mountain Valley Growers, www.mountainvalleygrowers.com.\n\n### Parsley 'Gigante Italian'\n\nMost chefs prefer to cook with Italian flat-leafed parsley ( _Petroselenium crispum neapolitanum_ ), which has a more robust flavor than the curly-leafed types once commonly used as garnishes. Flat-leafed parsley is also very easy to grow in a pot or in the ground. We grew 'Gigante Italian', which has large, crisp, mellow-tasting leaves that we used all kinds of ways, including whole in salads.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun or part shade (afternoon shade in the hottest climates) and rich, well-drained soil that's been well amended with compost.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 80 days from seed, or, from seedlings, any time after plants have filled out.\n\n**Planting and Care** Start seeds in the spring when the weather is settled but still cool (or in fall in hottest desert climates). Scatter seeds thinly over the soil, then cover them with \u00bc inch of soil. Parsley tends to germinate unevenly over several weeks, but don't be discouraged! Just keep the soil evenly moist. When the seedlings have a few fully formed leaves, thin them to 18 to 24 inches apart. Water regularly through the growing season and feed plants occasionally with liquid fish emulsion. If you would rather take the easy route, plant seedlings in containers (at least 12 inches wide and 10 inches deep) or in the ground.\n\n**How to Harvest** Start picking leaves when the plants are 8 to 10 inches tall and relatively full. Harvest entire stems from the base to encourage growth.\n\n**Seed\/Seedling Source** Renee's Garden, www.reneesgarden.com.\n\n_'Gigante Italian' parsley_\n\n### Pattypan Squash\n\nWe grew disk-shaped, scalloped-edged 'Benning's Green Tint' (lime green) and 'Sunburst' (brilliant yellow) for their tender skins, delicate flavor, and few seeds. Plus, they are small and perfect for stuffing.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and rich, well-drained soil.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 50 days from seed.\n\n**Planting and Care** Sow seeds indoors in a warm place in spring 1 week or so before the last frost date, or wait until the soil has warmed (at least 2 weeks after the last frost date) and sow seeds outdoors. To sow outdoors, plant seeds 12 inches apart and 2 to 3 inches deep in rows 3 to 5 feet apart. Once seedlings have several sets of leaves, thin them to 2 to 4 feet apart. Water regularly and deeply. Avoid splashing water on leaves, stems, and flowers.\n\n**How to Harvest** Cut stems close to the fruits with a sharp knife (wear gloves; those stems are prickly). Unless you need larger squashes for stuffing, harvest them when they are 2 to 3 inches across\u2014they taste best as tender \"babies.\" Regular harvesting keeps the plants producing through September.\n\n**Seed Sources** For 'Benning's Green Tint', Baker Creek Heirloom Seeds, www.rareseeds.com, and Southern Exposure Seed Exchange, www.southernexposure.com; for 'Sunburst', Park Seed, www.parkseed.com.\n\n_'Sunburst' pattypan squash_\n\n### Peppermint\n\nPeppermint has dark, slender, smooth-edged leaves and purplish stems. We love it for its almost shocking mintiness\u2014it makes the best cup of mint tea ever. Like all mints, it spreads rapidly by underground stems and can be invasive in a kitchen plot. To keep it in bounds, we always grow it in a pot and set the pot atop paving (it can even root through the drainhole!).\n\n**Best Site** A large container filled with potting soil, in a sunny or partially shaded location\u2014mint is not fussy.\n\n**Days to Harvest** Leaves can be picked any time.\n\n**Planting and Care** Set out young nursery plants in spring, spaced at least 6 inches apart, in containers. For best growth, keep the soil moist. After 3 years, plants become bare in the center, so you need either to replace them or to dig them up, divide each plant, and replant a few of the pieces with roots.\n\n**How to Harvest** Snip sprigs of new growth.\n\n**Seedling Source** Mountain Valley Growers, www.mountainvalleygrowers.com.\n\n### Potato 'Yukon Gold'\n\nThe best all-purpose potato, this spud has buttery, sweet flesh that is equally suited to boiling and baking. We hung onto our harvest for as long as we could, using it into the winter. A pretty plant with lightly fragrant flowers, the potato is a cinch to grow. But knowing when the spuds are ripe for digging is another matter. Our best advice: Watch for foliage to die back, then pull one up.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and fertile, fast-draining soil high in organic matter and with a pH on the acid side (below 5.5).\n\n**Days to Harvest** 90 to 120 days after planting for fully mature potatoes. You can dig potatoes when they are small and tender (when plants begin to bloom), or when fully mature (when plants die down). For long-term storage, dig only mature potatoes. To store potatoes, see Our Makeshift Root Cellar.\n\n**Planting and Care** Plant seed potatoes in spring 4 to 6 weeks before the last frost date, around mid-March in our area. Two days before planting, cut them into chunks about 1\u00bd inches square, each with two \"eyes\" from which sprouts will emerge, and leave them to dry (callus) in a dry area, either inside or outside, to help prevent rotting.\n\n**How to plant in furrows** Dig furrows 6 to 8 inches wide and 4 inches deep, spacing them 2\u00bd to 3 feet apart. (Closer spacing will result in higher yields of smaller potatoes.) Then set the chunks 12 to 18 inches apart in the furrows and cover with 2 inches of soil. After sprouts emerge, add another 2 inches of soil, leaving the foliage tips exposed. As the vines grow, continue adding soil, mounding until you have ridges 4 inches high and 18 inches wide. The soil cover keeps the tubers at the right temperature, with the right amount of moisture. It also protects them from the sun, which can raise levels of solanine, a toxic compound. (The sun also turns potato skins green, which is usually a good indicator of toxin development.)\n\nKeep soil uniformly moist during the growing season. Weed and watch for pests.\n\nWhen most of the foliage has turned yellowish brown, water the plants for the last time, wait for 14 days, and then cut away the vines. This \"sets,\" or hardens, potato skins so they won't peel or bruise easily. If you dig them up without hardening them, the skins will be as fragile as tissue paper and the potatoes will be moist, sweet, and highly perishable. Harvest these \"fresh\" potatoes carefully and cook them the same day or the next.\n\n**How to plant in towers** (See photo.) To save space and make potatoes a snap to harvest, plant them in towers made of wire and reed screening (find materials in a hardware or home supply store). Loosen the soil with a spading fork, then rake it smooth. Using a trowel, trace a circle about 3 feet in diameter in the prepared soil, then place seed potato pieces (see Planting and Care) about 5 inches apart within the circle. Bend a piece of welded wire into a cylinder 3 feet in diameter and 3 to 4 feet tall; secure the cut ends together with wire. Put the \"cage\" on top of the soil circle around your newly planted potato sets. Wrap a piece of reed screening (we bought a 12-foot privacy screen and cut it to fit) around the wire cage, then tie its ends together with twine. Pour a 3-inch layer of compost and another 3 inches of straw into the cylinder. Hand-water the potato sets every other day or so.\n\nOnce foliage appears (be patient; ours didn't show up for several weeks), continue adding compost and straw, leaving about 6 inches of green stem and leaves on top exposed to sunlight. Nearing the tower's top, just add straw.\n\n**How to Harvest**\n\n**How to harvest furrows** Within 5 to 7 days of cutting away the vines, preferably when the weather is cool and overcast, dig up the plants carefully with a spading fork, keeping it 10 inches away from the plants to avoid injuring the potatoes. Lift each plant gently, shake off the loose soil, and pull the potatoes from the vines. Gather them in burlap bags or baskets and keep out of strong sunlight.\n\nIf you are planning to store the potatoes long-term, it is vital that the air temperature be cool when you harvest, so do it early in the morning (see Our Makeshift Root Cellar).\n\n**How to harvest new potatoes in towers** After the plants flower, open and remove the reed screening, then poke your hand through the welded wire and feel around for potatoes. Pick some small, tender, thin-skinned \"new\" potatoes. Replace the screening.\n\n**How to harvest mature potatoes in towers** After the plants flower, withhold water for 2 to 3 weeks, or until the entire plant dies back. Then pull up the towers. All the potatoes will spill out in a perfect cascade\u2014no digging required, and no spade damage to the potatoes.\n\n**Seed Potato Sources** The Cook's Garden, www.cooksgarden.com; Gurney's Seed & Nursery, www.gurneys.com; Henry Fields Seed & Nursery, www.henryfields.com; Irish Eyes Garden Seeds, www.irisheyesgardenseeds.com; Wood Prairie Farm, www.woodprairie.com.\n\n_'Yukon Gold' potatoes_\n\n### Purslane\n\nOkay, we know what you're thinking: Why would anyone in their right mind want to plant a weed in their summer garden\u2014especially when it seems to pop out of the soil all by itself? Here's why: Purslane's rounded, succulent leaves add a citrusy zip and juicy texture to salads and stir-fries, and they're high in vitamin C. The little yellow-flowered green plant ( _Portulaca oleracea_ ) is eaten with relish in many countries, including France (where it's called _pourpier_ ), Mexico ( _verdolaga),_ Holland ( _postelein_ ), and Turkey ( _semizotu_ ). We used it in a delectable Turkish-style salad with garlic, chiles, and mint.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and loose soil that's been enriched with compost.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 60 to 70 days from seed.\n\n**Planting and Care** Sow seeds after last frost date (in our area, April, when weather warms up to 68\u00b0F or more, is a good time). Sow the seeds \u00bc inch deep in warm soil and rake the seeds in lightly. Keep the bed well watered. Seeds germinate quickly (7 to 10 days).\n\n**How to Harvest** Once plants are growing well (June to October), pick tender tips and shoots as you need them. To preserve juiciness, harvest in early morning when temperatures are cool.\n\n**Seed Source** Seeds of Change, www.seedsofchange.com.\n\n_Purslane_\n\n### Rosemary 'Tuscan Blue'\n\nWe like this plant, sometimes sold under the name 'Blue Spires', for its sturdy good looks\u2014it's an upright variety with broad leaves and dark blue flowers; its piney, intense, uplifting fragrance when you rub it between your fingers; and its versatility in the kitchen. Plus, the plant is tough, standing up to wind, salt spray, heat, and poor soil.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and soil that drains especially well, though it will tolerate poor, dry soil.\n\n**Days to Harvest** Leaves can be picked any time.\n\n**Planting and Care** Set out small nursery plants in early spring (the typical kitchen garden will need only a few of these vigorous plants), spacing them at least 24 inches apart. Water the plants regularly until they are established, then only enough to keep them from drying out. Rosemary often fails in soggy soil.\n\n**How to Harvest** Snip branch tips with scissors or pruners.\n\n**Sources** Plants are widely sold at nurseries.\n\n_'Tuscan Blue' rosemary_\n\n### Thyme, French\n\nLike rosemary and oregano, thyme grows well in our Mediterranean climate, and we constantly make use of its tiny, aromatic leaves in our cooking. Plus, it looks gorgeous in the garden, clustered at the end of a row and nearly always shooting up at least a few pretty little blossoms. Our bees like it, too.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and light, well-drained soil, though it will tolerate poor, dry soil.\n\n**Days to Harvest** Seedlings appear 14 to 21 days after sowing, and need at least a month to fill out before you start picking. Once mature, leaves can be picked any time.\n\n**Planting and Care** Set out small nursery plants in early spring, 8 to 12 inches apart. Water regularly until the plants are established, then only to keep the plants from drying out completely. Or, to plant from seed, wait until the soil has warmed, then sow thinly \u00bd inch deep in a fine-textured (well-raked) bed and cover the seed lightly. Keep the seedbed moist and well weeded while seedlings are young.\n\n**How to Harvest** Snip branch tips (the flowers are edible, too).\n\n**Seed\/Seedling Sources** Seedlings are sold in almost every nursery, or order seeds from Renee's Garden, www.reneesgarden.com.\n\n### Tomatoes\n\nWe grew five different tomatoes: deep yellow 'Sungold' cherry tomatoes, for their fabulous flavor and juiciness; prolific 'Sweet Million' red cherry tomatoes; dependable red 'Early Girl'; citrusy, tart 'Green Zebra'; tender, yellow-and-red-streaked 'Marvel Stripe'; and succulent, magenta-purple 'Brandywine'. We loved them all. But we grazed most often on 'Sungold', popping the juicy, sun-warmed fruits into our mouths like candy, right off the vine.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun (at least 8 hours a day) and fertile, well-drained soil rich in organic matter.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 50 to 90 days after setting out plants.\n\n**Planting and Care** Plant seedlings as soon as the danger of frost has passed. Remove the lowest leaves, then plant them deeply, burying at least half of the stem to encourage vigorous root growth. Space the seedlings widely, at least 24 inches apart, and support them with sturdy stakes or wire cages to help prevent rot. If starting from seed, sow indoors in a warm place 5 to 7 weeks before setting them out (at least 10 days after the last frost). Water often enough to keep soil damp but not soggy, and keep water off the leaves. Tomatoes need lots of fertilizer. In rich soils that have been well amended with compost, they don't need anything. But if you have unamended soil, dig a single application of controlled-release fertilizer into the soil at planting time. Or feed plants lightly with a dilute liquid fish emulsion every two weeks from blossom set until harvest.\n\n**How to Harvest** Snip fruit from the stem with scissors or pruners or gently pull by hand. Tomatoes ripen best on the vine. If your plants still have green tomatoes hanging on them after the weather starts turning cold, pick them from the vine and bring them indoors to ripen.\n\n**Seed\/Seedling Sources** For seeds, Seeds of Change, www.seedsofchange.com, or Renee's Garden, www.reneesgarden.com; for seedlings, Laurel's Heirloom Tomato Plants, www.heirloomtomatoplants.com.\n\n_'Early Girl' tomatoes_\n\n### Wheat\n\nInitially, we grew wheat for brewing our beer: The carbohydrates in wheat convert to sugars when the grain is malted (sprouted), then, during fermentation, the sugars convert to alcohol. Once our one-block project progressed, we realized we could not have a year's worth of menus without a loaf of bread, crackers, or a crust of any kind. So, we chose a soft white wheat, which produces golden \"berries\" with a nutty, sweetish flavor.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and well-tilled, good-draining soil with plenty of compost mixed in. Till in blood meal and bonemeal (about 1 pound each per 100 square feet) along with the compost.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 130 to 150 days from seed.\n\n**Planting and Care** In January, scatter seeds over prepared soil (about 6 handfuls, or \u00bc pound, per 100 square feet), then rake seeds in so they are buried to a depth about three times their diameter. After planting, soak soil thoroughly, then water as needed to keep moist (every week in dry weather; we tend to get lots of rain in January, so we didn't need to water at all). Weed regularly. When the wheat starts turning brown, stop watering; when your tooth can no longer dent the berries, the crop is ready to harvest.\n\n**How to Harvest** Snip the seedheads from the stalks with scissors or pruners. For details about processing the wheat, see How to Make Beer.\n\n**Seed Sources** Homegrown Harvest, www.homegrownharvest.com; for 'Sonora' soft white wheat, contact Pie Ranch, www.pieranch.org; Full Belly Farm, www.fullbellyfarm.com; EatWell Farm, www.eatwell.com); or Whole Grain Connection, www.sustainablegrains.org.\n\n### Zucchini 'Trombetta di Albenga'\n\nProbably the most captivating plant of our summer menu, 'Trombetta di Albenga' is an extremely vigorous climbing vine with big, fan-shaped leaves and huge, pale green zucchini that can curve like trombones. They taste sweet and mild, stay crunchy even when cooked, and all the seeds are concentrated in the bulbous end, so most of what you get is seed free. We grew ours over an arbor (one plant on each side), so we could look up at the pretty squashes as they ripened and to give their voluptuous shapes room to dangle.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and rich soil amended with aged manure or compost.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 85 days from seed.\n\n**Planting and Care** Sow seeds indoors in a warm place in spring 1 week or so before the last frost date. Or, wait until the soil has warmed, at least 2 weeks after the last frost date, and sow seeds outdoors. Sow 3 or 4 seeds 1 to 2 inches deep about 4 inches from a vertical support (you will want to save space by growing this vigorous vine on a sturdy trellis, fence, or stakes). Thin to the strongest seedling for each stake or 12 to 24 inches apart. Water deeply.\n\n**How to Harvest** The fruits are best when they are 10 to 12 inches long, though they are usually still tender up to 30 inches. Use pruners to cut the fruits\u2014with a bit of stem attached\u2014from the vine. Pick flowers in the morning, snipping them off the vine when they're cool and fresh and still open; eat that day if possible and no later than the next. Keep in the refrigerator in a plastic bag until ready to use.\n\n**Seed Source** Renee's Garden, www.reneesgarden.com.\n\n_'Trombetta di Albenga' zucchini_\n\n_\u2014Kathleen N. Brenzel_\n\nTHE \"IMPORTS\"\n\n**We went outside our garden for these local foods:** milk, whole and unhomogenized (for cream, and for cheese); olives (for olive oil); seawater (for salt); wine grapes (for wine); brewing kit (as a backup for our beer crops); mother of vinegar (for vinegar)\n\n# THE SUMMER PROJECTS\n\n##    \nHOW TO RAISE  \nHONEYBEES  \n(AND MAKE HONEY)\n\nWe began our bee adventure in part because we needed honey to sweeten our summer feast. But we also did it for the love of bees.\n\nYou have probably heard the statistic: bees, traveling from plant to plant and pollinating as they go, are responsible for producing about one-third of our country's food supply. Unfortunately for them and for us, they have been dying in huge numbers over the past several years. No one has conclusively figured out what causes colony collapse disorder, as it has been termed.\n\nWe figured that by raising bees, we would contribute, in at least a small way, to the overall population of bees. We also thought it would be easy. Plus, we have plenty of plants for them to browse, and conditions that are relatively benign (good weather, lots of well-watered suburban gardens). Life should be great for bees at Sunset.\n\nNow, having seen our bees battle ants, bluejays, wasps, buckeye poisoning (the pollen is toxic to bees), varroa mites, tracheal mites (probably), hive beetles, wax moths, and American foulbrood, we understand just what these hardworking little creatures are up against (for a running diary of our life with bees, see <http:\/\/oneblockdiet.sunset.com\/team_bee>). And it's deepened our appreciation for what marvelous, interesting creatures they are (see Amazing Bees).\n\nThe stings? Well, working in the hives is not the killer-bee kind of drama you might see in a late-night horror movie. Bees only sting in self-defense and when they are protecting the hive. If you have calm, docile bees, and move slowly as you work the hives, you can hold them in your bare hands. Even with care, of course, we have been stung a few times, and for the most part it was no big deal.\n\nRaising bees has been and continues to be an incredible experience. We will never taste honey again without a sense of gratitude.\n\n###    \n2 COLONIES OF HONEYBEES\n\nBoth of our hives are filled with European honeybees ( _Apis mellifera ligustica_ ), known for their gentleness and productivity. We recommend asking your neighbors whether they'd be comfortable with hives next door (promise them honey!) before you actually go out and buy bees. Also, check with your city to see if local regulations allow you to keep bees.\n\n#### WHAT TO USE\n\nUnless otherwise noted, our beekeeping supplies came from Dadant & Sons (www.dadant.com or 217\/847-3324). We also recommend Mann Lake Ltd. (www.mannlakeltd.com or 800\/880-7694) for beekeeping equipment. Prices do not include shipping.\n\n##### 2 MASTER POLLINATOR KITS\n\nEach kit ($310 each) includes:\n\n**_1 telescoping outer cover with galvanized metal top and an inner cover_** The inner cover helps insulate the box. The outer cover provides weather protection. Used together, they prevent the bees from gluing the hive shut with propolis (a sticky substance they collect from plants to bond parts of the hive) and wax.\n\n**_2 hive bodies_** These are the \"brood\" boxes, deep boxes that the bees fill with brood (bee larvae), honey, and pollen. Each box has 10 frames loaded with Plasticell foundation (a thin sheet of plastic molded into hexagonal cells and coated with beeswax to make it easier for the bees to build the honeycomb).\n\n**_1 bottom board_** We did not use this, preferring the \"Country Rubes\" bottom board, which helps you screen for mites.\n\n**_1 metal hive tool_** This 10-inch-long tool is used to pry apart frames and to scrape off propolis and extra comb.\n\n**_1 bee brush_** A gentle sweep with this brush removes bees from the surfaces of combs and frames.\n\n**_1 smoker_** A small metal can with bellows that puff smoke when the fuel inside is lit. Smoke calms the bees, making working in the hive easier for the beekeeper.\n\n**_2 pounds smoker fuel_** We have had the best luck with KwikStart Smoker pellets (about $8 for 100) and cotton fuel (about $2) from Mann Lake Ltd. We have also used eucalyptus leaves, dead grass, pine needles\u2014anything that will provide long-lasting, cool smoke.\n\n_Preparing the smoker_\n\n**_1 entrance feeder_** Warned that these encourage robbing by intruder bees, we made our own feeders (see Other Equipment).\n\n**_1 zipper veil suit_** We chose large, to fit the largest member of Team Bee, but it became hazardous to the smallest members of our team, because the loose pant legs allowed bees to crawl into the suit. We ultimately bought suits that fit Team Bee regulars.\n\n**_1 plastic helmet and veil that zips to the suit_** A zipped-on veil keeps bees from sneaking under the helmet.\n\n**_1 pair leather beekeeping gloves_** The gloves come in small, medium, large, and extra large. Most of the women on Team Bee found small to be the best size.\n\n**_2 books_** These guides proved invaluable: _The Hive and the Honey Bee,_ edited by Joe M. Graham (Dadant & Sons, 1992); and _First Lessons in Beekeeping,_ by Keith S. Delaplane (Dadant & Sons, 2007).\n\n**_A year's subscription to the American Bee Journal_**\n\n**_1 medications brochure_** We found sound advice for dealing with bee diseases and problems in these pages.\n\n##### NOT INCLUDED IN THE KIT\n\n**_2 queen excluders, one for each hive_** An excluder is a screen with a mesh small enough to prevent the queen (larger than the rest of the bees) from crawling up into the \"honey super\" (a box designated for honey collection) and laying eggs there. About $11.50 each.\n\n**_2 \"Country Rubes\" bottom boards, one for each hive_** A bottom board is a small box on which the hive rests. Designed to help manage varroa mites (see Pest Control), it has an open, screened bottom and a removable plastic board. $39 each from www.countryrubes.com.\n\n**_2 honey supers (unassembled), one for each hive_** A honey super is a box that is smaller than the brood box and is set on top of it. It is normally used with a queen excluder to get clean honey. Each measures 6\u215d inches tall, with frames. $22.75 each.\n\n**_20 Plasticell foundations_** Plastic sheets, 5\u00bd inches by 16\u00be inches, used for filling the frames in the supers. About $0.75 each.\n\n**_2 drone frames, one for each hive_** These are used to combat varroa mites (see Pest Control). $3 each.\n\n**_3 vented helmets_** Much more comfortable than the plastic helmets from Dadant. A helmet paired with a round veil (see below)\u2014plus a white, long-sleeved shirt, light-colored pants, and closed shoes\u2014works fine as a basic beekeeping outfit, with gloves for heavy or prolonged work or for days when the bees are grumpy. About $14 each from Mann Lake Ltd.\n\n**_3 round veils with string tie-ons_** These are not quite as secure as zip-on veils, but they are fine for working with gentle bees like ours, and you can put them on faster. About $12 each from Mann Lake Ltd.\n\n##### BEES\n\nYou can get bees three ways:\n\n**_Packaged bees and caged queen_** It takes time to build up the colony this way, but it's the least-expensive choice. You can usually order packaged bees through your local beekeepers' guild. Preorder as early as the fall and certainly no later than early spring, as bees are only available for a short time in spring. About $65.\n\n_Our caged queen, Califia (with packaged bees)_\n\n**_Nuc (short for \"nucleus\")_** A nuc is a young hive, usually covering no more than 5 frames of comb, with a newly laying queen. Starting this way helps you get a jump on honey production. Buy from a reputable beekeeper to avoid getting diseased equipment or sick bees. We ordered two nucs from master beekeeper Randy Oliver and drove to his location in Grass Valley, California, to pick them up. $90 for each nuc, queen included; www.scientificbeekeeping.com.\n\n**_Well-established swarms or colonies_** Large colonies can be daunting if you've never kept bees before, and beginning beekeepers shouldn't try to capture a swarm. Leave that to a more experienced beekeeper (contact your local beekeepers' guild to find such a person), and perhaps he or she will help you start a hive with the captured swarm.\n\n##### OTHER EQUIPMENT\n\n**_2 hive stands, one for each hive_** The stands raise the hives off the ground. Made from scrap two-by-fours, each is 16\u00bc inches wide, 20 inches long, and 1 foot tall and has an open top. We painted our stands with white latex paint.\n\n**_8 sturdy square plastic food containers_** 32-ounce size. About $4 for 4 containers at a grocery store.\n\n**_Terro ant bait_** About $7 for a package of 3 units at a nursery, garden center, or hardware store.\n\n**_Apiguard_** For treating varroa mites. About $31 (enough for 10 individual treatments).\n\n**_Formic acid_** Also for treating varroa mites. About $40 (enough for 10 treatments) from Mann Lake Ltd.\n\n**_2 feeder tops, one for each hive_** These boards hold upended jars that dispense sugar syrup down into the hive to feed the bees.  \nTo make a board, trim a thin piece of plywood to fit on top of the hive. Then cut a hole with a diameter slightly smaller than that of the feeder jar lid (see below). Put the board on top of the hive. Set a filled jar over the hole, lid down, so that it completely covers the opening.\n\n**_2 (1-quart) glass jars and lids_** Punch several small holes in each lid with a nail to create feeder lids, fill the jars with sugar syrup, and then screw the lids on the jars. Any large clean glass jar will do.\n\n**_10 cups (about 4\u00bd pounds) granulated sugar_** You need this sugar to make the sugar syrup for the feeder jars. About $7.50 for a 5-pound bag at a grocery store.\n\n**_Powdered sugar_** Used to control mites. You will need 1 cup per brood box per hive per week for as long as you are dusting for mites (see Pest Control). About $2 for 2 pounds at a grocery store.\n\n**_Wooden spoons_** About $2 each at a cookware store.\n\n**_Bench scraper_** Also known as a pastry scraper. From $8 online or at a cookware store.\n\n**_Large glass bowl_** About $9 online or at a cookware store.\n\n**_Cheesecloth_** About $4.50 for 2 square yards at a hardware store or cookware store.\n\n**_Large stainless-steel strainer_** About $25 for a good sturdy one (we like OXO brand) at a cookware store.\n\n**_Honey jars and lids_** About $9 per 24-count box of 3-ounce hexagonal jars and about $6 per 12-count box of 6-ounce hexagonal jars from Mann Lake Ltd. (We used 5 boxes of the small jars and 2 boxes of the larger jars to bottle 31 pounds of honey.)\n\n**_5-gallon food-grade plastic bucket with 1\u00bd_** ** _-inch honey gate_** Bubbles and foam rise to the surface and the pure honey settles to the bottom, where it can be drawn from the honey gate (a kind of faucet). About $19 from Mann Lake Ltd.\n\n#### HOW TO DO IT\n\n**1. Choose the location** Bees need four things. First, they need **sun** , or afternoon shade if your weather is hot. Second, they must have access to fresh **water** near the hive. We used a large plant saucer with stones in the center for the bees to land on and refreshed the water every day. A shallow bubble fountain would work well, too. Third, the hive must be **protected from wind** , which can blow rain (or snow) into the hive, making it harder for the bees to keep the hive warm. Finally, bees need **privacy**. Don't put the hives near high-traffic areas, play areas, swimming pools, or pet areas. Give each hive plenty of space\u201450 feet from high-traffic areas is ideal, but if space is limited, position the hive so the entrance is near a tall fence or hedge. This will force their flight path overhead to minimize contact with people and pets. And screening them from view will keep bees and people happy.\n\n**2. Prepare the location** Hives should face south, if possible, and they need to be kept off the ground to protect them from dampness and critters. After clearing the brush and leveling the ground, we poured a cement pad to make care easier.\n\n**3. Install the bees** Spring, when blooming flowers furnish a food supply, is the time to put your bees in their hives. Once you've chosen how to buy them, the best bet is to rely on your source for installation instructions.\n\nHere is what happened when we picked up our bees from Randy Oliver at his property in Grass Valley: He gave us an introductory class in beekeeping, showing us how to use the hive tool and the smoker, handle bees, and check for eggs, brood (larvae), and queen\u2014all vital signs of a colony's health. Randy loaded 5 frames of his gentle hybrid bees and a queen into each of our two brood boxes and sealed the openings by stuffing them with our beekeeping gloves. We used ratchet straps to secure the boxes in the back of our truck. When we got back to Sunset, we positioned the brood boxes in their designated locations and removed the gloves from the entrances. One hive we named Betty; the other, Veronica.\n\n_Hives Veronica and Betty on a sunny day_\n\n**4. Feed the bees** Young colonies have a lot of work to do\u2014storing pollen and nectar, sealing all the cracks and seams in their new home, and taking care of the queen and new brood. To make their adjustment easier, we fed them a \"nectar.\" Here is how to make it: Dissolve equal parts granulated sugar and water and use to fill the quart jars. Top with the feeder lids and invert the jars into the holes. The lids should not drip; they should be barely moist. The bees will drink what they need from the lids.\n\nIn the beginning, our nucs drank about three-fourths of a quart jar per day. Over the next 3 weeks or so, it tapered off to the point where we realized sugar water was no longer necessary. The bees were finding their nutrition in flowers. Plus, sugar water makes for insipid honey and should not be continued if it is not needed.\n\n**5. Inspect the hives inside and out** Much of beekeeping is simple observation and response. If you are a novice beekeeper, inspect the hive about once a week for a couple of months so that you can learn. Once you feel comfortable, adjust your routine to every two weeks. Make sure the outside of the hive is clean and free of bee poop, the landing board is free of litter, and there are no ants on the hive. Open the hives and check frames for larvae and eggs (on warm days only). If the queen is healthy, you will see plenty of larvae in various stages of development. If you don't see evidence of a healthy queen, consult an expert. Your local beekeeping guild is a good source.\n\nUltimately, the less often you inspect the hive, the better for its health. Opening the hives and thoroughly checking them requires smoking to keep the bees calm. This stresses the bees and it takes them about a day to recover. As you learn more, you will find you won't need to pull many frames to know what is going on inside. And you will figure out a lot simply by observing the bees as they come and go from the hive.\n\n_Comb from our top-bar hive_\n\n**6. Check regularly for pests and diseases** Varroa mites are the pest most typically found in hives. Left unchecked, they can cripple and eventually kill the hive (see Pest Control, for hints about checking for mites and mite control). Other pests you need to watch for include the small hive beetle and the wax moth. Diseases you need to be on the lookout for are American and European foulbrood. Early intervention can often mean the difference between a healthy hive and a dead hive.\n\n**7. Expand the hive when necessary** Start with one deep hive body-brood box. When the bees have filled it with 7 or 8 frames of bees and brood, top it with a second brood box. Let the bees build up brood cells in the second brood box, too. When the second brood box is well filled (7 or 8 frames of bees), top it with a queen excluder, if you choose to use one, and, finally, the honey super (the box from which you will collect most of your honey).\n\n##### PEST CONTROL\n\nBees are like flying balls of delicate spun sugar filled with honey. Everything wants to eat them. Here are three of the worst pests we battled, and the tactics we used.\n\n**Ants** Argentine ants can kill a hive by robbing honey and eating the brood. We couldn't spray to kill the ants, since that would also kill the bees. We tried Terro ant bait\u2014little containers filled with boric acid mixed with a sweet substance ants like\u2014with some success. In the end, we were most successful with a physical barrier. We placed each leg of the hive stands in plastic tubs filled with water that the ants could not cross.\n\n**Small hive beetles** Hive beetle larvae will eat all parts of the hive, including the baby bees. We kill the beetles on site, and have been experimenting with traps like AJs Beetle Eater ($5.25) from Dadant.\n\n**Varroa mites** The most damaging pests a beekeeper has to deal with are these mites, as they threaten the survival of a hive once they become established. They suck the blood of adult bees and lay their eggs in brood cells, where their larvae feed off bee babies, infecting them with viruses and weakening and even killing them. To save their bees, beekeepers use a variety of methods:\n\n**1. Monitoring** A 24-hour count of a natural mite fall will give you a good idea of a hive's infestation. Coat the bottom of your Country Rube board with petroleum jelly or cooking spray (to trap the mites), slide it into the lower part of the bottom board, wait for 24 hours, and then pull it out and count the mites. Anything more than 10 mites per brood box indicates you have a problem.\n\n**2. Sugar dusting** The powdered sugar method lets you both count the mites and control them. Sift powdered sugar, 1 cup per brood box, over the tops of the frames and brush it into the hive. The powdered sugar makes the mites lose their grip on the bees and fall off; plus the bees groom the sugar off their bodies, dislodging more mites. Again, use the bottom board to capture the fallen mites. You should not see more than a few mites 10 minutes after dusting. If there are more, you have a problem.\n\n_Brushing powdered sugar into a hive_\n\n**3. Mite trapping** Drone frames will also help trap varroa mites. These frames are designed to encourage bees to make drone comb cells, which are larger than worker comb cells. Since varroa mites prefer drone brood 10 to 1, the drone comb makes a great mite trap. Just before the drones hatch (24 days after the eggs were laid), destroy the drone comb (you can freeze it and return it to the hive, or simply cut it out), and replace the drone frame for the next cycle. (Since our queens have already mated and have a lifetime's supply of sperm inside of them, they do not need the drones in order to reproduce.)\n\n**4. Apiguard** A gel infused with thymol, made from the oils of thyme plants. It works well, but it makes the honey stored during the treatment taste like mouthwash.\n\n**5. Formic acid** More toxic than thymol, formic acid kills the mites by gassing them. It makes the honey inedible for humans, so it is applied in the fall and winter, when the nectar flow is slow or stopped. You need to wear a respirator when applying it.\n\nFor more information on mite control, see the sources listed under Helpful Information, opposite.\n\n##### HONEY COLLECTION\n\nWe were lucky to collect honey the first summer. Typically, during the first year the bees build up their hive, and if they overwinter well, you can begin harvesting in the late spring or early summer of the second year.\n\nThree months after bringing our bees home, we had 4 frames packed with honey, each weighing about 8 pounds. Lacking a professional extractor, we used the following low-tech method.\n\n**1. Cut and crush** Using the bench scraper, we cut the honey\u2014wax and all\u2014off the foundation into a bowl, balancing the frame on a wooden spoon set across the bowl like a bridge. Then we used a wooden spoon to crush the honey and wax in the bowl.\n\n_Cutting the honeycomb off the foundation_\n\n_Crushing the comb_\n\n**2. Straining and settling** We poured this slurry of wax and honey through a double layer of cheesecloth and the stainless-steel strainer into our food-grade plastic bucket. Then we left it to drain and settle for a couple of days (bubbles and foam rose to the surface).\n\n**3. Bottling** We covered the floor with newspapers and got our jars ready. Then we loosened the honey gate (the stopper at the bottom of the bucket) to release the honey into each jar. In went the honey, on went the lids. It was as simple as that. From 4 full frames of honeycomb, we reaped 12 pounds, 10 ounces of honey. We rinsed the leftover wax and froze it. Later, we rendered the wax in a solar wax melter and used it for craft projects like lip balm and hand salve (for more information, see <http:\/\/oneblockdiet.sunset.com\/team_bee>.) We had a second surprise harvest later in the summer, bringing our total to about 31 pounds of pure, fragrant honey.\n\nAMAZING BEES\n\nWorker bees\u2014all females\u2014work hard their whole lives. That's not true for the males, known as drones. They lounge about stealing honey until it is time for them to fly out and look for a queen to mate with. But only a day or two after a working girl pulls herself from her six-sided cell, she begins contributing to the health of the hive.\n\nAs they age, worker bees take on a series of jobs (although tasks sometimes overlap, depending on the needs of the hive). At five to ten to days, they are house bees, cleaning the hive (bees are very clean), tending the brood (baby bees), taking care of the queen, and unloading nectar from the foraging bees and storing it in the wax combs. (The foragers take in the rest of the groceries\u2014the pollen\u2014themselves.) As they age, house bees start taking on other tasks, like guarding the hive and ventilating it by fanning their tiny wings across the comb. At two to three weeks, they become foragers, flying up to three miles away to find suitable blooming plants. Even as foragers they will help build comb, ventilate the hive, and protect it from honey-hungry animals. Bee colonies are adaptable, and every worker can switch jobs when needed.\n\nIn the summer, the worker bees work so hard they just wear out after about thirty-five to forty days. The queen, no slacker herself, lays up to 1,500 eggs a day during the spring and summer brood buildup to provide a constant supply of new workers. In the winter, bees live longer\u2014140 days or more\u2014keeping the hive and queen warm, dry, and safe until spring, when the season begins again.\n\n_Drones (in center)_\n\n_Workers_\n\n_Queen (in center)_\n\n#### HELPFUL INFORMATION\n\n##### GENERAL WEB SITES\n\n\u2022 www.scientificbeekeeping.com\n\n\u2022 www.sanmateobee.org\n\n\u2022 www.sfbee.org\n\n\u2022 www.beesource.com\n\n\u2022 www.beginningbeekeeping.com\n\n\u2022 www.caes.uga.edu\/departments\/ent\/bees\/beekeeping.html\n\n##### WEB SITES ABOUT HOW TO CONTROL VARROA MITES\n\n\u2022 www.caes.uga.edu\/departments\/ent\/bees\/disorders\/honey-bee-parasites.html#varroa\n\n\u2022 www.countryrubes.com\/information\/informationandpictures.html\n\n\u2022 www.scientificbeekeeping.com\n\n\u2022 www.dadant.com\/Apiguard-Howtouse_003.htm\n\n##### BOOKS AND PUBLICATIONS\n\n\u2022 _The Hive and the Honey Bee_ , edited by Joe M. Graham (Dadant & Sons, 1992).\n\n\u2022 _First Lessons in Beekeeping_ , by Keith S. Delaplane (Dadant & Sons, 2007).\n\n\u2022 _The Backyard Beekeeper_ , by Kim Flottum (Quarry Publishing Group, 2010).\n\n\u2022 _American Bee Journal_ , $24.95 per year (monthly publication); 51 South 2nd Street, Hamilton, IL 62341, 217\/847-3324.\n\n\u2022 _Bee Culture: The Magazine of American Beekeeping_ , $25 per year (monthly publication); 623 West Liberty Street, Medina, OH 44256, 800\/289-7668.\n\n_\u2014Margaret Sloan and Kimberley Burch_\n\n##    \nHOW TO MAKE  \nCHEESE (PART I)\n\nMilk needs very little encouragement to become cheese. Add heat and coagulant (like vinegar or lemon juice) and curds separate from whey to create, tah-dah, cheese.\n\nOur first cheeses, for our summer feast, couldn't have been simpler, because we restricted ourselves to what we could get from our garden: lemons for coagulation and herbs for flavoring, plus salt, which we made from seawater, and milk, from a Bay Area dairy (eventually we found our own cow). But even with our supersimple cheeses, the results were slightly different depending on how we adjusted the variables: temperature, time, amounts, and technique.\n\n#### BEFORE YOU START\n\n**_Sanitize_** All kinds of bacteria love the warm, nourishing medium of milk. To keep bad bacteria from messing with the good, scrub your work surface with antibacterial soap. Boil utensils\u2014ladle, whisk, measuring cups, and so on\u2014for 10 minutes in an 8-quart pot before you use them. Wash everything else with antibacterial soap and let air-dry. After you finish making cheese, wash your equipment and let it air-dry.\n\n**_Check your thermometer_** If the recipe calls for a dairy thermometer, check that it is calibrated correctly, or you might ruin your cheese. It's easy to check. As you're sterilizing it (submerging only the stem) with your other utensils, check the readout: It should be 212\u00b0F, the temperature of the boiling water. If it isn't, hold the face and adjust the pointer by turning the washer underneath the face with small pliers.\n\n###    \nFRESH CHIVE CHEESE\n\nMAKES 18 ounces (7-inch log; 28 servings)\n\nTIME about 2\u00bd hours, plus about 2 hours draining and chilling time\n\nThis recipe is based on one for _chenna_ , an Indian cheese, in Ricki Carroll's _Home Cheese Making_. Making it involves kneading the curds into a satiny, moist \"dough\" that you then roll into a log, chill, and slice to use. We added it to our Tomato and Herb Salad.\n\n#### WHAT TO USE\n\n**_Milk_** Lacking a cow, goats, or sheep here at Sunset, we had to go outside our one-block parameter for milk. (Later, we bought a dairy cow.)  \nBoth pasteurized and raw whole milk will work in any of our cheese recipes. The only milk that will not work is ultra-pasteurized milk; the extreme heat of the pasteurizing process (at or above 280\u00b0F for 2 seconds) damages proteins in the milk and makes it harder for curds to form. Ultra-pasteurized milk and cream also have an unpleasant \"cooked\" flavor.  \nWe used cream-top organic whole milk from Straus Family Creamery (www.strausfamilycreamery.com), near Tomales Bay in Marin County. It's sold in San Francisco Bay Area stores, starting at about $4.50 per gallon; 1 gallon yields about 1 pound cheese.\n\n**_Lemons_** We used plain old 'Eureka' lemons\u2014in our case, from our garden\u2014squeezed and the juice strained.\n\n**_Sea salt_** Salt is key for flavor development. It also extracts moisture from the curd and helps preserve the cheese. We used salt extracted from seawater (see How to Make Salt). Any good fine sea salt will work.\n\n**_Herbs_** You can use any herbs that appeal to you, from parsley to tarragon to mint. We chose chives, because we like their sharp, oniony flavor and emerald color against the white cheese.\n\n**_8-quart heavy-bottomed stainless-steel pot_** For heating the milk. From $60 at a cookware shop.\n\n**_Large colander_**\n\n**_Cheesecloth_** Lining the colander with a finely woven cheesecloth prevents any small curds from tumbling through the holes. About $4.50 for 2 square yards at hardware stores or cookware shops.\n\n**_Stainless-steel perforated cheese ladle_** A cheese ladle has a large, flat surface that stirs milk and curds efficiently; you can also use a large slotted spoon. About $7.\n\n**_Dessert or salad plate_**\n\n**_5-pound weight_** Anything will do, from a barbell to heavy cans. We used round kitchen-scale weights.\n\n**_Stand mixer with dough hook attachment (optional)_**\n\n#### HOW TO DO IT\n\n1 gallon whole milk, pasteurized or raw\n\n\u00bd cup freshly squeezed lemon juice (4 to 5 large lemons)\n\n2 tablespoons coarsely snipped fresh chives\n\n\u00be teaspoon fine sea salt\n\n**1. Separate the curds and whey** Pour the milk into the 8-quart pot and bring to a gentle boil over medium-high heat, stirring often to prevent scorching (this will take about 30 minutes, so have a book handy). As soon as the milk boils, remove from the heat and slowly drizzle in the lemon juice while stirring slowly and gently with a rubber spatula. Keep stirring until solid white curds separate from greenish white, translucent liquid whey. This happens within seconds. If the curds have separated but the whey is still milky instead of clear, return the pot to low heat and cook until the whey is clear, then remove from the heat. Let sit until the curds have settled below the whey, about 15 minutes.\n\n**2. Drain the curds** While the curds are settling, line the colander with a double thickness of cheesecloth and set it in the sink. Ladle the curds into the colander and rinse gently with lukewarm water for 5 seconds. Gather the cheesecloth into a knot over the curds and twist gently to squeeze out some of the liquid (the \"bundle\" should still be dripping after you have done this). To save the whey left in the pot for making ricotta, strain it through a cheesecloth-lined strainer into a container and chill until ready to use (up to 1 day).\n\n**3. Press the curds** Place the dessert plate on the cheesecloth-wrapped curds and top with the 5-pound weight. Let drain for 45 minutes. At this point, the curds may still be dripping a bit, but that's okay. You want some moisture in the cheese.\n\n**4. Knead the curds** Unwrap the curds and put them in the bowl of the stand mixer fitted with the dough hook. Add the chives and salt and beat on low speed until the cheese looks silky, 10 to 12 minutes. It should be as moist and smooth as cream cheese. Or, combine the curds, chives, and salt in a large bowl and knead by hand for about the same amount of time. The hand-kneaded cheese will be denser and more tightly grained than the machine-beaten cheese.\n\n**5. Shape and store the cheese** Roll the cheese into a log about 2 inches in diameter. Wrap in waxed paper and then plastic wrap. Refrigerate until cold and firm, at least 1 hour, before using. It will keep for up to 3 days.\n\n_PER \u00bc-INCH SLICE: 86 cal., 49% (42 cal.) from fat; 4.6 g protein; 4.7 g fat (2.9 g sat.); 6.9 g carbo (0 g fiber); 103 mg sodium; 20 mg chol._\n\n_Sanitizing the equipment_\n\n_Field trip to Cowgirl Creamery_\n\n_Tasting curds in the Sunset kitchen_\n\n###    \nOREGANO QUESO BLANCO\n\nMAKES about 2 cups (10\u00bd ounces)\n\nTIME about 2 hours\n\nCrumbly and mild, this cheese reminds us of fresh Mexican _queso blanco_ , or \"white cheese,\" which is often also called _queso fresco_. It is based on the recipe for lemon cheese in Ricki Carroll's _Home Cheese Making_ , but we more than doubled the lemon juice of the original, and we whisked the curds before draining them. The result: tart, moist, fluffy small curds that are good on soups, salads, or pizza. We sprinkled the cheese on our corn soup.\n\n#### WHAT TO USE\n\nSame as for Fresh Chive Cheese.\n\n#### HOW TO DO IT\n\n2 quarts whole milk, pasteurized or raw\n\n\u00bd cup plus 1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice (4 to 5 large lemons)\n\n1\u00bdtablespoons fresh oregano leaves, minced\n\n1 teaspoon fine sea salt\n\n**1. Separate the curds and whey** Pour the milk into the pot and bring just to boiling over medium-high heat, stirring often to prevent scorching. As soon as the milk looks as though it is about to boil, remove the pot from the heat and drizzle in the lemon juice while whisking briskly. Cover and let sit for 10 minutes.\n\n**2. Drain the curds** Meanwhile, line the colander with a double thickness of cheesecloth and set the colander in the sink. Pour in the curds. Tie two opposite corners of the cheesecloth into a knot over the curds, then repeat with the other two corners. Hang the cheesecloth sack from the sink faucet until the curds have stopped draining, 1 to 2 hours.\n\n**3. Flavor and store the cheese** Transfer the curds to a bowl and mix in the oregano and salt with your fingers, breaking up the curds into small grains. Cover tightly and refrigerate. It will keep for up to 1 week.\n\n_PER TABLESPOON: 38 cal., 47% (18 cal.) from fat; 2 g protein; 2 g fat (1.3 g sat.); 3.2 g carbo (0 g fiber); 91 mg sodium; 8.5 mg chol._\n\n#### HELPFUL INFORMATION\n\n##### WEB SITE\n\n\u2022 The Pacific Northwest Cheese Project, www.pnwcheese.typepad.com.\n\n##### CHEESE-MAKING SUPPLIES\n\n\u2022 The Beverage People (wine-, beer-, and cheese-making supplies), www.thebeveragepeople.com or 800\/544-1867.\n\n\u2022 Hoegger Supply Company, hoeggergoatsupply.com or 800\/221-4628.\n\n\u2022 New England Cheesemaking Supply, www.cheesemaking.com or 413-397-2012.\n\n##### BOOKS AND DVDS\n\n\u2022 _Home Cheesemaking: Recipes for 75 Homemade Cheeses,_ by Ricki Carroll (Storey Books, 2002). First published in 1982, this little book has been reissued three times and has guided many a beginner to professional success.\n\n\u2022 _The Cheesemaker's Manual_ , by Margaret Peters-Morris (Glengarry Cheesemaking Inc., 2003). From a guru of the cheese-making world and the owner of Glengarry Cheesemaking Inc, in Lancaster, Ontario (Canada), this concise, well-organized book is a bit dry but packed with helpful information for home cheese makers, plus about fifty recipes for soft, hard, and washed-rind cheeses. Glengarry also sells a DVD, _Home Cheesemaking with Margaret Morris_ , in which Ms. Morris calmly and cheerfully demonstrates how to make feta, Gouda, Camembert, and Cheddar (about $38).\n\n##    \nHOW TO MAKE  \nBEER\n\n_Barley_\n\nMaking home-brewed beer doesn't take long. You can make ale, the easiest type, in only four to six weeks. Also, you can play around with all sorts of ratios and roasts to make exactly the kind of beer you like. The biggest challenge is becoming familiar with the process and with the key pieces of equipment.\n\nMost home brewers use brewing kits to make beer, and that's how we started, too. For our second batch in the spring, we made beer totally from scratch\u2014as in, we used the wheat and barley that we had planted, threshed, winnowed, and malted (sprouted) ourselves, and grew hop flowers (called cones) for flavoring and preserving the brew. We were in a little over our heads, but we had expert advice and fun doing it.\n\nWe recommend that you start with a kit and either brew with a friend who has made beer before or take a class. Once you're comfortable with the process, progress to partial mash brewing (making beer from malted grain steeped in malt extract; we plan to do this next, and will write about it on our Team Beer blog, <http:\/\/oneblockdiet.com\/team_beer>). Then try making all-grain brews, first from pre-malted grains, then from grain you malt yourself, and ultimately\u2014if you're so inclined\u2014from grain you grow, for a beer that is as personal as it gets.\n\n###    \nSUMMER WHEAT BEER (from a kit)\n\nMAKES 48 (12-ounce) bottles\n\nTIME about 1 month\n\nFresh and light, yet flavorful, this beer went well with the round, ripe flavors of our summer feast.\n\n#### WHAT TO USE\n\nAll of our materials, unless otherwise mentioned, came from William's Brewing Company, 2594 Nicholson Street, San Leandro, California; www.williamsbrewing.com or 800\/759-6025.\n\n**_Honey wheat brewing kit_** A beginner-level kit contains one 6-pound pouch wheat extract, one 2-pound pouch blackberry honey, 2 ounces flavoring hop pellets (pulverized and compressed hop cones), 1 ounce aromatic hops, one 125-milliliter packet liquid yeast, and 1 packet corn sugar (fine, white and powdery; also called priming sugar) for carbonation. About $36.\n\n**_Saniclean_** Safe for septic systems and does not stain; good for sanitizing your chiller, fermenters, ladle, tubing, and bottles. Use 2 ounces for 5 gallons of water. About $13 for a 1-quart bottle.\n\n**_7-gallon boiling pot_** Also known as a brewing pot or brew kettle. A large, sturdy stockpot, available at any cookware or housewares store, will do. Or, you can use the 8-gallon boiling pot with spigot that we used for our Belgian Abbey Ale.\n\n**_Medium plastic ladle_**\n\n**_Long-handled plastic stirring spoon_**\n\n**_Immersion chiller or plate chiller_** A coil of copper tubing, the immersion chiller is placed in the hot wort (the sweet liquid, made from malted grains, that will become beer) and then flushed with cold water to cool the wort rapidly. You can also put the pot in a sink full of cold water and change the water when it gets hot, but the chiller works much faster. The plate chiller, also known as a Shirron heat exchanger, is a slender metal box that brings in the cold tap water and the hot wort at the same time through separate tubes, instantly chilling the wort to about 70\u00b0F. The chiller costs about $55, the heat exchanger about $87.\n\n**_Brewer's thermometer_** Indispensable for measuring the temperature of the new wort. If the wort is too hot, it will destroy the yeast. Brewer's Edge makes a thermometer with a large, easy-to-read face and a 12-inch probe stem. About $12.\n\n**_Primary fermenter_** Also called a siphonless fermenter, this 7-gallon food-grade plastic bucket with a spigot is used for the fermenting stage. We've also used a 5-gallon carboy, but this is cheaper. About $30.\n\n**_Strainer_** Choose a sturdy one that fits into the top of the primary fermenter. About $15.\n\n**_Hydrometer_** A hydrometer measures the specific gravity (density) of the wort relative to water. Dissolved sugars make up the density of the wort, and the sugars are what ferment into alcohol, so the hydrometer measurement is a good indicator of the potential alcohol level of your beer. The MT300 hydrometer from www.morebeer.com has a potential alcohol scale. About $6.\n\n**_Hydrometer jar_** A plastic tube with a flat base, sized to fit the hydrometer; used for holding the beer sample. $4.75 from www.morebeer.com.\n\n**_Rubber stopper_** This almost fully seals the opening at the top of the primary fermenter. A small perforation in the middle accommodates the airlock (see below). $1.00 to $1.50, depending on size.\n\n**_Airlock_** You fill this small plastic cylinder with water and insert it into the rubber stopper. This keeps bacteria from entering the new wort. It also allows the carbon dioxide in the fermenting beer to find a way out, so your container doesn't explode. About $1.\n\n**_Large, dark cloth_**\n\n**_Secondary fermenter_** Also known as a priming tank, this second 7-gallon ** _,_** food-grade plastic bucket with a spigot is similar to the primary fermenter, but the spigot is placed lower on the bucket. This bucket is also used for bottling; it includes a small length of tubing, one end of which attaches to the spigot. The other end fills the bottles. About $20.\n\n**_3-foot length food-grade vinyl tubing_** Clear vinyl, with a \u215c-inch interior diameter, used to siphon the beer from one vessel to another. About $0.30 per foot at a home wine-making or plumbing-supply store.\n\n**_Bottles_** You'll need 48 pry-top bottles (screw-top bottles are harder to seal) in dark green or brown glass (sunlight shining through clear glass can stimulate the growth of bacteria). We scrounged ours from various sources, namely friends, family, and colleagues. Free.\n\n**_Jet bottle washer_** This fits on any outdoor hose thread faucet, such as those on a garage sink. About $12.\n\n**_Bottle tree_** Invert your newly washed and sterilized bottles on this multipronged \"tree\" to dry. We like the 81-bottle model. About $30.\n\n**_Beer caps_** A pack of 320 pry-type caps costs about $6.\n\n**_Capper_** We like the easy-to-use Emily capper; $14.\n\n**_Or, get a complete kit_** William's Brewing also offers a \"home brewery,\" which includes most of the tools above (excluded are the bottles, caps, and boiling pot) and the ingredients for your beer of choice (from $110). The company also throws in a beginner's home-brewing book and a DVD guide.\n\n#### HOW TO DO IT\n\nBREWING (about 3 hours, plus up to 3 days for the yeast to swell)\n\n**1. Get the yeast going** Pop the puffy center of your liquid-yeast packet and shake the packet. That bubble contained your yeast, and surrounding the bubble is wort for the yeast to feed on and multiply. Let the packet swell; this takes at least a day and up to three. Do not start the beer until the yeast packet is at least 1\u00bd inches thick.\n\n**2. Prepare your boiling pot** Sterilize it with Saniclean solution, rinse with water, and fill the pot with 5 gallons of water. Add 2 teaspoons gypsum to the water to harden it.\n\n**3. Mix the wheat extract with the hot water** Cover the pot and bring the water to a full boil over high heat. (That much water can take a long time to boil, so don't be in a hurry.) When the water boils, turn off the heat and squeeze the wheat extract into the water. Use the ladle to scoop hot water into the pouch to remove the residual extract, and then use your stirring spoon to mix the extract with the water. Now the mixture is considered wort.\n\n**4. Bring the wort to a boil** When the extract is well mixed, cover the pot partially and bring the wort to a boil over high heat. Then uncover and keep the wort at a rolling boil. Be careful not to let it boil over the top of the pot, because it is a very sticky mess to clean up.\n\n**5. Add the flavoring hops** Five minutes after the wort has begun to boil, add the flavoring hops. Boil for 45 minutes.\n\n**6. Add the honey** Squeeze in the honey as you did the wheat extract, ladling some of the hot wort into the pouch to loosen any honey residue. Boil for 3 minutes.\n\n**7. Add the aromatic hops** Stir in the aromatic hops and boil for 2 minutes more. Remove the wort from the heat.\n\n**8. Chill the wort** Use the immersion chiller or plate chiller, or put the pot in a cold-water bath in the sink, to cool down the wort to the yeast's ideal fermentation temperature. The yeast packet will note the temperature; ours listed a range of between 58\u00b0 and 74\u00b0F. Depending on which method you use, the chilling process can take anywhere from a few minutes (the plate chiller) to 30 minutes (immersion chiller) to more than 1 hour (the sink).\n\n**9. Start fermenting** Pour the wort through the strainer into the primary fermenter, add the yeast, and give the wort a good stir with the stirring spoon.\n\n**10. Measure the original specific gravity (density) of the wort** Insert the hydrometer into the hydrometer jar, drizzle in enough beer from the fermenter's spigot to make the hydrometer float, and read off the original specific gravity (OG) and the potential alcohol. Make a note of the OG. Although the precise figure isn't as important when you're using a kit, it will tell you how dense the wort is and will give you a way to measure the progress of the fermentation (as the sugars in the wort convert to alcohol, the mixture will become less dense).\n\n**11. Set up the beer for primary fermentation** Put the fermenter lid on and insert the rubber stopper into the hole in the lid. Insert the airlock into the stopper, and then fill the airlock one-third full with water. Leaving only the airlock exposed, wrap the fermenter in the dark cloth. This blocks sunlight, which can stimulate the growth of bacteria. Keep the wort at the yeast's ideal fermentation temperature (see step 8). You can use an electric heating pad under the fermenter if the room gets too chilly.\n\n##### FERMENTATION (2 to 4 weeks)\n\n**1. Primary fermentation** After a day or two, the wort should start to ferment. As the carbon dioxide escapes, the airlock will start to sputter, bubble, and hiss vigorously. Once it has calmed down, generally within a few days, the primary fermentation is complete.\n\n**2. Secondary fermentation and racking** Let the beer keep on fermenting for the time specified by the kit. In our case, this was 12 more days (for a total fermentation time of 16 days). Even though the airlock may not be sputtering, carbon dioxide is still forming and quietly seeping out through the airlock.\n\nMeanwhile, the dead yeast cells are slowly filtering to the bottom, creating sediment (or trub). Moving the beer off the trub into a clean container (racking) helps to clarify it as it ferments. To rack your beer, set the primary fermenter on a countertop and the secondary fermenter on the floor below. Remove the airlock from the primary fermenter. Work one end of the 3-foot vinyl tubing onto the spigot of the primary fermenter, put the other end in the open secondary fermenter, and let the beer flow down. Shut off the spigot when you see sediment starting to enter the tube. Remove the vinyl tubing, snap the lid on the secondary fermenter, and seal it with the stopper and airlock. Wrap it up in the dark cloth to keep out light, and re-wrap after subsequent rackings (below).\n\nWhen another layer of trub forms on the bottom of the secondary fermenter, usually in about a week, rack the beer again the same way, this time returning it to the primary fermenter.\n\nAt the end of this secondary period, check the final gravity again with your hydrometer (see Brewing, step 10). Our kit specified a reading of 1.017 or less. If the reading is higher than that, let the beer ferment for another few days.\n\n**3. Clean your bottles** At least a day before you think you will be bottling, start getting the bottles ready. Mix up a bucketful of Saniclean solution and put a batch of bottles in it for a few minutes, making sure the solution fills them completely. Then empty out the sanitizer back into the bucket and rinse the bottles with hot water using the jet bottle washer. Invert the bottles onto the bottle tree to drain. Sanitize the rest of the bottles the same way.\n\n##### BOTTLING DAY (about 3 hours)\n\n**1. Carbonate the brew** If the beer is not already in the secondary fermenter, siphon it in there. Stir in the corn sugar, which the surviving yeast will gobble up, releasing carbon dioxide\u2014in other words, carbonation.\n\n_Carbonating_\n\n**2. Bottle the beer** Dunk the bottles in Saniclean solution and drain them on your bottle tree. Put the end of the secondary fermenter's tubing into your first empty bottle, holding it below the fermenter. Open the fermenter's valve and fill to within 1 inch of the neck bottom.\n\n**3. Cap the bottles** Put a cap on the bottle, place the capper over it, and push down on the capper's arms to seal.\n\n##### CARBONATION IN BOTTLE (1 to 2 weeks)\n\n**1. Let the beer rest** Store in a cardboard box at room temperature (68\u00b0F or above) for a week. Then try a bottle: If it's fizzy, chill the beer and drink as soon as possible. If it is not fizzy enough, let it go for another week. When you like it, chill it.\n\nThis beer tastes best when it is freshly made. Ours kept well in the refrigerator for months, but the fizz and flavor were at their peak right after bottling.\n\n###    \nBELGIAN ABBEY ALE (from barley, wheat, and hops)\n\nMAKES 48 (12-ounce) bottles\n\nTIME 1\u00bd years\n\n_Belgian Abbey Ale_\n\nOur aim was to make a combination barley-wheat beer, totally from scratch.\n\n#### WHAT TO USE\n\nAll-grain brewing requires a few more pieces of equipment than kit-brewing does, but if you have already brewed using a kit, you can use the same equipment and just add to it. All of our materials, unless otherwise mentioned, came from nearby William's Brewing Company, 2594 Nicholson Street, San Leandro, California; www.williamsbrewing.com or 800\/759-6025.\n\n**_2 hop rhizomes ('Nugget' and 'Centennial') for planting_** The rhizome, the main stem of the hop vine, is sold cut into small pieces that look like little brown sticks.\n\n**_3 pounds barley seed for planting, to yield 9 pounds malted, prepped barley_** Barley is the main grain used in beer. We planted 'Lacey', a malting type (versus a cereal type) developed for brewing. About $5 per pound from Howe Seeds, www.howeseeds.com.  \nOur total yield was about 2\u00bd pounds of grain, after winnowing and threshing (squirrels carried away most of the crop). The total yield after malting (sprouting) was 2 pounds. We needed about 9 pounds malted, prepped barley to make one 5-gallon batch of beer, so we had to supplement with 7 pounds store-bought malted barley. If we do this again, we'll grow more barley, as insurance. About $2 per pound for whole malted grain, $2.25 per pound for crushed malted grain.\n\n**_2 pounds wheat seed for planting, to yield 6 pounds malted, prepped wheat_** We planted organic soft white wheat. It is high in carbohydrates, which convert to sugars and then alcohol. About $5 per 2-pound bag from Homegrown Harvest, www.homegrownharvest.com.  \nThose same marauding squirrels caused us to lose a lot of wheat. Our total harvest was about 1\u00bd pounds. Our total yield after malting (sprouting) was 1 pound. We needed 6 pounds for our 5-gallon batch of beer, so, as with the barley, we had to supplement with 5 pounds of store-bought malted seed (wheat malt). About $2 per pound for whole wheat malt, $2.25 per pound for crushed wheat malt.\n\n**_Trellis for growing hop vines_** Hop vines can reach upward of 30 feet, so we had to get creative. The lower part was a 5-by-10-foot piece of rigid \u00bc-inch wire mesh. With deck screws, we attached four wooden blocks to a section of our garden fence (one block for each corner of mesh), screwed a lag hook into each block, and fitted the mesh over the hooks. Above the trellis and about 3 feet below the top of the fence, we attached two 2-inch-square wooden poles, each 8 feet tall. We attached them with deck screws to the fence and spaced them 10 feet apart. We ran several lengths of electrical wire between the poles, so the hops could grow across as well as up. The trellis cost $60 at a scrap metal shop. Everything else came from Home Depot: 6-inch-square wooden blocks (cut from an 8-foot board), about $8.50; 8-inch lag hooks, about $1.50 each; 8-foot poles, about $5 each; outdoor deck screws, about $8.75 for a 1-pound box of 75 screws; and uncoated electrical wire, from $0.25 per foot.\n\n**_Hop-drying frame_** We built a 2-by-4-foot wooden frame from two-by-fours, and then nailed a piece of fine wire mesh to the bottom, sized to fit the frame. About $15 for all supplies at Home Depot.\n\n**_Vacuum food sealer_** We vacuum-sealed our dried hops for storage. (You can also store your hops in two heavy-duty resealable plastic bags, one set inside the other.) Seal-A-Meal VS230 Vacuum Food Sealer, about $71 from www.amazon.com.\n\n**_Several ordinary kitchen colanders_** for separately draining the soaked barley and wheat.\n\n**_Grain mill_** The Barley Crusher MaltMill, with a 15-pound hopper, for use with a standard \u215c-inch power screwdriver. $138 from www.barleycrusher.com.\n\n**_Abbey Ale yeast_** Fruity and rich, this distinctive yeast is used in two of the world's six Trappist breweries. Like many Belgian yeasts, it is capable of continuing to ferment even when alcohol levels are high (high alcohol kills many yeasts). We had a lot of malted grain in this recipe (that is, potential sugars and therefore alcohol), so we thought it would be the right choice. About $6 for a 1-ounce tube from www.morebeer.com.\n\n**_Corn sugar_** Also known as priming sugar, this fine, white, powdery sugar (sometimes available granulated) feeds the yeast, which unleashes the carbon dioxide that carbonates the beer. About $2 per pound.\n\n**_Food-grade gypsum_** A blend of powdered calcium and sulfur, gypsum is used to harden the water. Hard water makes for clearer beer by helping coagulate malt proteins and encouraging the sedimentation of yeast. You will need only 1 teaspoon gypsum for each 5-gallon batch. About $3 for an 8-ounce bag.\n\n**_8-gallon boiling pot with spigot_** This big, stainless-steel vessel is also known as a brewing pot or brew kettle. About $85.\n\n**_5-gallon all-grain mash tun_** A Rubbermaid beverage cooler with a spigot attached and a fine-mesh screen laid over the bottom to keep the grains from clogging the spigot. About $125 from www.morebeer.com.\n\n**_5-gallon all-grain hot liquor tank_** A Rubbermaid beverage cooler with a spigot attached. About $48 from www.morebeer.com.\n\n**_Sparger_** Also known as a sparge tip, this plastic water dispenser has a central tube and four arms to keep it balanced atop the mash tun. Its job is to dribble water through the tube and arms very slowly and evenly into the mashed grain to rinse off residual sugar. About $25 from www.morebeer.com.\n\n**_Two 3-foot lengths food-grade vinyl tubing_** Made of clear vinyl, and with a \u215c-inch interior diameter, the tubing is used to connect the hot liquor tank to the sparger and to let the wort flow from the mash tun into the boiling pot. It is also used later to siphon the beer into bottles. About $0.30 per foot online or at a home wine-making or plumbing-supply store.\n\n**_Immersion chiller or plate chiller, Saniclean, stirring spoon, brewer's thermometer, primary fermenter, strainer, hydrometer, hydrometer jar, rubber stopper, airlock, secondary fermenter, bottles, jet bottle washer, bottle tree, beer caps, capper_** See the What to Use list for Summer Wheat Beer.\n\n**_Or, get an All-Grain System kit_** The kit includes the mash tun, hot liquor tank, and sparger, plus tubing. $219 from www.sanfranciscobrewcraft.com; $235 from www.morebeer.com.\n\n#### HOW TO DO IT\n\n##### GROWING THE CROPS\n\n**1. Plant the hops** In April, 18 months before we would savor our brew, we planted the rhizome pieces (we knew that the first season would yield few, if any, flower cones, so we had to plan for a second-season harvest). Because of the hop vine's prodigious size and abundance, we planted the pieces about 6 feet apart, right beneath the metal trellis that would support their fast-growing shoots (see photo).\n\n**2. Plant the barley** In November (for Northern California; for other regions, see planting calendars), plant the seed and care for the crop as directed on here.\n\n**3. Plant the wheat** In January (for Northern California; for other regions, see planting calendars), plant the seed and care for the crop as directed on here.\n\n##### HARVESTING, THRESHING, AND WINNOWING THE BARLEY AND WHEAT\n\n**1. Harvest the barley** After the barley forms seeds in the spring, wait for the stalks to dry; they should be golden brown. If the weather is hot, this won't take long (we harvested in mid-May). Use hand pruners to clip a couple of inches below the seedheads.\n\n**2. Dry the barley** Lay a tarp out indoors and spread the freshly harvested stalks in a single layer on the tarp. When the color of the barley changes from golden brown to grayish brown, it is fully dried. This takes about a month, depending on the heat and humidity.\n\n**3. Harvest the wheat** Like the barley, the wheat seedheads should dry on the stalk to a golden brown before harvesting. We harvested our wheat a bit early because our crop was being devoured by squirrels. Harvest the wheat the same way you harvested the barley.\n\n**4. Dry the wheat** Dry it the same way you dried the barley. It will take about the same amount of time.\n\n**5. Thresh and winnow the barley and the wheat** Keeping the barley and wheat separate, thresh (loosen the grains from the stalks and the papery casings surrounding each grain, called chaff) and winnow (separate the seeds from the stalks and chaff) them. Each member of Team Beer tried a different tactic, but most ended up laboriously hand-peeling the casings from the grains and then either blowing off the chaff or soaking the grain and skimming the debris.\n\nWhat we should have done, we've since learned, is thresh by banging the seedheads against the inside of a clean metal trash can to get them off the stalk. Then we should have stuffed the loosened seeds into a sturdy, thickly woven pillowcase or sack (clean of course) and walked in place on it, twisting our feet over the grain to rub off those papery bracts. As for winnowing, it's apparently easiest done in front of a floor fan turned to the lowest setting. You put a large sheet pan (or maybe a sheet itself) on the ground and then let loose handfuls of grain above the fan's windstream. The grains drop and the chaff flies away.\n\nIf we grow grain again, we'll try these methods.\n\n##### HARVESTING AND DRYING THE HOPS\n\n**1. Harvest the hops** 'Centennial' succumbed to fungus and bugs, so we were left with 'Nugget'. By September, the resiny balls called lupulins, found at the base of the flower cones, had turned golden yellow and were quite bitter, a sign of ripeness. (The lupulins, along with alpha acids in the flower, contribute a spicy, herbal, pleasingly bitter note to beer.) Harvesting was easy: We just snipped the cones from the vine with scissors.\n\n_Hop rhizomes_\n\n_Hop harvest_\n\n_'Nugget' hops_\n\n**2. Dry the hops** We spread a carpet of newspapers on the floor and set our hop-drying frame on top, with a couple of bricks under each corner so air could circulate underneath. We placed the hop cones on the screen, spreading them out in a single layer. After about a week of drying, the hops were still green, but sprang back when pressed\u2014a sign that they were dry enough. We kept small vacuum-sealed bags in the freezer. For our Belgian Abbey Ale, we used 3 ounces of hops.\n\n##### MALTING THE GRAIN (at least 6 days)\n\nThis involves converting the barley and the wheat from a starch storage unit (a seed) to a slightly sweet, crunchy grain that can be further converted, through the brewing process, into the fermentable sugary solution known as wort (pronounced \"wert\").\n\n_Malted grain_\n\n**1. Soak the grain** Put the 2 pounds homegrown barley and 1 pound homegrown wheat seeds in separate bowls. Add water to cover by at least 2 inches, then leave the seeds to soak for 8 hours. Drain them separately in colanders, and let them dry in the colanders for 8 hours (if they are drenched for longer than 8 hours at a time, they will be deprived of oxygen and will die). Soak the seeds separately again the same way for another 8 hours. At this point, the seeds should have begun to swell and turn white, a sign that they are about to germinate (sprout). If they haven't, drain, dry, and soak them again the same way until they appear about to germinate.\n\n**2. Sprout the grain** Line large rimmed baking sheets with paper towels. Keeping the wheat and barley separate, spread the swelled seeds in a single layer on the lined baking sheets. The paper towels absorb moisture and so maintain humidity, which is essential to helping the seeds germinate.\n\nPut the pans in large, dark garbage bags and tie the ends closed. Let the seeds sit at room temperature until they sprout. Barley seed takes 4 to 7 days; wheat seed takes about 3 days. Note that each seed will put out root hairs (each finer than a root) and shoots. The shoots are much larger than the root hairs, and each seed has just one shoot but several root hairs. When the shoot has grown to one-half to three-fourths the length of the seed, stop the germination by baking the seeds.\n\n**3. Bake the grain** Preheat the oven to between 100\u00b0 and 125\u00b0F (if your oven has a pilot light, just turning the pilot light on may bring the oven to the perfect temperature). Remove the baking sheets from the plastic bags and slip them into the oven. Bake the seeds for about 1 hour, then take them out of the oven. Remove the towels from the pan (you will yank off some roots and shoots, too, but that's fine), spread the seeds evenly on the pans, and bake the seeds for 24 hours. Move them around with a spatula every 30 minutes for the first 4 to 6 hours, to help them dry evenly.\n\nWhen the seeds are fully dried, bite into one. If it is rock hard, it is still a starch storage unit and won't make beer. Put the seeds back in the oven for another 30 minutes and test again. When they are crunchy and slightly sweet, the germination has converted the starch to sugar, and you have malt\u2014the key to making beer.\n\n**4. Clean the grain** One last step in the malting process: rub the fine dried root material off the grains. This will give you a clearer beer.\n\n##### BREWING DAY (about 3 hours)\n\nWe brewed under the guidance of our friend Chuck Schwalbach, who is married to Sunset's manufacturing manager, Diane Schwalbach. Chuck, a product designer for Apple, really knows his way around all-grain home brewing and helped us each step of the way. We highly recommend that you make your first all-grain batch with a knowledgeable friend, or that you take a class.\n\nHoping to create a particularly fresh-flavored beer, we decided to roast and grind the grain the same day we brewed the beer.\n\n**1. Roast the grain** Light 20 to 30 charcoal briquettes in the fire grate of your grill and let them burn until they are covered with ash. Push them into two small piles on either side of the grate. Put 8 ounces of the malted barley in an aluminum pie pan and place the pan on the cooking grate over the cleared space. Roast the grain, shaking the pie pan often, until about two-thirds of the grains are black. The timing will depend on the intensity of the fire; plan on about 20 minutes. Don't roast more than 1 pound of grain for a 5-gallon batch of beer, or your beer may turn out grainy and bitter.\n\n**2. Grind the grain** Pour all of the grain\u2014malted wheat, malted barley, and roasted barley\u2014into the hopper of the grain mill, turn on the mill, and let it rip.\n\n**3. Prepare your boiling pot** Sterilize your boiling pot with Saniclean solution. Rinse off the sanitizer with clean water.\n\n**4.** **Mash (hot-soak) the malted grain** The key here is to mash the grain at just the right temperature for the grain's starches to convert to sugar. Chuck measured the temperature of our grain and calculated that we'd need the mash water to be 172\u00b0F when poured into the mash pot. As soon as the water and grain mingled, the temperature would drop to 152\u00b0F. The mash conversion temperature can range from 150\u00b0 to 158\u00b0F, depending on the style of beer you want. (For more on this, see www.howtobrew.com, an excellent in-depth online brewing guide from beer guru John Palmer; refer to Sections 2 and 3 to learn about all-grain brewing.)\n\nFill the boiling pot with 13 quarts water, add 1 teaspoon gypsum, set the pot on the stove top, and heat the water to 180\u00b0F (measure it with your brewer's thermometer). Meanwhile, set your mash tun (the cooler fitted with the mesh bottom) on a nearby countertop. Attach one of your vinyl tubes to the spigot of the boiling pot, put the other end in the mash tun, and open the spigot to let the hot water flow into the mash tun. Then let the water in the mash tun cool to 172\u00b0F. (It's easier to start with hotter water and cool it down than have to pour the water back into the boiling pot and heat it up again.)\n\nPour the ground grain into the mash tun. Using the stirring paddle, mix well. The temperature of the mash should immediately decrease to 152\u00b0F. Let the mash rest for 1\u00bd hours.\n\n_Adding grain to the mash tun_\n\n**5. Sparge (rinse) the mash** About 30 minutes before the mash has finished resting, start heating up 4\u00bd gallons of water in the boiling pot. Bring it to a boil to evaporate the chlorine in the water.\n\nRemove the pot from the heat and let the water cool to 172\u00b0F. Transfer the hot water to the hot liquor tank (the cooler without the mesh bottom) and elevate the tank at least 1 foot above the mash tun. (We hoisted the tank onto the top of a wall oven, for example.) Set the sparger over the mash tun.\n\nPlace the now-empty boiling pot at least 1 foot below the mash tun. Attach one end of a length of vinyl tubing to the spigot of the mash tun, and put the other end in the empty boiling pot.\n\nWhen the water registers 172\u00b0F (you can add ice to cool it down quicker), it is cool enough so that it won't leach tannins from the grain husks into your beer. Attach a second vinyl tube to the spigot of the hot liquor tank and the other end to the top of the sparger. Open up the spigot and let the water flow down through the sparger into the mash. (The point of sparging is to rinse off the residual sugar that adheres to the grain.)\n\nAt the same time, open up the spigot of the mash tun and let the sweet brown liquid\u2014the wort\u2014flow into the boiling pot. One hand will be monitoring the hot water flow from above, into the sparger, and the other hand will be monitoring the flow from the mash tun into the boiling pot below. You want the inflow to be at about the same pace as the outflow. Try to keep the grain covered by 1 to 2 inches of water, so that when the water drizzles down from the sparger arms, it hits water and does not displace the grain at all or create channels, which can cause uneven rinsing. Properly done, sparging should take about 30 minutes for a 5-gallon batch of wort.\n\n_Sparging_\n\n**6. Boil the wort and add the hops** Measure the wort to be sure you have 5 gallons. If you don't, add water to make up the difference. Bring the wort to a boil over high heat and boil for 1\u00bd hours.\n\nAfter the wort has boiled for 30 minutes, add 1 ounce hops. At the 1-hour mark, add another 1 ounce hops; at the 1\u00bc-hour mark, add \u00bd ounce hops; and at the end of 1\u00bd hours of boiling the wort, add the last \u00bd ounce hops. The early additions will give the beer bitterness (the hops release alpha acids, which contribute more bitterness the longer they boil), and the later additions will add aroma.\n\n**7. Chill the wort** Use the immersion chiller or plate chiller, or put the pot in a cold-water bath in the sink, to cool down the wort to 68\u00baF, the ideal fermentation temperature for Abbey Ale yeast (the temperature will be specified on the yeast label). Depending on which method you use, the chilling process can take anywhere from a few minutes (the plate chiller) to 30 minutes (the immersion chiller) to an hour or more (the sink).\n\n_Chilling (with a plate chiller)_\n\n**8. Start fermenting** Pour the cooled wort through the strainer (to remove the spent hops) into the primary fermenter, add the yeast, and give the wort a good stir with the stirring spoon.\n\n**9. Measure the wort's original specific gravity** Insert the hydrometer in the hydrometer jar, drizzle in enough beer from the fermenter's spigot to make the hydrometer float, and read off the original specific gravity (OG) and the potential alcohol. Make a note of the OG. For this beer, our OG was 1.062 degrees; the corresponding readout of potential alcohol, marked on the hydrometer, was about 7.84 percent. The OG tells you how dense the wort is and will give you a way to measure the progress of the fermentation (as the sugars in the wort convert to alcohol, the mixture will get less dense).\n\n_Measuring original gravity_\n\n**10. Set the beer up for primary fermentation** Put the fermenter lid on and insert the rubber stopper into the hole in the lid. Insert the airlock into the stopper, then fill the airlock one-third full with water. Leaving only the airlock exposed, wrap the fermenter with the dark cloth. This blocks sunlight, which can stimulate the growth of bacteria. Keep the wort at 68\u00b0F, the ideal fermentation temperature for this yeast. You can use an electric heating pad if the room gets too chilly.\n\n##### FERMENTATION (2 to 4 weeks)\n\nFollow the fermentation instructions for Summer Wheat Beer, but try to keep the beer at around 68\u00b0F. In Step 2 (secondary fermentation and racking), let the beer settle for 3 weeks. The final specific gravity for this beer should be 1.021 (and the corresponding alcohol content should be 7.65 percent). Surprisingly, our final specific gravity reading was 1 (the specific gravity of water), an indication that something had gone very wrong.\n\n##### BOTTLING DAY (about 3 hours)\n\nFollow the bottling instructions for Summer Wheat Beer.\n\n##### CARBONATION IN BOTTLE (at least 3 weeks)\n\n**Let the beer rest** Store in a dark cardboard box at room temperature (68\u00b0F or above) for 3 weeks. Then try a bottle: If it's fizzy, chill the beer and drink it as soon as possible. If it is not fizzy enough, let it go for another week or two, then try it again. When you like it, chill it.\n\nAfter all our work, the Belgian Abbey Ale was, unfortunately, kind of funky. The final specific gravity did not lie. We think the brew got contaminated at some point during primary fermentation. Or, possibly our yeast was bad. We hope we have better luck next time.\n\n#### HELPFUL INFORMATION\n\n\u2022 John Palmer's easygoing yet detailed introduction to making beer at home: www.howtobrew.com.\n\n\u2022 _The Complete Joy of Home Brewing,_ by Charlie Papszian (Harper Paperbacks, 2003).\n\n\u2022 American Homebrewers' Association, www.homebrewersassociation.org.\n\n\u2022 Product questions section on William's Brewing Company site, www.williamsbrewing.com.\n\n\u2022 _The Home Brewer's Answer Book,_ by Ashton Lewis, (Storey Publishing, 2007) columnist for _Brew Your Own_ magazine, www.byo.com.\n\n\u2022 Helpful and lively forum for makers of AG (all-grain) brews on www.homebrewtalk.com, www.realbeer.com, and www.onebeer.net.\n\n\u2022 Forums on www.forums.morebeer.com.\n\n_\u2014Rick LaFrentz_\n\n##    \nHOW TO RAISE  \nCHICKENS\n\nWhat could be more idyllic than a flock of hens happily clucking in your backyard? We got six baby chicks in August 2007 and raised them to provide eggs, not meat. (We wanted protein we wouldn't have to kill.) They yielded a side benefit, too: their droppings, which make great fertilizer for our garden (see Cultivating Compost for more on this). Plus, chickens are unexpectedly entertaining.\n\nThey're not like other pets, however. For one thing, you probably eat others of their species. Some people who raise backyard chickens find they lose interest in eating meat. Others, after observing their chickens' behavior and getting to know them, decide that they feel okay about chickens as meat.\n\nIn our experience, chickens do not have the emotional range of cats or dogs. If you are looking for a cuddly creature with whom you will have an emotional relationship, chickens may not be the most rewarding option.\n\nThis is not to say that we don't like our chickens. We enjoy watching them scratch around, and we like feeding them treats. We feel the obligation to make them safe and comfortable and healthy. And we like their eggs a lot.\n\n_Carmelita (at left) and Ruby_\n\n#### BEFORE YOU START\n\nBefore you get your baby chicks (adorable balls of fluff), evaluate your space and your lifestyle.\n\n**Does your city allow you to keep chickens?** Every city has its own rules. Our municipality (Menlo Park, California) lets residents keep hens, but not roosters. That's fairly common in cities: Many have no problem with a few quiet hens (usually classified as pets), but they ban noisy roosters. Check your local regulations before picking out your flock. It would be dreadful to get them and then have to get rid of them.\n\n**Do you have space?** Each chicken should have at least 10 square feet to run around in, plus 4 square feet of house.\n\n**Can you keep them safe?** Making their digs secure is extremely important, especially at night. Chickens are prey, and they sleep so soundly that they seem unconscious\u2014morsels waiting to be devoured. They are vulnerable to attack by raccoons, skunks, foxes, weasels, and other predators. Raccoons are particularly nasty, and they're particularly clever about using their little nasty hands to get into your coop. Also, keep in mind that your other pets (cats, dogs) may be predators. (Read more about chicken coops here.)\n\n**What will do you with them when they stop laying eggs?** Hens lay best in the first year, and may lay sporadically for four or five years, but they can live for eight years (or longer). After their prime egg-laying years are over, will you be happy to keep caring for them?\n\n**What will you do if one gets injured or sick?** Before you acquire your flock, and regardless of your philosophical feelings about whether your chickens are pets, you must make sure you have a plan for what to do in case something happens to one of them. If you choose to take your chickens to a vet, locate an avian vet in your area in advance, preferably one familiar with chicken health problems.\n\nNot everyone who raises chickens chooses to treat them when they get sick. Some people will euthanize a sick or injured animal; others have a friend, family member, or neighbor willing to do it in an emergency.\n\n**Can you afford it?** You'll be getting good fresh eggs for free, but setting up a coop can cost a few hundred dollars, depending on the materials you use, and chicken food is an ongoing expense. If you decide to visit the vet, those bills can add up quickly.\n\n_One of our baby Buff Orpingtons_\n\n###    \nONE FLOCK OF 6 CHICKENS\n\n2 Ameraucanas (Ophelia lays blue eggs, Alana green)\n\n2 Buff Orpingtons (Honey and Charlotte; buff-colored eggs)\n\n2 Rhode Island Reds (Carmelita and Ruby; deep brown to bronze eggs)\n\n#### WHAT TO USE\n\n**_The coop_** Most of the work in raising chickens is setting up their space. Chickens need a box to lay their eggs in (plan on one or two boxes for half a dozen hens), a secure house with a roost for them to sleep on, and a place to run around and do their chicken thing. \"The coop\" refers to both the house and the enclosed run where chickens scratch around and spend the day.  \nWe got our 4-by-6-foot henhouse from Wine Country Coops, whose houses are both luxurious (glass windows! high-quality wood! beautiful construction!) and pricey ($1,300 and up; www.winecountrycoops.com or 707\/829 8405). Ours is built on stilts with an open-mesh floor, which lets droppings fall through to the ground below. You can get a less posh chicken house at a feed store, or you can build one yourself. Find inspiration at www.backyardchickens.com.\n\n**_The yard_** Allow 10 square feet per hen. (You can give your chickens less room if you let them range freely outside their yard. We don't, because they like to eat the seedlings in our garden.) We marked the boundaries of our yard with wooden posts; stretched chicken wire between the posts and buried it 12 inches into the ground to keep digging predators at bay; and then topped the yard with a corrugated, translucent plastic roof to allow light in but keep the chickens dry in foul weather. (Note: If raccoons are a problem in your area, you should use \u00bd-inch hardware cloth instead of chicken wire, since raccoons can reach right through the wire and grab; they can also pull it apart if sufficiently motivated.) The door of our chicken house opens right into the yard, so the coop is completely enclosed and protected. The yard also has a human-size door\u2014made of two-by-fours, more chicken wire, and a hinge\u2014so that we can easily get in and out to feed and visit the chickens. (About $200 in supplies from a hardware store.)\n\nUnless otherwise mentioned, we purchased everything below from a local feed store, Half Moon Bay Feed & Fuel (650\/726-4814). McMurray Hatchery sells a starter kit for about $65 (www.mcmurrayhatchery.com). Many supplies can be purchased from a pet store, such as Petco (www.petco.com) or Petsmart (www.petsmart.com).\n\nEGGS: QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS\n\n**Q:** Do you need a rooster for eggs?\n\n**A:** Chickens lay eggs with or without the presence of roosters. Since we don't have a rooster (they are not allowed in Menlo Park), the eggs are not fertilized, so they will never hatch into chicks. (This is just as well, because we're not in the market for more chickens.) If we did have a rooster, the eggs would be fertilized while they were, ahem, still in the hen. The rooster doesn't do anything to eggs once they have been laid.\n\n**Q:** Do colored eggs taste different?\n\n**A:** Different varieties of chickens lay different colors of eggs. Our Ameraucanas lay blue and green eggs; the other four lay brown eggs of varying shades. All of them taste exactly the same, and wonderful.\n\n**Q:** How many eggs do you get a day?\n\n**A:** Chickens usually lay one egg a day. When they get to be two or three years old, this drops off, and the eggs become more sporadic. Many chickens on large industrial farms lay two eggs a day.\n\n##### FOR CHICKS\n\n**_A warm indoor location_** We used a storage shed on the Sunset grounds.\n\n**_Heat lamp, reflector, bulb, and clamp_** Until they have feathers, chicks need to be kept very warm. About $20.\n\n**_Wire cage or enclosure_** This houses the chicks for the first few weeks of their lives. It is a few feet in length and the heat lamp hangs above it. We prefer the type with a door at the top, because it makes reaching in easier. You can use a cardboard box, but it's more difficult to clean and may not be escape-proof. From $50.\n\n**_1-gallon plastic water fount_** A narrow lip keeps the chicks from tumbling into the water. Buy one with a wide base so it won't tip easily. $5 to $10.\n\n**_Chick feeder_** Make sure your feeder has a top, or the chicks will scratch their food right out of it. About $5.\n\n**_Chick starter and grower food_** A finely ground, high-protein (20 to 22 percent) mixture of grains. This is what a chick should eat until it is 18 weeks old. (Some brands sell separate starter and grower crumbles; in that case, feed the chicks starter until they are 8 weeks old, then switch to the grower food until they start laying.) Medicated chick starter helps stave off the nasty parasitic infection called coccidiosis; alternatively, you can buy chicks that have been vaccinated for coccidiosis. Don't do both. $30 to $40 for a 50-pound sack of organic starter and grower food.\n\n**_Electrolyte powder_** Dissolve this in the chicks' water according to package instructions. It will shore up their frail systems with nutrients, and is especially important to use if the chicks are sick or stressed from traveling. Stop adding it when the chicks are 10 weeks old. $8 for an 8-ounce packet; a single packet is enough to raise at least a dozen chicks.\n\n##### FOR ADULT CHICKENS\n\n**_5-gallon water and food dispensers_** Galvanized steel dispensers hang from the roof of the coop and provide the chickens with a steady source of food and water. $40 to $50 each.\n\n**_Large covered trash can_** If rats are a problem in your area, stow the food dispenser in a trash can at night. Make sure the can has a sturdy lid that snaps closed securely. About $15 from a home supply store.\n\n**_Layer pellets_** These pellets have less protein and a coarser formulation than chick starter. Begin feeding them to your hens at 18 weeks or when they start laying. This is the chickens' main food for life. If you like, you can give it to them in crumble form instead, but the pellets are less messy. We order Purina organic layer pellets through our closest pet-supply store, San Mateo Pet Supply (www.sanmateopet.com or 650\/365-6738). About $40 for a 50-pound sack.\n\n**_Coarse-ground oyster shells_** Strew a couple of handfuls on the floor of the yard a few times a week for your chickens to peck up. The crushed shells supply calcium to strengthen eggshells, which can otherwise be weak and rubbery. $12 for 50 pounds.\n\n**_Treats from the garden and the kitchen_** Chickens love leafy greens, chile seeds, weeds picked from the garden (especially anything in the dandelion family and wild grasses), plain yogurt, leftover bread and cooked pasta, apple cores, overripe strawberries and other fruits, and insects and worms they find in the dirt. If your hens aren't roaming all over the garden during the day, though, they can become overweight. This means that you need to restrict treats for cooped chickens to greens and maybe a little fruit, with the occasional dish of yogurt. Give them only as much as they'll eat within a 15-minute period.\n\nFOODS TO AVOID\n\nEggshells (can encourage them to peck their own eggs), citrus (weakens shells), onions and garlic (can impart a funny flavor to eggs), and legumes (some uncooked beans are toxic for birds). We avoided giving them meat so as not to attract rats\u2014and because we think it's creepy\u2014but chickens will eat just about anything.\n\n#### HOW TO DO IT\n\n**1. Buy the chicks** Some companies will mail you chicks (newly hatched, they can survive for 2 days without food or water), but for beginning chicken raisers, we recommend buying them at a local feed store. Not only is it reassuring to pick up your cheeping chicks in person, but feed stores also have knowledgeable employees who can be valuable resources. Plus, mail-order shipping can be hard on chicks, and getting a package that contains a dead chick or two can be traumatic for first timers.\n\nWe got our hens as sexed 2- and 7-day-old chicks from Half Moon Bay Feed & Fuel (650\/726-4814). \"Sexed\" means the store's staff were pretty sure that they were girls. They came vaccinated for Marek's disease, a fatal poultry disease, and cost $4.50 each. We chose them because they were the kind the feed store happened to have that day. That said, Rhode Island Reds are good, old-fashioned layers, as are Buff Orpingtons. Our Ameraucanas proved to be fine layers, too.\n\n**2. Raise the chicks indoors** Keeping the chicks alive for the first few weeks was a fun kind of bustle. We kept them in a warm shed in their wire cage, with the heat lamp suspended above, until they started to feather out. We visited them several times a day, making sure that the heat lamp was the right distance from the cage to maintain the ideal temperature (90\u00b0 to 100\u00b0F for the first few weeks, and then decreased by 5 degrees per week after that). We made sure that food and water were always available, and we cleaned the cage every few days. Also, we gently picked them up to get them used to people. It worked: As adults, they are friendly and easy to handle.\n\n**3. Move the flock outdoors** At 5 weeks, the chicks were fully feathered, the sign that they were ready to leave the nest, so to speak. It was September and balmy when we took them out to their coop in our test garden. During the cold months, we kept the heat lamp inside their house for extra warmth at night. This was probably unnecessary; chickens huddle together for warmth, and supplemental heat really isn't needed unless nighttime temperatures go below freezing.\n\n**4. Encourage and collect eggs** Most chickens will begin to lay when they are somewhere between 18 and 24 weeks, depending on the chicken and the weather. Moderate warmth and 14 hours of daylight encourage laying. We put a marble egg in the nest box when the girls were of age, hoping it would give them the right idea (a \"decoy\" is supposed to help). Our first egg, a long-awaited event, appeared in January, courtesy of our Ameraucana Ophelia. Over the next several weeks, the other hens followed.\n\n**5. Routine maintenance** Adolescent and adult chickens don't require much care. Feeding and watering, cleaning the coop, and collecting the eggs pretty much sums up what you need to do.\n\nThe hens must be fed daily, and clean water must always be available. If a chicken goes thirsty for even a few hours, she may temporarily stop laying.\n\nWhatever you use as flooring in your coop must be scooped out and replaced about once a month, more often if it gets smelly faster. We initially used straw as bedding and on the floor of the coop, but we don't recommend it. Ophelia ate it and got it knotted up in her crop. Now we use pine bark, which is sturdy enough not to blow away, but easy for the hens to move around so they can dig in the dirt. We hose out the house about four times a year, and we compost the droppings.\n\nWe collect the eggs every day, not only because we want to eat them, but also because egg buildup can encourage broodiness (a condition in which a hen refuses to get off the nest in the hope of hatching chicks).\n\nBeyond this basic care, we recommend daily visits because it's enjoyable to go see the ladies. Plus, bringing them treats and petting and picking them up helps them get used to human presence and makes it easier to handle them if you've got a sick chicken you need to check out.\n\nHOW A CHICKEN LAYS AN EGG\n\n**\"The acme of food packaging.\" \u2014Alan Davidson, _The Oxford Companion to Food_**\n\nEvery day, our chickens deliver eggs to us\u2014anywhere between two and six, depending on the weather (in winter, they slow down). Each egg is slightly different in shape, in color, and in thickness of shell.\n\nIf you have a day job, it's hard to catch a chicken in the act of laying an egg. The thing pops out in less than a minute. Within the chicken, it takes only about a day for the egg to form.\n\nHere's how it works.\n\nEvery female chick is born with thousands of undeveloped yolks, or ova, grouped together near the middle of her backbone in a large cluster, the ovary.\n\nWhen a hen is old enough to lay, these ova begin to mature. At any given time within an adult hen's body, her ova are in various stages of development: Some are tiny yellow bubbles, others are the size of marbles. Every twenty-four to twenty-six hours, one ripens fully and is released into the instant grip of the waiting oviduct. As the egg moves down this tube, sperm from the rooster, if there is any, attempts to penetrate the egg; most eggs proceed down the oviduct unfertilized.\n\nNext, the egg is coated with layers of gel-like albumen (the egg white) and wrapped in a thin, translucent, antimicrobial membrane. At this point, the egg is only about half its final size. Time elapsed: about four hours.\n\nThe soft, shell-less egg then moves into the thickest part of the oviduct, the shell gland (uterus). For five hours or so, water and salts pump up the albumen to full size. Now a floating cloud of calcite (calcium carbonate) begins to swirl around the egg. Precisely spaced protein points on the membrane's surface attract the calcite particles, which build up in geometric columns to form a thin, smooth crystal: the shell.\n\nThe shell-encased egg is just centimeters from the exit. The oviduct releases a coating that both blocks bacteria and colors the egg\u2014blue, green, brown, or white\u2014which seems like a lovely bit of primping on nature's part just before the egg emerges.\n\nFinally, the hen gets an urge and climbs into the nest box. After a bit of heaving, out pops the egg. There it is, protein rich, marvelous, ready to go. We take it away to eat, and the hen starts making another one, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.\n\n _\u2014Margo True_\n\n_Ophelia_\n\n#### HELPFUL INFORMATION\n\n\u2022 **Your local feed store:** Often, this will be the place that supplied your chicks, and someone on the premises will know quite a bit about chicken care. At our store, we were given an informative how-to-raise-chicks handout and told about a condition we hadn't known of until that moment: pasty butt. This is basically a clogged vent, which can be deadly for a little chick. Pasty butt is easily resolved with cotton balls dipped in warm water and gently applied to get the crud off.\n\n\u2022 **The forum atwww.backyardchickens.com:** No matter what weird problem you're having, someone else has had it first. If you're looking for practical advice and real anecdotes, this is the best resource on the Web. Sifting through the active message board will get you up to speed on what to worry about, what not to worry about, and what to do next.\n\n##### BOOKS\n\nEvery month, a few more books on chicken raising seem to hit the shelves. These are some of our favorites.\n\n\u2022 _Creating Your Backyard Farm_ , by Nicki Trench (Cico Books, 2010). Good introduction to keeping hens, including how to deal with health problems.\n\n\u2022 _The Backyard Homestead_ , edited by Carleen Madigan (Storey Publishing, 2009). A substantial section on raising chickens offers great-looking coop designs. This is a terrific all-around raise-your-own-food book.\n\n\u2022 _The Chicken Health Handbook_ , by Gail Damerow (Storey Publishing, 1994). Packed with technical (and often grisly or terrifying) information, but also extremely useful; reading it will help you prevent sickness in your flock.\n\n\u2022 _The Joy of Keeping Chickens: The Ultimate Guide to Raising Poultry for Fun or Profit_ , by Jennifer Megyesi (Skyhorse Publishing, 2009). A heartfelt guide to the pleasures of the backyard flock by the owner of Fat Rooster Farm, in Royalton, Vermont. With artful photographs of chickens and humans by Geoff Hansen.\n\n\u2022 _Keep Chickens! Tending Small Flocks in Cities, Suburbs, and Other Small Spaces_ , by Barbara Kilarski (Storey Publishing, 2003). Geared toward absolute beginners and inspiringly enthusiastic.\n\n\u2022 _Keeping Chickens with Ashley English_ , by Ashley English (Lark Books, 2010). A slim volume with helpful advice on topics such as how to choose a good layer, plus interviews with chicken keepers.\n\n\u2022 _Minnie Rose Lovgreen's Recipe for Raising Chickens_ , by Minnie Rose Lovgreen (NW Trillium Press, 2009). This friendly little book, dictated by the eighty-six-year-old Minnie Rose to her friend Nancy Rekow in 1974, reads as though Minnie herself were sitting at your kitchen table, giving you advice.\n\n\u2022 _Raising Chickens for Dummies_ , by Kimberly Willis with Rob Ludlow (Wiley Publishing, 2009). Willis, a poultry breeder, and Ludlow, owner of the excellent Web site www.backyardchickens.com, include a section on how to butcher and process chickens.\n\n\u2022 _Storey's Guide to Raising Chickens_ , by Gail Damerow (Storey Publishing, 1995). Technical and thorough, it's great for those who have had some experience and are looking for more extensive information.\n\n_\u2014Elizabeth Jardina_\n\n_Ruby the chicken_\n\n_Our henhouse arrives (top); Honey, brooding (bottom right)_\n\n# THE SUMMER RECIPES\n\n##    \n  SKILLET-ROASTED EDAMAME\n\nSmoky, salty, and addictive, these soybeans were inspired by a recipe for griddle-roasted peas in Niloufer Ichaporia King's _My Bombay Kitchen: Traditional and Modern Parsi Home Cooking_ (University of California Press, 2007). To eat them, pop the peas out of the pod with your fingers\u2014or, if you like the salt and char, with your teeth.\n\nMAKES about 4 cups\n\nTIME about 10 minutes\n\n1 pound fresh or frozen edamame (soybeans) in the pod\n\nFine sea salt\n\n1. If using fresh edamame, bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Add the edamame and boil for 2 minutes. Drain and let cool. If using frozen edamame, skip this step.\n\n2. Heat a large, heavy skillet or a wok over high heat. Toss in half of the edamame and cook, turning with tongs, until blackened in several spots, 5 to 8 minutes. Pour into a bowl. Repeat with the remaining edamame.\n\n3. Toss the edamame with salt to taste.\n\n_PER \u00bd-CUP SERVING 65 cal., 38% (25 cal.) from fat; 6 g protein; 2.8 g fat (0 g sat.); 5 g carbo (2.8 g fiber); 18 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n##    \n  DEVILED CUCUMBER CUPS\n\nThese pretty little bites show off the bright color of eggs from pasture-raised chickens. If you want the cups to have fluted edges, you will need two round, fluted biscuit cutters, each at least \u00be inch high: one 1\u00bd inches in diameter, for the narrower parts of the cucumber, and the other 2 inches in diameter, for the fatter sections. A melon baller is useful, too, for removing the seeds.\n\nMAKES 24 cucumber cups, or 8 servings\n\nTIME about 1 hour\n\n3 large eggs\n\nIce cubes\n\n4 cucumbers, each at least 7 inches long\n\n2\u00bd tablespoons Green Chile Mayonnaise\n\n2\u00bd tablespoons minced red onion, rinsed\n\nAbout 1 teaspoon freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n\u00bd teaspoon fine sea salt, plus more to finish\n\n1 to 2 red or green serrano chiles, seeded and slivered, for garnish\n\n1. Put the eggs in a small saucepan and fill with water to cover by 1 inch. Bring to a boil; immediately reduce the heat to a simmer and cook, uncovered, 10 minutes. With a slotted spoon, transfer the eggs to a bowl of water and ice cubes and let cool for 1 minute, then crack all over and put back in the ice water for 5 minutes to help loosen the shells. Lift the eggs out of the water, peel, and pat dry.\n\n2. Meanwhile, cut the cucumbers crosswise into 24 rounds, each \u00be inch thick (you will have some cucumber left over). For fluted edges, cut out fluted rounds, using a biscuit cutter in the size that works best (see headnote). Using a melon baller or small spoon, scoop the seeds from the center of each cucumber round, leaving at least a \u00bc-inch-thick layer of cucumber on the bottom and sides. Set the rounds on a baking sheet.\n\n3. Shred the eggs with a razor-sharp grater (such as a Microplane) or against the finest slatted holes of a box grater, and put in a bowl. Add the mayonnaise, onion, lemon juice, and salt. Mash the mixture together with a fork.\n\n4. Fill the cucumber cups with the egg mixture, mounding it slightly. Sprinkle each filled cup with salt and a few drops of lemon juice. Top each with a sliver of serrano.\n\n**MAKE AHEAD** You can make both the filling and the cucumber cups up to 1 day ahead and cover and refrigerate them separately. Blot the cups dry just before filling.\n\n_PER CUCUMBER CUP 24 cal., 58% (14 cal.) from fat; 1.1 g protein; 1.7 g fat (0.35 g sat.); 1.4 g carbo (0.36 g fiber); 61 mg sodium; 29 mg chol._\n\n##    \nTEMPURA SQUASH BLOSSOMS\n\nWe came up with this recipe as a way to control the crazy productivity of our pattypan squash plants: If you eat the blossoms, the squashes can't form. The dish is just as tasty and works just as easily with zucchini blossoms.\n\nMAKES 4 to 6 servings\n\nTIME about 20 minutes\n\nExtra virgin olive oil for deep-frying\n\n\u00bd cup plus 2 tablespoons Summer Wheat Beer or other wheat beer\n\n\u00bd cup 'Sonora' white whole-wheat flour,* whole-wheat pastry flour, or a mix of all-purpose flour and cake flour\n\n\u00bc teaspoon fine sea salt, plus more for sprinkling\n\n12 small pattypan squash blossoms or blossoms from 'Trombetta di Albenga' or other zucchini, about 3 inches long\n\n\u00bc cup Fresh Chive Cheese or fresh goat cheese mixed with 2 teaspoons minced chives\n\n1. Pour the oil to a depth of 2 inches into a medium saucepan and heat to 350\u00b0 to 375\u00b0F on a deep-frying thermometer. Meanwhile, in a small bowl set in a larger bowl of ice and cold water, whisk together the beer, flour, and salt, stopping when the batter is almost but not quite smooth.\n\n2. Brush any debris or insects off the blossoms (check inside, too). Gently open the petals and stuff each blossom toward its base with about 1 teaspoon cheese, depending on the size of the blossom. Leave enough room for the petals to close easily over the cheese.\n\n3. Dip a few stuffed blossoms in the batter to coat. One at a time, lift the blossoms from the batter, allowing the excess batter to drip back into the bowl, and slip them into the hot oil. Fry the blossoms, turning them occasionally, until golden and crisp, about 1 minute. Transfer with a slotted spoon to paper towels to drain. Repeat with the remaining blossoms, dipping and frying only a few at a time. Sprinkle the blossoms with salt, if you like, and serve immediately.\n\n_PER 3-BLOSSOM SERVING 146 cal., 58% (85 cal.) from fat; 4.1 g protein; 9.8 g fat (2.6 g sat.); 12 g carbo (1.3 g fiber); 152 mg sodium; 11 mg chol._\n\n* _We used finely milled 'Sonora' wheat flour because it makes a delicate, crisp batter. SeeThe Allure of Local Wheat for more on local flours._\n\n  TOMATO AND HERB SALAD WITH FRESH CHIVE CHEESE\n\nThis is the salad to make with dead-ripe tomatoes from your backyard. The surprise is the easy homemade cheese.\n\nMAKES 8 servings\n\nTIME about 20 minutes\n\n2 pounds assorted vine-ripened tomatoes\n\n12 to 14 slices Fresh Chive Cheese or fresh mozzarella\n\n1 teaspoon fine sea salt, plus more to finish\n\n\u00bd teaspoon honey\n\n1\u00bd tablespoons Syrah Vinegar or other red-wine vinegar\n\n\u00bc cup extra virgin olive oil\n\n2 or 3 sprigs marjoram, plus flowers if any\n\n10 to 12 fresh basil leaves, plus flowers if any\n\n1. Slice large tomatoes; leave small tomatoes whole, or cut into wedges or halves. Arrange on a platter with the cheese.\n\n2. In a small bowl, whisk together the salt, honey, and vinegar until the salt has dissolved; whisk in the oil. Spoon the dressing over the tomatoes and cheese.\n\n3. Strip the leaves and flowers from the marjoram sprigs onto the salad. With kitchen scissors, snip the basil leaves and flowers over the tomatoes. Sprinkle with salt.\n\n_PER SERVING 227 cal., 59% (135 cal.) from fat; 8.5 g protein; 15 g fat (5.8 g sat.); 17 g carbo (1.5 g fiber); 424 mg sodium; 32 mg chol._\n\n##    \nWATERMELON-CHILE SALAD\n\nIf you have ever had a cold slab of watermelon sprinkled with salt, chile, and lime on the streets of a Mexican town, you'll recognize the roots of this salad.\n\nMAKES 4 to 6 servings\n\nTIME about 15 minutes\n\n4 teaspoons freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n\u00bd teaspoon fine sea salt\n\n2 to 2\u00bd teaspoons minced green serrano chile\n\n2 teaspoons finely chopped fresh chives\n\n2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil\n\n6 cups cubed watermelon (1-inch cubes)\n\n\u2153 cup loosely packed small flat-leaf parsley leaves (chop coarsely if large)\n\n1. In a large bowl, whisk together the lemon juice, salt, chile, chives, and oil to make a dressing.\n\n2. Add the watermelon and parsley to the dressing and toss gently to coat evenly.\n\n_PER SERVING 86 cal., 49% (42 cal.) from fat; 1.1 g protein; 4.9 g fat (0.7 g sat.); 11 g carbo (0.79 g fiber); 191 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n##    \nPURSLANE-CUCUMBER SALAD\n\nWhat better way to control the weeds in your garden than to eat them? And you can definitely eat purslane. It is pleasantly lemony and its fat little leaves have a juicy crunch. This Turkish-style salad is one of our favorite ways to get rid of purslane.\n\nMAKES 4 to 6 servings\n\nTIME about 20 minutes\n\n1 large cucumber, about 7 inches long\n\n2\u00bd cups lightly packed purslane or watercress sprigs\n\n2 teaspoons finely chopped fresh peppermint\n\n1 clove garlic\n\n\u00bc teaspoon fine sea salt\n\n2 tablespoons Cr\u00e8me Fra\u00eeche (recipe follows)\n\n\u00bd teaspoon crushed dried red serrano chile or red chile flakes\n\n3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil\n\n1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n1. Peel the cucumber, halve lengthwise, and remove the seeds. Cut into \u00bd-inch cubes and put in a serving bowl. Add the purslane and peppermint.\n\n2. Mince the garlic, sprinkle it with the salt, and mash to a paste with the flat side of a big chef's knife. In a small bowl, whisk together the garlic paste, cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche, chile, oil, and lemon juice to make a dressing.\n\n3. Pour the dressing over the salad and toss to coat evenly.\n\n_PER SERVING 90 cal., 87% (78 cal.) from fat; .86 g protein; 9 g fat (2.2 g sat.); 2.5 g carbo (0.4 g fiber); 107 mg sodium; 4.2 mg chol._\n\n  CR\u00c8ME FRA\u00ceCHE\n\nIn France, this luxuriously thick, tangy, slightly nutty-tasting cream is often made with unpasteurized cream, and naturally occurring bacteria do the work of thickening. If you are using pasteurized cream, you have to add a fermenting agent to the milk to get it to thicken. Even so, homemade cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche is wonderful stuff, and less expensive than store-bought. There are many ways to make it. This is our favorite.\n\nMAKES about 1 cup\n\nTIME about 5 minutes, plus at least 8 hours to ripen\n\n1 cup heavy cream\n\n2 tablespoons buttermilk\n\n1. Pour the cream and buttermilk into a small bowl and stir to combine. Cover tightly with plastic wrap and let sit at room temperature until thickened, at least 8 hours or up to overnight.\n\n2. Stir well, re-cover, and refrigerate. It will keep for up to 1 week.\n\n_PER TABLESPOON 53 cal., 94% (50 cal.) from fat; 0.4 g protein; 5.6 g fat (3.5 g sat.); 0.5 g carbo (0 g fiber); 7.4 mg sodium; 21 mg chol._\n\n##    \n  CORN SOUP WITH ROASTED POBLANOS AND ZUCCHINI BLOSSOMS\n\nThe essence of sweet, just-picked summer corn, this soup lends itself to a gardenful of garnishes. It is equally good hot or cold.\n\nMAKES 8 servings\n\nTIME about 1 hour\n\n3 large poblano chiles\n\n10 freshly picked ears corn,* any variety\n\n2 tablespoons olive oil\n\n1 large white onion, chopped\n\n1 to 2 green serrano chiles, finely chopped\n\n2 teaspoons fine sea salt\n\n4 large cloves garlic, minced\n\n1 'Trombetta di Albenga' zucchini (7-inch-long piece) or 1 medium regular zucchini, seeded and cut into \u00bc-inch dice (about 1 cup)\n\n8 'Trombetta di Albenga' zucchini blossoms or other zucchini blossoms, brushed clean and halved lengthwise\n\n1 cup Oregano Queso Blanco, crumbled store-bought queso fresco,** or crumbled mild feta, homemade or store-bought\n\n_Corn Soup with Roasted Poblanos and Zucchini Blossoms_\n\n1. Preheat the broiler. Put the poblanos on a rimmed baking sheet. Broil about 4 inches from the heat source, turning as needed, until blackened all over, at least 15 minutes. Drape the pan with a sheet of aluminum foil and let the chiles stand until cool enough to handle. Gently pull off and discard the blackened skins. Stem and seed the chiles, then cut into \u00bd-inch dice.\n\n2. Meanwhile, remove the husks and silk from the corn. Working with 1 ear at a time, stand it on one end in a deep, wide bowl. Using a sharp knife and starting at the top of the ear, cut off the kernels.***\n\n3. Heat the oil in a large, wide pot over medium heat and add the onion, serranos, and salt. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the onion and chiles have softened, about 5 minutes. Stir in the garlic and corn kernels and cook for 3 minutes more.\n\n4. Pour just enough water into the pot to cover the corn. Cover, bring to a simmer over medium heat, and cook for 15 minutes. Remove from the heat and let cool slightly.\n\n5. While the corn mixture is cooking, put the diced zucchini in a small saucepan with salted water just to cover. Bring to a simmer and cook until tender-crisp, about 2 minutes. Drain.\n\n6. In batches, whirl the corn mixture in a blender until very smooth. Strain through a fine-mesh strainer into a bowl, mashing with the back of a spoon to press out as much liquid as possible. Thin the soup with water if you like. To serve the soup hot, return it to the pot and reheat gently (don't boil). To serve the soup cold, cover and chill for at least 2 hours. Just before serving, season with salt if necessary.\n\n7. Divide the soup among 8 bowls. Top each bowl with 2 tablespoons diced poblanos, 2 tablespoons diced zucchini, and 2 zucchini blossom halves. Sprinkle each serving with 1 tablespoon cheese, and pass the remaining cheese at the table.\n\n**MAKE AHEAD** You can make the soup through step 6 up to 2 days ahead, cover its components seperately, and refrigerate.\n\n_PER SERVING 238 cal., 34% (80 cal.) from fat; 9.2 g protein; 8.9 g fat (3.2 g sat.); 36 g carbo (4.3 g fiber); 695 mg sodium; 17 mg chol._\n\n* _Just-picked corn is much juicier than corn that has been sitting around for a while, so if you are using older, chewier, starchier corn, you may need to add more water to the pot when simmering the corn._\n\n** _Queso blanco, also known as queso fresco, is a mild, fresh white Mexican cheese with a moist, crumbly texture._\n\n*** _Save the corn cobs for your chickens. They'll love them._\n\n##    \n'TROMBETTA' ZUCCHINI AND ITS FLOWERS\n\nOur 'Trombetta' zucchini plants produced big, curving, crisp, pale green zucchini and enormous blossoms, both of which worked perfectly for this recipe. But you can use any kind of zucchini\u2014or squash, actually\u2014and its flowers for this dish. If you have two big frying pans, use them both to cook all the zucchini at once. Otherwise, cook the dish in two batches. It does not need to be served piping hot.\n\nMAKES 4 to 6 servings\n\nTIME about 20 minutes\n\n2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil\n\n2 pounds 'Trombetta di Albenga' or other zucchini, cut on the diagonal into \u00bd-inch-thick slices\n\n1 teaspoon fine sea salt\n\n2\u00bd teaspoons minced fresh marjoram\n\n30 'Sungold' or other yellow cherry tomatoes\n\n4 cloves garlic, thinly sliced\n\n2 to 3 teaspoons freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n8 to 10 'Trombetta di Albenga' or other zucchini blossoms\n\n1. Heat 1 tablespoon of the oil in a large nonstick frying pan over medium heat. Add half of the zucchini slices and cook, without stirring, until the slices on the bottom begin to brown, 2 to 3 minutes. Sprinkle with \u00bd teaspoon of the salt and 1 teaspoon of the marjoram. Using a thin spatula, turn the zucchini so the bottom slices are on top.\n\n2. Add half of the tomatoes and half of the garlic and cook, stirring gently every now and then, until most of the zucchini slices have browned a little, about 10 minutes, and the tomatoes are hot. Transfer to a bowl.\n\n3. Return the pan to medium heat and heat the remaining 1 tablespoon oil. Add the remaining zucchini and cook the same way with the remaining salt, tomatoes, garlic, and 1 teaspoon marjoram. Return the first batch of zucchini to the pan and sprinkle with lemon juice to taste. Tear all but 3 blossoms into petals and fold into the zucchini.\n\n4. Turn the zucchini out onto a platter or into a wide serving bowl and sprinkle with the remaining \u00bd teaspoon marjoram. Tear the remaining 3 blossoms into petals and scatter over top.\n\n_PER 1-CUP SERVING 84 cal., 56% (47 cal.) from fat; 4.6 g protein; 5.4 g fat (0.81 g sat.); 7.6 g carbo (2.1 g fiber); 398 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n##    \nOVEN-BAKED STEAK FRIES WITH GREEN CHILE MAYONNAISE\n\nWe didn't have steak, but managed to eat plenty of these regardless, especially dunked in the mayo\u2014and washed down with cold, fizzy homemade beer.\n\nMAKES 4 servings\n\nTIME about 45 minutes\n\n1 pound 'Yukon Gold' potatoes, cut into \u00bd-inch-thick wedges\n\n2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil\n\n\u00bd teaspoon fine sea salt\n\nGreen Chile Mayonnaise (recipe follows)\n\n1. Preheat the oven to 425\u00b0F. Place the potato wedges on a rimmed baking sheet, drizzle with the oil, and sprinkle with the salt. Toss the potato wedges to coat evenly.\n\n2. Roast, turning the wedges halfway through, until golden and crisp, about 35 minutes.\n\n3. Transfer the fries to a platter, spreading them out evenly (they will stay crisp longer on a platter than heaped in a bowl), and season with more salt, if you like. Serve with the mayonnaise.\n\n_PER SERVING 153 cal., 39% (60 cal.) from fat; 2.7 g protein; 7 g fat (1 g sat.); 20 g carbo (1.3 g fiber); 287 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n###   GREEN CHILE MAYONNAISE\n\nA fiesty spread that's good on sandwiches, too. Have ingredients at room temperature to help the mayonnaise thicken. (If the egg is straight from the refrigerator, put it in warm water for several minutes before you use it to help it warm up.) Seed the chile if you want less kick. You can also leave out the garlic and serrano entirely for a mild mayo; see here.\n\nMAKES About 1 cup\n\nTIME 5 minutes\n\n1 large egg\n\n2 garlic cloves, minced\n\n\u00bd to 1 red or green serrano chile, finely chopped\n\n1\u00bd to 2 teaspoons fine sea salt\n\n2 tablespoons lemon juice, plus more to taste\n\n1 cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\nIn a blender, whirl together the egg, garlic, chile, 1\u00bd tea\u00adspoons of the salt, and 2 tablespoons lemon juice until the mixture thickens slightly, about 1 minute. With the motor running, add the oil through the top of the blender in a slow, steady stream, whirling until all of it has been incorporated and the mayonnaise is thick. Whirl in more salt and lemon juice to taste, if you like.\n\n**MAKE AHEAD:** Up to 4 days, covered and chilled.\n\n_PER TABLESPOON 87 cal., 95% (83 cal.) from fat; 0.55 g protein; 9.7 g fat (1.5 g sat.); 0.4 g carbo (0.02 g fiber); 52 mg sodium; 18 mg chol._\n\n##    \n  ROSEMARY POTATOES ANNA\n\nA thin, golden brown \"cake\" of sliced potatoes cooked in a heavy skillet, potatoes Anna typically calls for butter. We used our own olive oil instead. This recipe works best with potatoes that you have allowed to cure (see here). If they are freshly dug, they will be too moist. (All potatoes in grocery stores and most potatoes in farmers' markets are cured.)\n\nMAKES 8 servings\n\nTIME about 1 hour\n\n3 pounds 'Yukon Gold' potatoes\n\n1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil\n\n\u00bd teaspoon fine sea salt\n\n2 teaspoons minced fresh rosemary\n\n1. Preheat the oven to 375\u00b0F. Peel the potatoes and cut into \u215b-inch-thick slices.\n\n2. In a 10-inch ovenproof nonstick frying pan, heat 2 teaspoons of the oil over medium-high heat. When the oil is hot, arrange about one-fifth of the potatoes in the pan in concentric circles, starting from the outer edge, covering the bottom completely. The potatoes should sizzle when you put them down on the hot pan. If they don't, wait for the pan to get hot enough. Mix together the salt and rosemary in a small bowl, and sprinkle the potatoes in the pan with about one-fifth of the mixture. When the potatoes begin to brown around the edges, reduce the heat to low. Top the first layer of potatoes with 4 more layers, arranging them the same way and sprinkling each layer with the salt mixture. Before you sprinkle the final layer, brush the remaining 1 teaspoon oil over the potatoes.\n\n3. With a heatproof spatula, gently pull back the edge of the layered potatoes to see if the bottom layer is starting to brown. If it is, transfer the pan to the oven and bake until the potatoes are tender when pierced with a fork, about 45 minutes. If it isn't, increase the heat to medium-high and cook until the bottom layer begins to brown, then transfer the pan to the oven. Check the potatoes occasionally, and if they start to look dry or begin to curl, cover the pan with aluminum foil.\n\n4. Remove from the oven. Run the spatula between the layered potatoes and the pan sides. Invert a flat, round plate or platter over the pan and invert the pan and the plate together, releasing the potatoes onto the plate. Serve hot or warm, cut into 8 wedges with a serrated knife.\n\n**MAKE AHEAD** The finished dish can be kept warm in a 200\u00b0F oven for up to 2 hours.\n\n_PER SERVING 141 cal., 11% (15 cal.) from fat; 3.6 g protein; 1.7 g fat (0.2 g sat.); 27 g carbo (1.8 g fiber); 154 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n##    \nGRILLED SUMMER SUCCOTASH\n\nSuccotash usually involves a mixture of boiled corn, lima beans, and bell peppers. We had the corn, no problem. Instead of limas, we used edamame. And our poblano chiles stood in for the bells. Then, because every summer needs a grilled salad, we grilled the corn and chiles\u2014and threw in a few ripe cherry tomatoes for sweetness at the last minute.\n\nMAKES about 5 cups, or 4 to 6 servings\n\nTIME about 45 minutes\n\n4 large ears corn\n\n\u00bc cup extra virgin olive oil, plus more for brushing\n\n\u00be teaspoon fine sea salt, plus more for sprinkling\n\n3 poblano chiles\n\n1 cup shelled fresh or frozen edamame (soybeans)\n\n2 cloves garlic\n\n2 teaspoons freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n1\u00bd cups 'Sweet Million' or other red cherry tomatoes, cut in half\n\nAbout \u00bd cup heavy cream (optional)\n\n1. Prepare a grill for medium-hot cooking (350\u00b0 to 450\u00b0F; you should be able to hold your hand above the cooking grate for only 5 to 7 seconds). Strip the husks and silk from the corn, brush the ears with oil, and sprinkle with salt.\n\n2. Arrange the corn and chiles on the cooking grate. Grill the corn, turning often, until lightly browned, 10 to 15 minutes. Grill the chiles, turning as needed, until completely blackened on all sides, about the same amount of time.\n\n3. Meanwhile, bring a pot of well-salted water to a boil. Add the edamame, bring back to a boil, and cook for 2\u00bd minutes if fresh or 4 minutes if frozen. Drain and set aside.\n\n4. Mince the garlic, sprinkle it with the \u00be teaspoon salt, and mash to a paste with the flat side of a big chef's knife. In a small bowl, whisk together the garlic paste, lemon juice, and the \u00bc cup olive oil to make a dressing.\n\n5. Let the corn and chiles cool until they can be handled. Then, stand 1 ear on end in a deep, wide bowl and, slicing downward, cut off the kernels.* Repeat with the remaining ears. You should have about 3 cups kernels. Peel the blackened skin from the poblanos. Holding each poblano over the bowl of corn kernels, slit the chile and let the juices drain into the bowl. On a work surface, stem and seed the chiles and cut into \u00bd-inch dice. Add the diced chiles to the corn.\n\n6. Add the tomatoes and edamame to the corn and chiles, drizzle with the vinaigrette, and toss together gently to coat evenly. Eat drizzled with cream if you like.\n\n_PER SERVING 217 cal., 49% (106 cal.) from fat; 6.6 g protein; 12 g fat (1.6 g sat.); 25 g carbo (5.4 g fiber); 296 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n* _Save the corn cobs for your chickens. They'll love them._\n\n##    \n  PATTYPAN SQUASH WITH EGGS\n\nHarvest or buy the squashes when they are 4 inches across. We found that this was the perfect size for holding a single large egg. Since our chickens had just started laying, their eggs tended to be small, so some of our squashes held two eggs. (If the egg won't quite fit, scoop out a little of the white with a spoon.)\n\nMAKES 8 servings\n\nTIME about 1 hour\n\n8 pattypan squashes, yellow or green or a combination, each 4 inches across\n\nAbout 3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil\n\n\u00be teaspoon fine sea salt, plus more for sprinkling\n\n1 white onion, finely chopped (about \u00becup)\n\n4 large cloves garlic, minced\n\n1\u00bc teaspoons minced fresh thyme\n\n8 large or 16 small eggs, at room temperature\n\n1. Preheat the oven to 375\u00b0F. Cut off the top (stem end) of each squash and reserve. Using a small spoon, scoop out and discard the flesh (or reserve for another use) from each squash, leaving a shell at least \u00bc inch thick. Brush the squashes and their tops all over with about 2 tablespoons of the olive oil, and set, cut side up for squashes and stem side up for tops, on a rimmed baking sheet.\n\n2. Bake until tender when pierced with a sharp knife, 20 to 30 minutes. The tops will cook more quickly, so check them after 15 minutes and remove them when they are done. When the shells are ready, remove from the oven and sprinkle the insides of the shells and the tops with salt. Set the tops aside; leave the shells on the baking sheet.\n\n3. While the squash shells are baking, heat the remaining 1 tablespoon oil in a large frying pan over medium-high heat. Add the onion and the \u00be teaspoon salt. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the onion is very soft and starting to brown, 8 to 10 minutes. Add the garlic and cook, stirring, until fragrant, about 30 seconds. Add the thyme and stir until combined. Keep hot.\n\n4. Divide the hot onion mixture among the squash shells, spreading it over the bottom and up the sides to form a thin coating. Crack 1 large egg or 2 small eggs into each squash and drizzle with a little more oil. Cover the baking sheet with aluminum foil and bake until the egg whites are firm but the yolks are still loose, 15 to 20 minutes.\n\n5. Sprinkle each egg with a pinch of salt and serve immediately, with the squash tops replaced or set to the side.\n\n**MAKE AHEAD** Bake the squash cups up to 4 hours ahead, cover, and keep at room temperature. Rewarm the cups in the oven before adding the onion mixture and the eggs.\n\n_PER SQUASH 165 cal., 48% (80 cal.) from fat; 10 g protein; 8.9 g fat (2.1 g sat.); 14 g carbo (3.9 g fiber); 366 mg sodium; 212 mg chol._\n\n##    \nWHOLE-WHEAT PIZZAS\n\nIf we had known more about wheat when we started our project, we would have grown high-protein hard red wheat for breads and pizzas in addition to our low-protein soft white wheat. The soft wheat was excellent for beer making and for pastries and crackers, but made gummy bread and crackerlike pizza dough. So, after some exasperating dough experiments, we found a great locally grown and milled hard wheat flour called 'Expresso' and used it for this recipe (see The Allure of Local Wheat for more on local flours). The crust is reasonably puffy, and it has a nutty, wholesome flavor that is great with toppings of fresh vegetables and cheeses.\n\nIf your pizza dough balls are fully proofed (puffy and ready to be stretched into pizza crusts), but you are not yet ready for them, punch them down and form them into tight little balls, then let them rise for an hour. They will puff up again and be good to go.\n\nWe tried to make a whole-wheat starter from just wheat and water to use as leavening, but we couldn't get it to work consistently. So, in the interest of creating a reliably delicious pizza dough, we ended up with packaged yeast. However, we'll keep exploring a way to grow a good starter on <http:\/\/oneblockdiet.sunset.com\/team_kitchen>.\n\nMAKES 6 pizzas, or 6 servings\n\nTIME about 1\u00bd hours\n\n1 package (2\u00bc teaspoons) active dry yeast\n\n1 teaspoon honey\n\n3\u00bd to 4 cups 'Expresso' whole-wheat flour* or other whole-wheat flour, plus more for sprinkling\n\n1\u00bd tablespoons extra virgin olive oil\n\n1 teaspoon fine sea salt\n\nTopping of choice (recipes follow)\n\n1. Put the yeast, honey, and 1\u00be cups warm water (100\u00b0 to 110\u00b0F) in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a dough hook. Let stand until the yeast dissolves and bubbles appear, 5 minutes. Add 1 cup flour and mix with the dough hook on low speed until combined. Gradually add 2\u00bd cups more flour and mix for 8 minutes to thoroughly combine.\n\n2. Add the oil and the salt and mix on low speed for 7 minutes more. The dough should feel elastic\u2014when you poke it, it should spring back\u2014and only slightly sticky. If it is quite sticky, mix in more flour, 1 tablespoon at a time, until the stickiness subsides.\n\n3. Turn the dough out onto a floured work surface and cut into 6 equal portions. Roll each portion into a tight ball and place on a well-floured tray. Dust the tops with flour.\n\n4. Cover the tray loosely with plastic wrap and a kitchen towel. Let the dough balls rise at warm room temperature until they are soft, pillowy, and full of air, 1 to 1\u00bd hours. (Alternatively, cover the tray as directed and refrigerate overnight. Let come to room temperature for at least 1 hour before continuing.)\n\n5. Place a pizza stone or baking sheet on the lowest rack of the oven and preheat the oven to 500\u00b0F (or as high as your oven will go) for at least 30 minutes.\n\n_Corn and Zucchini Pizza (bottom); \"Fresh Chive Cheese and 'Sweet Million' Pizza\" (top)_\n\n6. Working with 1 dough ball at a time (keep the others covered), set the ball on a well-floured pizza peel or baking sheet. Tap the center of the ball first to deflate it, then stretch and pat the dough out from the middle with your fingers into a 7- to 8-inch round, leaving the outer rim untouched (the dough will not be very stretchy, so be careful not to tear it). Add the toppings.\n\n7. With a quick thrust of the peel (set the tip of the peel or sheet on the stone first to make it easier), shove the pizza onto the stone. Bake until the crust is puffy and browned, 8 to 12 minutes, or follow baking directions in the topping recipe. Repeat with remaining dough balls and toppings.\n\n**PIZZA TOPPINGS**\n\nWe borrowed from future seasons to come up with these pizza toppings; in the summer, we had only the first one.\n\n### FRESH CHIVE CHEESE AND 'SWEET MILLION' TOMATO SAUCE\n\nParbake the pizza crusts until firm and dry but not browned, about 3 minutes. Spread with a thin layer of 'Sweet Million' Tomato Sauce (at right) or other pizza sauce. Top with thin slices of Fresh Chive Cheese or fresh mozzarella sprinkled with chopped chives, and bake until the crust is puffy and browned, 3 to 4 minutes more. Finish with a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil, a sprinkle of sea salt, and chopped fresh thyme.\n\n_PER \u00bc PIZZA (APPROX.) 202 cal., 45% (91 cal.) from fat; 7.5 g protein; 10 g fat (3.7 g sat.); 22 g carbo (2.6 g fiber); 425 mg sodium; 20 mg chol._\n\n### CORN AND ZUCCHINI\n\nHeat extra virgin olive oil in a frying pan over medium heat, add slivered white onion, diced zucchini, minced garlic, chopped fresh marjoram, and fine sea salt to taste and cook until tender. Mix in fresh corn kernels. Mix fromage blanc, homemade or store-bought, with enough heavy cream to create the consistency of softened cream cheese. Spread the cheese mixture onto the pizza crusts, spoon the zucchini-corn mixture evenly over the cheese layer, and top with a few more spoonfuls of the fromage blanc mixture. Bake as directed in step 7. Halfway through baking, sprinkle with Oregano Queso Blanco or crumbled feta, homemade or store-bought and mixed with minced oregano.\n\n_PER \u00bc PIZZA (APPROX.) 164 cal., 40% (66 cal.) from fat; 4.9 g protein; 7.5 g fat (2.7 g sat.); 21 g carbo (3.1 g fiber); 234 mg sodium; 13 mg chol._\n\n### CHERRY TOMATO, RICOTTA, MINT, AND CHILE\n\nTop pizza crusts with generous smears of ricotta cheese, homemade or store-bought, mixed with crushed dried serrano chiles or red chile flakes and a little fine sea salt. Cover with whole cherry tomatoes. Sprinkle with more chile flakes, if you like, and drizzle with extra virgin olive oil. Bake as directed in step 7. Finish with torn fresh peppermint leaves and a sprinkle of sea salt.\n\n_PER \u00bc PIZZA (APPROX.) 122 cal., 43% (53 cal.) from fat; 3.7 g protein; 6.1 g fat (1.4 g sat.); 15 g carbo (2.6 g fiber); 148 mg sodium; 4 mg chol._\n\n### POTATO, ONION, AND GOUDA\n\nYou won't need a baking stone or preheated baking sheet for this Roman-style pizza. For 6 pizzas, peel 1\u00be pounds 'Yukon Gold' potatoes and slice as thinly as possible on a mandoline. Place the slices in a very large bowl of well-salted water and let soak for at least 1 hour at room temperature (or several hours if chilled). Drain and pat dry, then toss with 2 cups finely chopped white onion and about \u00bd cup extra virgin olive oil.\n\nFor each pizza, oil a large rimmed baking sheet, then gently stretch and flatten each dough ball into a thin rectangle (about 10 by 7 inches). Brush with more oil, then cover the surface of the dough with no more than a double or triple layer of the potato-onion mixture.\n\nBake as directed in step 7 until the potatoes are just beginning to turn brown, about 10 minutes. Remove from the oven, sprinkle with shredded Gouda cheese, homemade or store-bought, and with chopped fresh rosemary. Return to the oven and bake until the crust is browned, the edges of the potato slices are crisp, and the cheese is bubbling, about 5 minutes more.\n\n_PER \u00bc PIZZA (APPROX.) 197 cal., 47% (92 cal.) from fat; 6 g protein; 11 g fat (2.8 g sat.); 21 g carbo (3 g fiber); 271 mg sodium; 11 mg chol._\n\n* _'Expresso' has a protein content of 12.3 percent, which we needed to give our pizza crust a good soft, chewy texture. SeeThe Allure of Local Wheat for more on local flours._\n\n##    \n'SWEET MILLION' TOMATO SAUCE\n\nWe created this recipe especially for our red 'Sweet Million' cherry tomatoes, but you can use any small, tender cherry or pear-shaped tomato. The sauce has a rustic character and nice crunch from the tomato seeds and skins.\n\nMAKES about 1\u00be cups\n\nTIME about 1 hour, 10 minutes\n\n1 quart 'Sweet Million' tomatoes\n\n1 tablespoon minced garlic\n\n1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil\n\n1 teaspoon honey\n\n\u00bd teaspoon crushed dried red serrano or \u00e1rbol chile\n\n\u00bd teaspoon fine sea salt\n\n1 teaspoon chopped fresh basil\n\n1 teaspoon chopped fresh oregano\n\n1. Pulse the tomatoes in a food processor to chop coarsely. Heat the garlic and oil in a medium saucepan over medium heat, stirring, 1 minute. Stir in the tomatoes, honey, chile, and salt. Bring the mixture to a boil over high heat. Reduce the heat to low and simmer uncovered, stirring often, until very thick, 50 to 60 minutes.\n\n2. Stir in the basil and oregano and use right away, or cool, cover, and refrigerate.\n\n**MAKE AHEAD** Refrigerate, tightly covered, for up to 3 days. Or, pack into a sturdy plastic container or resealable plastic bags and freeze for up to 5 months.\n\n_PER \u00bc-CUP SERVING 42 cal., 50% (21 cal.) from fat; 0.78 g protein; 2.3 g fat (0.29 g sat.); 4.7 g carbo (1.1 g fiber); 164 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n##    \nSUMMER LEMONGRASS CUSTARDS\n\nSilky and delicate in texture, with a surprising little zing from the lemongrass, these custards are lovely on their own. But a pouf of whipped cream puts them over the top.\n\nMAKES 6 servings\n\nTIME about 1\u00bd hours, plus at least 1\u00bd hours to steep\n\n4 large stalks lemongrass\n\n2 cups whole milk\n\n2 large eggs\n\n\u2153 cup plus 2 teaspoons honey\n\n\u2153 cup heavy cream\n\n1. Trim the tough outer layers from the lemongrass stalks, then slice the core. In a small saucepan over medium-high heat, combine the milk and lemongrass, stirring, until small bubbles form, 5 minutes. Let cool, stirring often, for 20 minutes. Cover and refrigerate for at least 1\u00bd hours or up to overnight.\n\n2. Preheat the oven to 350\u00b0F. In a bowl, whisk together the eggs and the \u2153 cup honey until well blended. Strain the milk mixture into the egg mixture (discard the lemongrass) and whisk again. Divide the custard among six 5-ounce ramekins.\n\n3. Set the ramekins in a 9-by-13-inch baking dish. Pull out the oven rack halfway and put the baking dish on the rack. Pour boiling water into the baking dish to come halfway up the sides of the ramekins. Carefully slide the rack into place. Bake until the custards jiggle only slightly when ramekins are gently shaken, about 30 minutes.\n\n4. Using a wide metal spatula, transfer the ramekins to a cooling rack. Let cool for at least 15 minutes.\n\n5. In a bowl, whisk together the cream and the remaining 2 teaspoons honey until thick. Serve the custards warm or chilled, with spoonfuls of cream on top.\n\n**MAKE AHEAD** Cover tightly and refrigerate for up to 1 day.\n\n_PER SERVING: 184 cal., 45% (83 cal.) from fat; 5 g protein; 9.2 g fat (5.1 g sat.); 22 g carbo (0.04 g fiber); 64 mg sodium; 97 mg chol._\n\nHERB BLOSSOMS ON THE TABLE\n\nOne of the loveliest aspects of growing your own herbs is that you have access to their flowers, which you rarely see in grocery stores because they are so fragile. Even farmers' markets can have trouble keeping them fresh. When herbs are a few feet from your kitchen door, you can pick them minutes before you need them and scatter the blossoms over salads or soups. (They taste like the herbs themselves, only spicier.)\n\nBeyond cooking, the blossoms make unusual, fragrant bouquets for your table, and because they are short, they don't block the view of diners sitting across from each other. We like to put bunches of them, along with the leafy sprigs, in small glasses all over the table.\n\n  WATERMELON, CANTALOUPE, OR HONEYDEW SORBET\n\nThis sorbet is only as good as your melon, so use the best fruit you can find (or grow). We especially loved the flavor of our sweet, honeyed 'Ambrosia' cantaloupes in this sorbet, but the greenish 'Sharlyn' melons and 'Sugar Baby' watermelons were good too. The sorbet is best when eaten as soon as possible after freezing, because the lack of refined sugar makes it turn icy as it sits in the freezer. The good news is that any leftover sorbet makes an excellent granita: Turn it into a square baking pan, rake it with a fork until fluffy, cover, and freeze. To serve, let the granita sit at room temperature for 5 minutes, then rerake with the fork until fluffy.\n\nMAKES 1 quart, or 8 servings\n\nTIME about 1 hour, plus at least 20 minutes in an ice cream maker\n\n8 to 10 cups ripe cantaloupe, honeydew, or watermelon chunks (1-inch chunks)\n\n3 tablespoons honey\n\n1. Whirl the melon in a blender or food processor until smooth. Pour into a bowl, cover, and chill until cold.\n\n2. In a saucepan, bring \u00bd cup water to a boil. Remove from the heat and stir in the honey. Pour into a bowl and chill until cold. Strain into the melon puree.\n\n3. Freeze in an ice cream maker according to the manufacturer's directions. Serve immediately.\n\n_PER \u00bd-CUP SERVING 87 cal., 5% (4.5 cal.) from fat; 1.6 g protein; 0.5 g fat (0.1 g sat.); 22 g carbo (1.4 g fiber); 17 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n##    \nPEPPERMINT-LEMONGRASS TISANES\n\nHerbal infusions, or _tisanes_ (the French term), make a soothing, caffeine-free finish to dinner. We paired this zingy mentholated one with our melon sorbet (at left), and liked the way it brought out the ripe flavors of the fruit. This is an especially enjoyable tisane to make, because the peppermint leaves release an intoxicating aroma as you crush them. You can use ordinary spearmint, but it won't be nearly as fragrant.\n\nMAKES 8 servings\n\nTIME about 10 minutes\n\n12 stalks lemongrass\n\n6 cups loosely packed peppermint sprigs, plus 8 small sprigs or leaves\n\n2 tablespoons honey (optional)\n\n1. Bring 8 cups water to a boil in a medium pot over high heat. Meanwhile, peel 2 or 3 tough outer layers off each lemongrass stalk, then mash the core with a meat mallet or the bottom of a small, heavy frying pan. Cut the stalks into 2-inch lengths.\n\n2. Remove the boiling water from the heat, add the lemon-grass, cover, and steep for 2 minutes. Crush the 6 cups mint sprigs in your hands and add to the pot. Re-cover and let steep for 5 to 8 minutes.\n\n3. Pour through a strainer into a large, heatproof pitcher and stir in the honey. Divide among 8 small tea glasses or cups and top each serving with a mint sprig.\n\n**MAKE AHEAD** The tisane can be made through step 2 a day ahead; once strained, cover and refrigerate. Reheat to a simmer before serving (don't allow it to boil).\n\n_PER 1-CUP SERVING 61 cal., 15% (9 cal.) from fat; 4.5 g protein; 1 g fat (0.3 g sat.); 12 g carbo (fiber n\/a); 41 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n# SUMMER PRESERVED\n\n_Clockwise from top right: dried poblano (ancho) chiles; canned 'Marvel Stripe' tomatoes; dried corn; dried peppermint; dried rosemary; dried flageolet beans; dried serrano chiles_\n\nThroughout the summer, we put up some of what we'd grown, to make cooking more exciting for the rest of the year. Four tools were our best friends in these undertakings:\n\n**1. A boiling-water canner** You can use the canner for tomatoes and for jams and lots of other preserves. Use it once and it's no longer intimidating.\n\n**2. A dehydrator** Haul out that 1970s dehydrator (or go get a new one) and put it to work. It's the coolest and most efficient way to dry herbs and chiles, and you can use it to dessicate any fruit or vegetable into a fine snack for hiking or biking. The dehydrator is ridiculously simple to use: Cut up your food, spread it on the dehydrator tray, and plug in the dehydrator. During the next day or two, your food will dry in a gentle waft of warm, recirculating air, without a chance of molding or bug infestation.\n\n**3. The freezer** We forget that the freezer can be a second pantry for fruits and vegetables. The two main tips we can give you: Pack your food into doubled resealable plastic bags or an airtight sturdy plastic container to prevent freezer burn, and label the bag or container with the contents and the date. We always think we'll recognize a food down the road, and then find ourselves puzzling over dark, icy blobs, wondering what they are and how long they've been in the freezer.\n\n**4. A \"root cellar\"** This is in quotes because we don't actually _have_ a root cellar. Few Californians\u2014or anyone living in a warm place\u2014do. If you live in a cold climate and have a basement, the basement will work. For specifics on this, we recommend the excellent and venerable _Root Cellaring_ _,_ by Mike and Nancy Bubel (Storey Communications, Inc., 1979, 1991), and _The Complete Root Cellar Book_ , by Steve Maxwell and Jennifer Mackenzie (Robert Rose, 2010). To see what we used instead to store our potatoes (essential for year-round cooking), refer to Our Makeshift Root Cellar.\n\nWe wanted to preserve our onions and garlic, too, because they are also indispensable in year-round cooking, but unfortunately we grew the wrong varieties for long-term storage. So, after the last onions and garlic were eaten in the fall, we had to buy them for winter and spring, because frankly we can't cook without them. We will plant at least two varieties next time\u2014one each for \"keeping.\"\n\nOUR MAKESHIFT ROOT CELLAR\n\nWe planned how to store our spuds with help from Greg Lutovsky, who owns Irish Eyes Garden Seeds in Washington State and specializes in potatoes.\n\nFirst, choose unbruised, unblemished potatoes for storing. After harvest (see tips on how to harvest), let the potatoes cure, spread out in a single layer, at room temperature in a dark, well-ventilated place for about 2 weeks. This will toughen their skins and make them last longer.\n\nArrange the potatoes in single layers in slatted stackable boxes (we used clear acrylic letter trays from an office supply store). Slide the boxes into a clean, empty fridge set to between 40\u00b0 and 42\u00b0F. The beat-up old \"extra\" fridge some people have in their garages is great for this. (Don't store apples or alliums like garlic, onions, or shallots in the same space, adds Lutovsky, because all of them emit ethylene gas, which will make the potatoes sprout.) Unscrew the fridge's lightbulb, so the potatoes don't develop toxins (which they do if exposed to light).\n\nBesides cold temperatures and complete darkness, storage potatoes like extremely humid conditions\u2014in the neighborhood of 90 percent; otherwise, they shrivel. To boost moisture, put a couple of wide deep pans filled with water next to the potatoes. Also, remove the shelf that covers the crisper drawers and fill the drawers with water. To monitor the humidity and temperature inside the fridge, set a combination hygrometer (moisture meter) and thermometer on a shelf. It costs about $10 at a hardware store.\n\nThe last requirement: ventilation. Set a small desk fan on one of the fridge's shelves to keep the air circulating. Plug the fan's power cord into an electrical socket near or behind the fridge (the fridge shuts easily over the cord). Refill the water once a week or so. The potatoes should last for at least 3 months and, depending on variety and your maintenance of the storage conditions, up to 6.\n\n##    \nCANNED HEIRLOOM TOMATOES\n\nCan your own ripe tomatoes, and you'll thank yourself all winter long for bottling up the essence of summer. For this easy recipe, adapted from the \"USDA Complete Guide to Home Canning\" (www.uga.edu\/nchfp\/index.html), you just squish raw skinned tomatoes into jars. This cold-pack technique may cause the fruit and liquid to separate a bit during processing, but the results still taste delicious.\n\nWhen working with tomatoes, it's essential for food safety that you acidify them as noted in the recipe, and that you do not increase the amount of herbs or add any other ingredients. Look for canning jars, rings, and lids in a hardware store or a well-stocked grocery store.\n\nMAKES 6 to 7 quarts\n\nTIME about 3 hours\n\n17 pounds ripe red or yellow heirloom tomatoes\n\n14 tablespoons lemon juice*\n\n7 teaspoons fine sea salt (optional)\n\n7 sprigs thyme, each 3 to 4 inches long (optional)\n\n1. Fill a 20-quart boiling-water canner half full with water. Set the rack so it rests on the pan rim, cover, and bring the water to steaming over high heat. While the water is heating, wash 7 wide-mouthed quart jars, screw rings, and flat lids in hot, soapy water and rinse and drain. Nest the lids inside the rings, place in a medium saucepan, and cover with water. Heat until small bubbles form (do not boil). Remove the pan from the heat, cover the pan, and set aside until the lids and rings are needed. No need to dry before using.\n\n2. Meanwhile, peel the tomatoes: Fill a large saucepan three-fourths full of water and bring to a boil over high heat. Add only enough tomatoes to make a single layer and leave them in the water just until the skins split and will peel easily with a knife, 20 to 40 seconds. Using a slotted spoon, lift out the tomatoes and let cool until they can be handled. Working over a bowl to catch the juices, core the tomatoes, pull off the skins, and trim any browned areas. Repeat with the remaining tomatoes.\n\n3. Put 2 tablespoons lemon juice and 1 teaspoon salt into each jar. Add the tomatoes to the jars, cutting them first if needed to make them fit. Push down on the tomatoes to ensure a compact fit, making sure the tomatoes are covered with juice and leaving \u00bd-inch headspace. If the tomatoes are not covered with juice, add the juice from the bowl as needed to cover. Using the handle of a fork, poke 1 thyme sprig down the side of each jar. Release air bubbles by gently running a table knife around the inside of jars. Wipe the rim of each jar clean with a damp cloth. They must be clean for the lids to seal.\n\n4. With tongs, lift the rings and lids from the hot water. Center a flat lid on each jar, making sure the sealing compound is resting on the jar rim. Screw the metal rings on firmly, but do not overtighten.\n\n5. Put the jars on the canner rack and lower the rack into the water. The water should cover the jars by at least 1 inch. If necessary, add more hot water now and during processing. Cover the canner, bring the water to a boil, then boil for 1 hour and 25 minutes (add 5 minutes for every 3,000 feet in altitude above sea level). The jars may leak a little; this is okay.\n\n6. Turn off the heat and let the jars stand in the water in the canner for 5 minutes. Line a work surface with kitchen towels. Then, using the tongs and a hot pad, lift the rack with the jars onto the edge of the canner. With a jar lifter or hot pads, remove the jars from the rack and set them upright on the towels. Do not tighten the rings. Let the jars cool completely at room temperature. You may hear a satisfying \"ping\" as the lids form a vacuum seal.\n\n7. Press on the center of each lid. If it stays down, the jar is sealed; if it pops up, it isn't. You can still eat the tomatoes if the seal did not form, but you have to keep the jar refrigerated and finish its contents fairly quickly (within a week). Remove the rings. Wipe the jars and lids with a clean, damp cloth. Replace the rings, if you like.\n\n8. Label the jars and store in a cool, dark place for up to 1 year.\n\n_PER \u00bd-CUP SERVING 23 cal., 10% (2.4 cal.) from fat; 1.1 g protein; 0.26 g fat (0.04 g sat.); 5.2 g carbo (1.5 g fiber); 7.1 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n* _The USDA recommends that you acidify tomatoes with bottled ReaLemon lemon juice, which has a standardized acidity of pH 2.5, or that you use \u00bdtsp. citric acid (Fruit Fresh) per quart jar instead of lemon juice. We used juice from our own lemons, but tested the pH using acid test strips (0 to 2.5 pH range) fromwww.indigo.com to verify that the pH was 2.5._\n\n##    \nDRIED HERBS\n\nPreserving your herb harvest is as simple as hanging up bunches and waiting for them to air-dry, or, even simpler, spreading the sprigs on racks and drying them in a dehydrator for several hours. They will keep for a year.\n\n### TO AIR-DRY\n\nImmerse the herbs in a sinkful of water and give them a good rinse. Shake off as much water as you can (you may want to go outside for this). Tie handful-size bunches at the cut end with kitchen string, leaving some string hanging.\n\nSelect a spot away from the sun (which will darken the herbs) and dust to hang the bunches. We used thumbtacks to attach them by their strings to walls around the office. Also, leave enough space for air to flow freely around each bunch. The herbs are ready when the leaves are completely dry and crumbly, 1 to 2 weeks. Some herbs may darken; this will not affect the flavor.\n\nWorking over a large bowl, strip the leaves from the stalks, discarding the stalks and allowing the leaves to drop into the bowl. Sort through the bowl and remove any stems. Crumble the leaves with your hands. (Chives are a little more difficult to crumble; you may need to chop them.) Pack into airtight containers and store at room temperature in a dark place for up to 1 year.\n\n### TO DRY IN A DEHYDRATOR\n\nRinse the herbs and shake them dry in the same way as for air-drying. Break off and discard any large stems. Arrange the herbs in a single layer (do not crowd them, or they will take longer to dry) on one or more dehydrator trays, and dehydrate until dry and crumbly, 8 to 24 hours. Store as directed for air-dried herbs.\n\n##    \nDRIED CHILES\n\nFor spicing up our cooking all year, we relied heavily on dried serrano and poblano chiles, picked from our bushes when fully ripe and at their fruitiest. Rinse the chiles and pat them dry before using either of the following methods.\n\n### TO AIR-DRY\n\nUsing a needle and strong thread (fishing line works well, too), pierce red, fully ripe chiles through the base of the stem and space out along the length of your thread. (The beautiful New Mexican _ristra_ style\u2014chiles threaded so they overlap\u2014works well in that state's arid climate, but in more humid areas, the chiles rot.) Leave enough thread on either end to tie to shelving or some other support, so the chiles hang like a necklace. Hang the necklace in a well-ventilated spot out of the sun and let the chiles dry until they have withered. Serranos are ready when they are brittle, at least 2 weeks. Poblanos (called anchos in their dried state) should be taken down when they are evenly darkened, fully wrinkled, and leathery but still supple, 2 to 3 weeks. Put both types in airtight containers. They will keep, stored at room temperature, for up to several months.\n\n### TO DRY IN A DEHYDRATOR\n\nArrange rinsed, dried whole chiles in a single layer on one or more dehydrator trays. Because poblanos are thick, you may have to invert the tray above them for the first day to accommodate their girth. Once they have shrunk, you can stack the trays normally. Dehydrate the serranos until they are brittle, 1 to 2 days. The anchos should be leathery but still supple, which will take 2 days.\n\n##    \nDRIED CORN\n\nWe ate most of our corn fresh off the cob, but dried some of it for use later in the year (we put it into stuffed poblano chiles). Using a dehydrator is the simplest and fastest approach.\n\nRemove the husks and silk from the ears. Cut each ear into 2-inch lengths and set the pieces in a single layer on the dehydrator trays. Dehydrate until just dried, about 36 hours. Rub the dried kernels off the ears.\n\nTwo ears will yield about 1\u00bc cups fresh kernels or \u2153 cup dried kernels. Store the dried kernels in airtight containers at room temperature for up to several months.\n\n_PER \u00bc-CUP SERVING 150 cal., 12% (18 cal.) from fat; 4 g protein; 2 g fat (0 g sat.); 31 g carbo (6 g fiber); 15 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n##    \nROASTED POBLANOS FOR THE FREEZER\n\nWhen chiles are in season, we like to roast lots of them and stash them away in bags in the freezer. Then when we want to make chiles rellenos, a salsa, or a stew, we just pull out a bag. We freeze the chiles whole with the seeds, so they can be prepped in a number of different ways.\n\nMAKES 8 roasted chiles\n\nTIME about 45 minutes\n\n8 poblano chiles, about 2 pounds total\n\n1. Preheat the broiler. Put the chiles on a rimmed baking sheet lined with aluminum foil. Place in the broiler about 4 inches from the heat source and broil, turning as needed, until blackened all over, at least 15 minutes.\n\n2. Remove the poblanos from the broiler, cover with a kitchen towel, and let cool until they can be handled. Gently pull off and discard the blackened skins. Let the chiles cool completely, then arrange them in a single layer in a 1-gallon resealable plastic bag. Seal the bag closed, pressing out the air. Seal the first bag in a second bag.\n\n3. Freeze for up to 6 months.\n\n_PER CHILE 33 cal., 45% (15 cal.) from fat; 1.7 g protein; 0.17 g fat (0.02 g sat.); 7.8 g carbo (1.2 g fiber); 5.8 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n_Slow-Roasted Tomatoes for the Freezer_\n\n##    \nSLOW-ROASTED TOMATOES FOR THE FREEZER\n\nThese slow-roasted tomatoes freeze well and add deep, tomatoey flavor to any dish long after summer has gone. Any variety or size of tomatoes will work, but in our climate, tomatoes seldom get much bigger than 3 inches in diameter. Roast tomatoes of the same size together so they cook evenly.\n\nMAKES 8 cups\n\nTIME about 8 hours\n\n10 pounds tomatoes\n\n\u00bd cup extra virgin olive oil\n\n3 cloves garlic, finely chopped\n\n2 teaspoons fine sea salt\n\n\u00bc cup chopped fresh oregano\n\n1. Preheat the oven to 250\u00b0F. Core all tomatoes except cherry tomatoes. Cut small tomatoes in half, keep cherry tomatoes whole, and cut medium and large tomatoes into 1\u00bd-inch-thick wedges. Arrange the tomatoes, cut side up and packed tightly together, on rimmed nonreactive or aluminum foil\u2013lined baking sheets.\n\n2. In a small bowl, mix the oil and garlic, then drizzle over the tomatoes. Sprinkle with the salt and oregano.\n\n3. Roast the tomatoes, switching the pans to a different oven rack every 2 hours, until they have wrinkled and shrunk by more than half but are still slightly moist, 6 to 8 hours. If roasting cherry tomatoes, begin checking after 5 hours.\n\n4. Let the tomatoes cool completely, then transfer to a sturdy airtight container and store in the refrigerator for up to 1 week or in the freezer for up to 5 months.\n\n_PER \u00bc-CUP SERVING 54 cal., 59% (32 cal.) from fat; 1.2 g protein; 3.8 g fat (0.54 g sat.); 5.2 g carbo (1.6 g fiber); 147 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n# FALL\n\n_The One-Block Fall Feast_\n\nQuinoa Bites with Walnut Romesco  \nPickled Cocktail Mushrooms and Onions  \nCreamy Flageolet Dip with Red Pepper Sticks\n\nGrilled Radicchio and Fennel Salad with Apples and Toasted Walnuts  \nButternut Squash Gnocchi with Chard and Sage Brown Butter\n\n_Cheese platter:_ Gouda and feta with fresh honeycomb, walnuts, pineapple guava slices, Last-Minute Pineapple Guava Preserves, and Whole-Wheat Rosemary Shortbreads  \nHoney Ice Cream\n\nChardonnay\n\nOur cornstalks were dried out and toppling over. The lovely trombetta zucchini vine had just a few withered fruits left. The pattypans, so verdant and green a month before, had splotchy mildew all over their leaves, and we'd all eaten way too many squashes\u2014even the chickens were sick of them. It was time to move past summer.\n\nJohanna Silver, our new test-garden coordinator, waded into the pattypan patch one late August day and started vigorously ripping out the monster vines. A former city kid from Denver, she's a girl who loves the physical exercise of gardening, and she threw her whole body into it. By the end of the day, a big swath of the garden had been cleared, ready to be planted with new crops for our fall feast.\n\nThis time the Food and Garden teams had formed a plan well in advance. In went seeds and seedlings for radicchio and fennel, to be thrown on the grill for a salad; plenty of sage, because it is indispensable in fall cooking; Swiss chard, for the same reason; and squat, juicy little cipollini onions, as a backup for our already-harvested 'Spanish White' onions. (We had discovered, belatedly, that this variety\u2014and our sweet, juicy 'Spanish Roja' garlic\u2014weren't the right kind for storing, and had both of them stashed away in a cool, dry spot, hoping they would survive long enough to use for the dinner.) I tried to persuade Team Garden to plant more garlic, but it just couldn't be done. If it were started now, in late summer for a fall harvest, the cloves wouldn't form.\n\nSome crops, needing a longer spell in warm weather, had already been planted: Three kinds of beans, to be shelled and dried, and a butternut squash vine. Along with our cipollini onions, they would go into a big vegetable cassoulet-type dish, our main course. Johanna had the brilliant idea of planting quinoa, one of the fabled \"ancient grains\" of the Andes, and now it stood in a thick patch about five feet tall, with colossal yellow-orange seedheads. It was close to our grapevine, and looking at them together inspired our first course: quinoa-stuffed grape leaves! The quinoa would be cooked with raisins from the same grapevine, of course. This made us instantly want to have nuts, to add to the stuffing, but we had not a single nut tree on the grounds. Even if we bought a baby tree immediately, it would take years to bear fruit. Nuts seemed crucial to a fall feast, so we added walnuts to our list of \"imports\" and hoped we could soon plant a couple of our own trees.\n\nApples also seemed indispensable for a fall menu. We did have a dwarf apple tree, but it had pooped out the year before and was still standing around doing nothing. So apples went on the imports list, too.\n\nWe chose to use them in salad instead of in something sweet, because we had a grand plan for dessert. Fabulous, nectarlike Calimyrna figs grew on one straggly old vine near our test kitchen. We'd dry them at their peak, in September, and simmer them with our raisins in a Syrah syrup, until they turned into a dark, velvety, sophisticated compote, which we would lavish with dollops of homemade cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche.\n\nWith our menu set and our garden growing, we figured we might as well take Team Cheese to the next level. After our bumbling experiments with making cheese from a book, we needed expert help. We found it at Bellwether Farms, in the rolling, green hills of Sonoma County. In Bellwether's warm, milk-scented cheese-making room, Liam Callahan showed us how to turn milk into ricotta, one of the glories of Italian gastronomy. We saw how gently he handled the curds to make them fat and fluffy, using nothing more than vinegar (although we would use lemon juice), salt, and heat. We spooned up the sweet new ricotta right out of the mold, and tried to commit its taste and texture to memory\u2014our cheese lodestar.\n\nAt Cowgirl Creamery, up in cool, foggy Marin county, co-owner Sue Conley and cheese maker Jonathan White explained how to make their award-winning fromage blanc, a luxuriously smooth, rich, spreadable cheese that can be used umpteen ways in cooking. It was a breakthrough for us. Mysterious ingredients that only real cheese makers seemed to understand, like cheese culture and rennet, were just ingredients, we realized. They were no harder to add to milk than cocoa, although it took longer to taste and see their full effects.\n\nThese lessons inspired us to go even further. We pored through home cheese-making catalogs and bought cheese molds, a few different types of cultures, our own little bottle of rennet, and even a small cheese press. In a fit of ambition, we decided we would do a full-out cheese course for our fall feast and make Gouda and feta. Each of these took several days to finish (and the Gouda then had to age for months). It took many tests to get them both right, which led to our coining a new term: cheese slave. Finally, we managed to produce cheeses that tasted surprisingly good, like actual, bona fide Gouda and feta, and our pride blocked out our pain.\n\nOur gorgeous eggs, on which we had come to be utterly dependent, would, of course, be a main ingredient in our fall feast. Then, suddenly, the chickens stopped laying. Not only that, they were shedding feathers like crazy. The infamous annual chicken molt had arrived.\n\nOnce a year, usually when the weather starts to turn cold, chickens drop their old feathers to make way for strong new ones, and their energies go into producing feathers, not eggs. This went on for several weeks, threatening to leave us eggless for our dinner. Plus, the chickens looked freaky, as though they had been mauled. So many feathers were strewn around the coop that Jim, our Team Chicken leader, said it looked like the scene of a pillow fight.\n\nWe had an even bigger chicken drama to deal with, though. Nugget, our adopted chick, had gotten nasty, nipping at us when we came into the coop. Nugget's red feathers had grown unusually long and glistening. Nugget had a suspicious upright stance.... We hadn't heard actual crowing yet, but Johanna, who had been in charge of chickens at a farm, said it out loud: \"Guys, Nugget is a dude.\"\n\nThat meant we had to get rid of him. Roosters are illegal in our city, as they are in many others, because they're noisy. And even if keeping Nugget hadn't been against the law, we knew he had to go. We couldn't handle an explosion of chicks.\n\nSome of us on Team Chicken voted for eating him, in time-honored chicken-raising fashion. Plus, as Elizabeth pointed out, we publish chicken-dinner recipes in the magazine all the time. \"If we're chicken eaters, why not eat this chicken?\" But others argued that we weren't exactly running a farm, that Nugget had a name, and we should find him a home.\n\nWe tried, we really did, but had zero luck. Finally, we decided to take him to the feed store where we had bought our chicks. We'd noticed cages of half-grown roosters there, and the clerk had said that sometimes people \"adopted\" them. Sure, it was a euphemism, but we had no choice. To the feed store he would go.\n\nI wrote about our decision on our one-block blog, and late one night, when Nugget was groggy and unsuspecting, my valiant boyfriend, Peter\u2014who'd dealt with roosters at his grandparents' farm\u2014and I crept into the coop and nudged Nugget into a big, sturdy box. We taped it and left him boxed up till dawn\u2014and his ride to the feed store.\n\nThat morning, I happened to check my e-mail before hopping in the car. A woman named Tina had sent me an urgent message. She had read my blog post and was aghast. Her e-mail sat atop a chain of other e-mails from bird rescuers all around the Bay Area, discussing how to save Nugget. It was amazing. Upshot: Tina urged me to call a number in San Juan Bautista, belonging to a person who would possibly take Nugget.\n\nSo I did, and the very next day, Nugget was off to an entirely different fate. He rode south to join an extended family of other rescuees: emus; chinchillas; a hedgehog; many, many rabbits; and about thirty other roosters who lived in a fenced-in orchard, eating bugs, and\u2014due apparently to the absence of hens\u2014not ripping one another to shreds. It was too good to be true.\n\nAnd it got even better. When Nugget's new owner extracted him from the box, he behaved so beautifully (possibly stunned by the car ride?) that she decided to put him with her own backyard flock of hens. So Nugget, twice rescued, ended up with a harem.\n\n_Nugget the rooster_\n\nWhile Nugget began his new, charmed life, our luck had turned sour in the garden. The perfectly ripe, green-gold Calimyrna figs had been gobbled up by squirrels, right through the bird netting. In other words, those cursed furballs ate our dessert. It is hard to dream about a dish for weeks on end and then have it chewed to bits in one day.\n\nThen the mother of one of our interns came for a tour of the garden. A discerning cook of Palestinian and Syrian background, she nibbled a grape leaf from our vine, since it was an ingredient she knew well\u2014and immediately spat it out. Apparently, we should have picked in spring, when the leaves were tender and sweet, rather than waiting till fall, when they were leathery and disgusting. Also, the grapes, which we had imagined would automatically turn into plump raisins, had molded. Good-bye, first course.\n\nTeam Kitchen had an emergency powwow. Instead of our figgy compote, we would use what we had lots of\u2014honey\u2014and make ice cream. Then, to replace our stuffed grape leaves, we decided to create a trio of appetizers\u2014which lacked only one ingredient: mushrooms.\n\nAnd so Team Mushroom was born. The easiest and quickest way to get a good variety of fungi is to order \"logs,\" which we soon discovered looked like misshapen loaves of bread. Mainly they were sawdust and bran, held together with threadlike mycelium, the main body of the mushroom.\n\nWithin a week of their arrival, our logs sprouted a miniforest of oyster, shiitake, and poofy, white pom pom mushrooms. It was immensely gratifying. \"When I have a kid and he needs a science project that works, I'm getting one of these,\" said Brianne McElhiney, assistant to the editor-in-chief. She became the main mushroom-log caretaker, and whenever she went on vacation, the logs would send up crazy, deformed shapes\u2014almost as if they sensed her absence.\n\nSpooky or no, mushrooms cast an undeniable spell. Once we began to learn about them, we felt as though we had gone down a rabbit hole and emerged in the marvelous world of fungi. Did you know that the largest organism on earth is a four-square-mile fungus in eastern Oregon? And that it is at least twenty-four hundred years old? These were the kinds of factoids we now sprinkled into party conversation.\n\nWhen we found morel spawn for sale, we couldn't resist. Morels are incomparably tasty and usually harvested wild. If we could grow them, well, that would be close to miraculous. Elaine Johnson, our associate food editor, serious mushroom-lover, and co-captain of Team Mushroom, guided the adventure. In a damp patch of soil near the redwood trees, we dug in the spongy white threads\u2014essentially the baby fungus, from which morels would soon sprout like crazy, we hoped. We would get morels in anywhere from three months to two years, said the seller. We fed the bed with a steady diet of fresh compost and Elaine tenderly showered it with ash from the pizza oven, and we waited. It's been six months, and so far _nada_ , but we are patient. Perhaps also a tiny bit obsessed.\n\n_Mushroom harvest (logs)_\n\n_Scooping ash for the morel bed_\n\nBesides the butternut squash, we had one other phenomenally successful crop: our 'Nugget' hop vine, which had shot right up its fourteen-foot trellis over the summer and then sideways, too. It hadn't been ready to pick for our summer beer, but was now loaded with pale green flowers. We picked pounds of the slightly sticky blossoms, dried them, and stashed them in the freezer until we were ready to make beer again.\n\nThe other components of our beer were wheat and barley. Earlier in the summer, we had harvested what was left of both after the squirrels had ripped through, and, since we had already made a backup beer, spread the stalks of grain on a tarp inside to fully dry. Now it was time to thresh, an ancient and picturesque-sounding activity that brings to mind charming villagers rhythmically beating golden sheaves of grain against stone floors.\n\nWe couldn't have been less picturesque if we had tried. To thresh properly, you have to convince each tiny grain to let go not only of the stalk, which isn't so hard, but also of the papery envelope\u2014the chaff\u2014that tightly encloses it. Nothing we did, not rubbing the grains together in a bowl or mashing them against the bottom of a perforated bucket, seemed to loosen the envelopes. (Then again, we hadn't actually gotten around to researching how to thresh; there was so little left, after the squirrels' rampage, that it seemed easier to just wing it.) Stephanie Dean, our test-kitchen coordinator, bent over her portion of wheat and barley at her desk, peeling the envelope from each seed. Then she took it home and talked her relatives into helping. It was torture.\n\nAs we were thinking that perhaps what we should have done was bag up the grain and whack it like a pi\u00f1ata, or maybe run it over with a car, we found out\u2014from a grain historian who threshes her own heritage wheat\u2014that we should have put the seedheads in a large, strong sack and then danced the twist on it with rubber-soled shoes. Seriously. If you don't have an actual threshing machine, the twist is the way to go. Afterward, the winnowing\u2014getting rid of the bits of envelope\u2014is relatively easy, and we had done it correctly, more or less: You let the grains fall into a bowl in a light breeze, and the breeze whisks away the chaff. The picturesque villager would have a broad woven winnowing basket, for tossing the grain. We had metal mixing bowls, but it still worked.\n\nIn the end, we had about three pounds of wheat and barley combined, ready to be stored until we made our next beer. If nothing else, it made us deeply appreciate the people who grow our grains and mill them into flour.\n\nCompared to the wheat and barley, the quinoa was a cinch to thresh. We just stripped the dusty dried seeds (blessedly unenclosed by papery envelopes) off the seedheads into bags. Then, on the advice of Seeds of Change, who sold us our quinoa to plant, we figured out a better way to winnow. In the test kitchen, we draped a big sheet over some chairs and a table to create a kind of giant catcher's mitt, positioned a small fan opposite it, and put a baking pan in front of the fan. Then we rubbed handfuls of the quinoa in midair above the baking sheet. The wind blew the chaff into the sheet and the heavier seeds fell onto the baking pan\u2014more or less. We had to winnow each batch a few times to get it completely clean, but it did work. The kitchen acquired a fine layer of quinoa dust, however. Next time, we'll do it outside.\n\n_Threshing quinoa_\n\nBy early October, well past the usual honey season, hive Veronica had produced nearly twenty more pounds of honey. This bonanza, after the twelve pounds we had collected in August, seemed remarkable, especially because new hives, just building up their colonies, often yield no honey at all their first year. The women of Team Bee were beaming as they carried in the heavy golden frames. Over the months, they had grown even more entranced by the bustling of the hives, by the way the bees took care of and communicated with one another\u2014licking each other clean, for instance, and clustering around the queen on cold days to keep her warm. \"I like the honey, but I like the bees better,\" said Margaret. Sometimes, when she was stressed, she would take not a coffee break but a bee break, and go out to sit with the hives for a while. Brianne, a new member of Team Bee, was so inspired that she set up her own hives at home. By this time, all three of them could point out the queen bees within a humming mass of workers in only a few seconds.\n\nKimberley deepened her bond with bees one day when she found one flying around inside the test kitchen. Not wanting any of our allergic coworkers to possibly be stung, she dipped a finger in honey\u2014we were still processing the harvest, so had plenty sitting around\u2014and held it out to the bee, who landed and began lapping it up. \"I could feel a little tickle. She didn't move at all, and I was able to walk her out.\" The girl hand-fed a _bee_.\n\nIt was mid-October now, and almost time for the feast. The hens had sprouted new feathers and resumed laying, so at least we had eggs. But we were having major problems with the main course. In the test kitchen, Amy Machnak had been doing her best to make a knockout vegetable cassoulet using all our pretty beans, plus mushrooms, peppers, squash, and onions. But no matter what she tried, it kept turning out gloppy. \"It's just a big pot of mess!\" she moaned. She abandoned cassoulet and experimented with individual potpies, draping a sort of biscuity wafer over each. They looked sweet, but did not taste exciting. She fooled around with a vegetable terrine next, but it didn't hold together. We realized we were trying to cram all our crops into a single dish, and we had to simplify. Time was running out.\n\nWith days to go, Amy focused on our garden savior, the butternut squash. From it she made a glowing orange gnocchi, lightened with the ricotta we had recently learned to make, and scattered with Swiss chard and the seeds from the squash, roasted till crunchy. The finishing touch: a drizzle of sage browned butter. It was delicious. Our menu had an anchor.\n\nThis time, we set the table in our outdoor kitchen, at dusk. Candles twinkled down the center, and the light from inside the building shone onto us as we stood around in chatty clusters, eating tiny quinoa cakes with a spicy red pepper sauce, pickled mushrooms and onions, and a creamy dip made from the flageolet beans. We had our crisp Chardonnay again, but we were still waiting for the Syrah. It had tasted wild and thorny and not completely drinkable when we'd sampled it a few days before. We were betting it would mellow by the time our next feast rolled around, though.\n\nIt felt so refreshing to be at the table not as seasoned coworkers who knew how to put out a magazine together, but as people who had collectively decided to make something happen, despite our not knowing how. Everything we ate\u2014the grilled radicchio and fennel salad, Amy's triumphant gnocchi, the go-for-broke cheese platter, the rich honey ice cream\u2014tasted great, but it meant so much more. Not that we were consciously thinking this (mostly we were just enjoying catching up with one another), but on some level we knew how much each bite had cost us, and also given us, and that made us happy.\n\n_Scarlet Emperor' beans, freshly opened (right), 2 hours after opening (center), and dried (left)_\n\n# THE FALL GARDEN\n\n10 feet\n\n**FALL GARDEN PLAN**\n\n1. Pineapple guava\n\n2. Fennel\n\n3. Quinoa\n\n4. Peppers and chiles\n\n5. Beans\n\n6. Parsley\n\n7. Chives\n\n8. Rosemary\n\n9. Radicchio\n\n10. Tomatoes\n\n11. Cippolini onions\n\n12. Swiss chard\n\n13. Sage\n\n14. Thyme\n\n15. Oregano\n\n16. Butternut squash\n\n17. Lemon tree\n\nAs with our summertime garden, most of the crops we planted for our fall menu thrive in a spot that gets full sun for at least 6 hours per day. Some plants, such as beans and winter squashes, are easily started from seed. Others, like peppers and tomatoes, fare better when started from nursery transplants. For planting tips, see here.\n\nALL BEANS\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and well-drained soil.\n\n**Planting and Care** Sow seeds as soon as the soil is warm. Heavy seed leaves must push through the soil, so be sure the soil is reasonably loose and open.\n\n_For vining types:_ Insert poles 1 to 2 feet apart in rows, and sow seeds 1 inch deep and 1 to 3 inches apart. Or, sow along a sunny wall, fence, or trellis and train vines on a web of light string supported by wire or heavy twine.\n\n_For bush types:_ Plant seeds 1 inch deep and 1 to 3 inches apart, allowing 2 to 3 feet between rows. With both types, moisten the soil thoroughly before planting, then do not water again until the seedlings have emerged. Keep the soil moist throughout thegrowing season. Fertilize after the plants are in active growth and again when the pods start to form, working a 5-10-10 fertilizer into the soil along the row.\n\n### Bean 'Cannellini'\n\nMost beans are frost-sensitive heat lovers, easy to grow from seed. Gardeners can choose from many types, but 'Cannellini' is one of our favorites. A mainstay in Italian cuisine, this pearly white bean, a cousin to the kidney bean, cooks up rich and meaty. It's wonderful in soups and stews, or all by itself with just a little olive oil and fresh herbs. The beans grow on bush plants to 26 inches tall.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 85 days from seed.\n\n**How to Harvest** Pick pods in the green \"wax\" stage to use fresh, and at the dried stage for shelling and storage. For dried beans (which was how we used them), let the pods completely dry out on the bush through October, then pick and shell.\n\n**Seed Source** Gourmet Seeds, www.gourmetseed.com.\n\n### Bean, Flageolet\n\nThis pretty little kidney-shaped, bush-type, pale green bean comes from southern France, where it is traditionally served with lamb. We used it for a creamy bean dip and in a vegetarian shepherd's pie.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 90 days from seed.\n\n**How to Harvest** Pick these shelling beans in fall after the pods have matured and the leaves have dried and dropped off. For dried beans (which was how we used them), let the pods completely dry out on the bush through October, then pick and shell.\n\n**Seed Source** Seed Savers Exchange, www.seedsaversexchange.com.\n\n### Bean 'Scarlet Emperor'\n\nA stunner in the garden, this vine grows to 8 to 10 feet tall. Its scarlet-orange flowers give way to velvety green pods that turn plump and juicy as they grow to 8 inches long. The beans themselves are large, like big limas, and a shocking lipstick pink color that quickly darkens to purple.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 75 days from seed.\n\n**How to Harvest** To eat fresh, harvest when beans are fully formed and starting to pull away from the pod (you'll see the bulge of the developing bean through the shell) but before pods start to change color and the beans inside start to rattle when you shake them. Remove the beans from the pods and seal them in plastic bags to store in the refrigerator for 10 to 14 days (you can also freeze them for longer storage). For dried beans (which was how we used them), let the pods completely dry out on the bush through October, then pick and shell.\n\n**Seed Source** Territorial Seed Company, www.territorialseed.com.\n\n### Butternut Squash\n\nLike all winter squashes, butternuts have a hard rind and a firm, dryish flesh. They are excellent for baking and store well, too. The plant pumps out delicious fruits on a tall vine, and it was by far our most successful fall crop. We loved how pretty it looked, rambling up a sturdy metal arbor over a gravel path, with most of the fruits dangling downward like pi\u00f1atas.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and rich, well-drained soil. Give the vine plenty of room to sprawl, unless you are training it up a trellis or arbor, as we did.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 75 to 80 days from seed.\n\n**Planting and Care** When soil temperatures warm to about 50\u00b0F, sow seeds directly in the ground 1 inch deep, spacing them 2 to 4 feet apart in rows. Or plant seeds on mounds or hills of soil about 8 to 12 inches across and 4 to 6 feet apart, spacing seeds on each hill 4 inches apart. Once plants reach 4 inches tall, thin to 3 seedlings per hill. Water at planting time, then every 2 or 3 days until seeds germinate. As the plants grow, give the roots plenty of water, but keep the leaves dry to avoid mildew. Feed the plant regularly by working a complete fertilizer into the soil around the mounds or along rows.\n\n**How to Harvest** Allow a squash to ripen on the vine until it has thoroughly hardened, then cut it from the vine with 1 inch of stem attached.\n\n**Seed Source** Burpee, www.burpee.com.\n\n_Butternut squash_\n\n### Chiles\n\nWe picked the last of our summer garden poblanos and serranos for our October feast. See the Summer Garden.\n\n### Chive\n\nSee the Summer Garden.\n\n### Fennel, Florence or Finocchio\n\nCooks prefer this annual fennel _Foeniculum vulgare azoricum_ over the perennial common fennel ( _F. vulgare_ ) for its larger, thicker leafstalk bases. These bulbous bases, which have a celerylike crunch and a sweet, light anise flavor, can be steamed, saut\u00e9ed, baked, grilled, simmered in soups and stews, or eaten raw. The feathery leaves resemble those of dill, but have a coarser texture, and make good garnishes and seasonings. The seeds are a staple \"spice\" in our pantry.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and well-drained soil rich in organic matter.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 90 to 100 frost-free days from seed.\n\n**Planting and Care** Sow seeds directly in the ground, \u00bc inch deep and 4 to 6 inches apart. Thin seedlings to 1 foot apart. Keep the soil moist until the first leaves appear. As they grow, water the plants regularly, but don't overwater. To make the bulb more tender, sweeter, and extra white, try \"blanching\" it: When the bulb is about the size of an egg, pile up compost around it.\n\n**How to Harvest** Snip off fronds as you need them. Cut whole stalks by slicing them off where they join the bulb. As for the bulb itself, wait for it to gain some girth: at least 3 inches end to end and a couple of inches wide (ours were most flavorful at about 5 inches wide). Then harvest by slicing horizontally through the bulb just above the root line. This leaves the base of the bulb behind, from which new sprouts will often shoot. Or, pull up the bulb, roots and all.  \nEven though Florence fennel is grown for its bulb rather than its seeds, you can still harvest seeds from it to use in cooking. They are less plump than seeds from common fennel, but they are still very flavorful, especially when fresh. To harvest the seeds, wait until the plant sends up its giant flower stalks (they can grow up to 6 feet tall) and then blossoms, sometime in fall. The flower clusters will eventually produce pale green seeds. When they are plump and swollen, cut the stalk from the plant (the seeds won't fall off), rinse off the aphids if you have them, and let the clusters dry on paper towel\u2013lined baking sheets inside at room temperature, uncovered, until the seeds are completely hard (4 to 5 days; bite into one to check). Each large cluster will yield about 1 teaspoon seeds, so just one plant will yield around \u00bc cup fennel seed. Store in a tightly closed glass jar; for maximum freshness, keep in the fridge.\n\n**Seed Source** Burpee, www.burpee.com.\n\n_Harvesting Florence fennel seeds_\n\n### Lemon 'Eureka'\n\nSee the Summer Garden.\n\n### Mushrooms\n\nSee How to Grow Mushrooms.\n\n### Onion, Cipollini\n\nThese 2- to 3-inch, flattish bulbing onions are Italian heirlooms\u2014so special they are usually listed in their own class in catalogs. They come in red, straw yellow, and white and have a mild, sweet flavor. You'll need patience to grow them, though; to form bulbs, they need long days (typical of northerly climates from Bakersfield, California, north to Alaska), and they take more than 4 months to mature. We think they are worth the wait. We used them to make a melt-in-your-mouth cocktail pickle and also added them to a rich bean rago\u00fbt.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and warm, fast-draining soil that has been amended with compost.\n\n**Days to Harvest** About 105 days from seed.\n\n**Planting and Care** We planted sets as soon as the ground warmed up. Plant seeds a bit later in spring (March or April), \u00bd inch deep in rows 18 inches apart, then thin seedlings to 2 or 3 inches apart. Water regularly to keep soil moist just below the surface.\n\n**How to Harvest** Pull up the onions in late summer after the tops have died down, then store them in a cool, dry place.\n\n**Seed\/Seedling\/Set Sources** Gourmet Seed International, www.gourmetseed.com; Territorial Seed, www.territorialseed.com; Northwest Seed & Pet, www.nwseed.com.\n\n### Oregano, Italian\n\nSee the Summer Garden.\n\n### Parsley 'Gigante Italian'\n\nSee the Summer Garden.\n\n### Peppers 'Carmen' and 'Mariachi'\n\n**'Carmen'** An early-maturing Italian sweet pepper, 'Carmen' has horn-shaped, 6-inch-long fruits that taste great whether grilled or saut\u00e9ed. As they mature from green to red, they get even sweeter. That's when they are best sliced fresh for salads. The plants grow to 28 inches tall.\n\n**'Mariachi'** These cone-shaped beauties deliver a blast of color and a hint of heat\u2014spicy but only mildly hot. They change from creamy yellow to bright red all summer on plants 18 to 24 inches tall. The plants produce 4-inch fruits well into fall (although you can start harvesting them in the summer).\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and fertile, well-drained soil.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 65 days for 'Mariachi' to 75 days for 'Carmen' from seed.\n\n**Planting and Care** Sow seeds indoors 6 to 8 weeks before the last spring frost. Plant seedlings only after the soil is warm in spring (peppers are heat lovers). Place the seedlings 18 to 24 inches apart. One or two plants in a container (at least 14 inches wide and 12 inches deep) are plenty. Let the soil dry out between waterings, and cut back on water as the peppers mature to concentrate their flavor.\n\n**How to Harvest** Harvest at the red or green stage. Snip off pods with scissors or pruners.\n\n**Seed\/Seedling Sources** 'Carmen', Tomato Growers Supply Co., www.tomatogrowers.com; 'Mariachi', Burpee, www.burpee.com. Check your local nursery for seedlings of these varieties.\n\n_'Mariachi' pepper_\n\n### Pineapple guava\n\nThe hardiest of subtropical fruits, pineapple guava ( _Feijoa sellowiana_ ), also called feijoa, blooms in late spring or early summer. Showy, inch-wide white flowers with big tufts of red stamens are edible, too\u2014crisp, succulent, and sweet: Toss them into fruit salads or use them to top cakes and cupcakes. The oval, gray-green fruits that follow have dense, sweet, slightly grainy flesh that tastes a bit like pineapple. They grow on evergreen, multistemmed shrubs (10 to 15 feet tall and wide).\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and well-drained soil.\n\n**Days to Harvest** Fruits are ready to harvest 4 to 5\u00bd months after flowering in warm climates, 5 to 7 months after bloom in cooler areas. Plants can take 2 to 3 years to bear fruit.\n\n**Planting and Care** Set out nursery plants (gallon size or larger) in spring if you are in the mildest climates of California, Arizona, or Hawaii; give them room to spread and water regularly to start. Once established, pineapple guava needs only occasional watering, although fruiting is best with deep regular waterings. Feed lightly with a complete fertilizer such as 8-8-8 once every 2 months during the spring and summer growing season. The plant can take almost any amount of training (in late spring) to shape it as an espalier, screen, hedge, or small tree.\n\n**How to Harvest** To harvest lots of fruits at a time, wait until the first ones drop, then spread a tarp underneath the tree and give the trunk a shake. Repeat every few days. Or, gently squeeze a fruit to see whether it is ripe. If it gives to the touch, pick by hand. Ripe pineapple guavas, which are green (sometimes with a red blush) when mature, can be stored in the refrigerator for up to a month and frozen for up to a year.\n\n**Plant Sources** Look for plants in garden centers, or ask your nursery to order it for you from a wholesaler such as Monrovia Nursery, www.monrovia.com.\n\n### Quinoa 'Faro'\n\nGrown mostly for its edible seed, quinoa (say it: \"keen-wa\") has an unusually high protein content\u201416 to 23 percent\u2014and contains all eight essential amino acids. We grew 'Faro', a variety bred to thrive at sea level, and loved its statuesque height (nearly 5 feet) and its big, heavy, golden orange seedheads. Having gotten so little from our summer planting of wheat and barley, we wondered how much this next grain experiment would yield. But we're always willing to grow anything once. After threshing and winnowing, which was a pain but not nearly as bad as threshing the wheat and barley, we were rewarded with about 15 quarts of quinoa from just a couple of tablespoons of seed.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and loose, well-drained soil.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 100 to 110 days from seed.\n\n**Planting and Care** Sow seeds in midspring when soil is warm (at least 65\u00b0F) by scattering them over soil that's been raked smooth, then watered lightly with a hose. Cover them lightly with \u00bc to \u00bd inch of soil. (We raised 54 plants in a 4-by-8-foot raised bed.) Keep the soil moist until the seeds germinate and the first two or three leaves appear, then let them get super-thirsty. You want to give them just 10 to 12 inches of water for the entire season.\n\n**How to Harvest** The crop is ready in September or so, when it looks dry, starts to flop over, and the seeds barely dent when you push into them with a fingernail. Cut off the seedheads, lay them flat indoors, and let them dry completely (including stems and leaves) until the stalks are brittle. This takes about 2 weeks. Next, roughly remove the seeds from the stems\u2014that's the threshing part\u2014and then comes the \"fun\" part: winnowing to separate the seeds from the rest of the particulate matter. It's a messy process, best done outdoors. Set up a small fan and put a tray in front of it to catch the seeds. Then rub the quinoa between your hands in front of the fan. The heavier seeds drop onto the tray, while the featherlight chaff blows away.\n\n**How to Rinse for Cooking** Quinoa seeds are coated with a bitter, soapy substance called saponin, which has to be rinsed off before cooking. (Store-bought quinoa is prerinsed, but still benefits from a dunk in water.) Because our sea-level quinoa was a particularly bitter variety, we were extra-thorough when it came to cleaning. We soaked the seeds for a few hours in warm water, changing the water often. Then we rinsed them several times, rubbing the grains between our fingers, until the water was no longer cloudy. We did big batches at once and thoroughly dried the seeds on kitchen towels before storing them in airtight containers in the freezer.\n\n**Seed Source** Seeds of Change, www.seedsofchange.com.\n\n_'Faro' quinoa (top); quinoa laid out to dry; then, threshing the seeds (bottom)_\n\n### Radicchio 'Palla Rossa Ashalim'\n\nThe radicchio we grew is really a red-leaved Italian chicory ( _Cichorium intybus_ ) that forms a lettucelike head. The stunning purple-red leaves with bright white veins taste sharp and spicy, with a hint of bitterness that adds a pleasing bite to mixed salads. Radicchio is a bit trickier to grow than lettuce: It takes slightly longer to mature, doesn't tolerate heavy frost (mild frost is fine, and gives it a wonderfully sweet flavor), and needs to be monitored, much like cabbage, to determine when to harvest.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and compost-rich, well-drained soil.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 65 days from seed.\n\n**Planting and Care** Plant in midspring or early summer for a fall harvest; in mild winter climates, plant in fall for a winter harvest. Sow seeds \u00bc to \u00bd inch deep in rows spaced 18 inches apart, then thin seedlings to about 12 inches apart. Protect from frosts with floating row covers. Keep soil evenly moist during the growing season, and apply a 10-10-10 fertilizer after growth starts.\n\n**How to Harvest** When the heads start feeling firm to the touch, slice them from above the crowns with a sharp knife, then peel away the outer leaves to reveal the white-veined leaves inside. (If enough time remains before a frost, the crowns may resprout and develop second heads.) Heads are past their prime for harvest when they turn hard and their leaves turn tough and bitter.\n\n**Seed Source** Botanical Interests, www.botanicalinterests.com.\n\n_'Palla Rossa Ashalim' radicchio_\n\n### Rosemary 'Tuscan Blue'\n\nSee the Summer Garden.\n\n### Sage\n\nCommon sage ( _Salvia officinalis_ ) is a kitchen garden essential\u2014one we would never be without. You can use its soft, aromatic gray-green leaves fresh or dried to flavor everything from soups, stews, and egg dishes to vegetables and vinegar. A small perennial subshrub (1 to 3 feet tall), it comes in many forms; our current test-garden favorites include 'Icterina', whose leaves are edged with yellow, and 'Tricolor', whose new leaves are flushed with purple.\n\n**Best Site** Grow it in full sun in cool climates, afternoon shade in hot climates, in a spot with loose, well-drained soil.\n\n**Days to Harvest** Any time after the plants have filled out.\n\n**Planting and Care** Set out plants from nursery containers with the crown (the thickened area at the stem base) slightly above the surrounding soil. Space several at 12- to 24-inch intervals in garden beds (they make pretty edgings). Or, grow a single plant in a 16-inch-wide container. Water once a week or so (more in hot, windy weather) for the first year, then taper off to occasional irrigations (once a month during the warm season if leaves look droopy). Apply a granular 10-10-10 fertilizer once a year in spring when new growth begins.\n\n**How to Harvest** Pick leaves as needed.\n\n**Seedling Source** Mountain Valley Growers, www.mountainvalleygrowers.com.\n\n_Sage_\n\n### Swiss chard\n\nGrow this form of beet for its leaves and stalks rather than its roots. It's one of the easiest vegetables you can grow, and you can harvest leaves all summer (and, in mild climates, into fall and even spring, depending on when you plant). We grew both green-and-white chard and 'Bright Lights'\u2014with leaves ranging from green to burgundy and stalks in various shades of yellow, orange, pink, purple, and red.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and fertile, well-drained soil.\n\n**Days to Harvest** About 60 days from seed.\n\n**Planting and Care** Sow the big, tan, crinkly seeds \u00bd inch deep and 2 inches apart in spaded soil any time from spring to early summer. Gardeners in mild winter climates (like us) can plant it in the late summer to early fall for harvest starting in the late fall through winter. As seedlings appear, thin them to 12 inches apart. Keep the soil evenly moist. Feed with a 10-10-10 fertilizer after plants are established and again 6 weeks later.\n\n**How to Harvest** When the plants are 12 to 18 inches tall, begin cutting the outer leaves, keeping the core of the plant intact to continue growing.\n\n**Seed Sources** Nichols Garden Nursery, www.nicholsgardennursery.com; Renee's Garden, www.reneesgarden.com; and Territorial Seed International, www.territorialseed.com.\n\n_Swiss chard_\n\n### Thyme, French\n\nSee the Summer Garden.\n\n### Tomatoes\n\nAt this point in the year, our summer garden was still producing 'Sungold', 'Sweet Million', and 'Brandywine' tomatoes. See the Summer Garden.\n\n_\u2014Kathleen N. Brenzel_\n\nTHE \"IMPORTS\"\n\n**We went outside our garden for these local foods:** milk, whole and unhomogenized (for cream, butter and buttermilk, and for cheese); walnuts, Honey Crisp apples, whole-wheat flour ('Sonora' and 'Expresso')\n\n_Crushing and destemming Syrah grapes_\n\n# THE FALL PROJECTS\n\n##    \nHOW TO MAKE  \nWINE\n\nWine making is like following a very large, very slow recipe, with strange and fascinating moments along the way. At the end of the process, with luck (as Team Wine seems to have had), you'll have pretty decent stuff to proudly call your own.\n\nIf you can, pick your own grapes. We considered quitting our day jobs after our October 2007 experience of harvesting dusty, juicy Syrah grapes in Thomas Fogarty Winery's remote and gorgeous Fat Buck Ridge Vineyard in California's Santa Cruz Mountains.\n\nThe home wine-making journey will get under your skin and give you a huge appreciation for the quality in the bottles you buy. Just remember to keep a record of everything you do to your wine and to sanitize everything every step of the way. Then celebrate the chance to use that high-school chemistry.\n\n_Fogarty Winery's Fat Buck Ridge_\n\n###    \nSYRAH\n\nOurs is an inky, deep purple wine. Blueberries and blackberries mingle with leather, smoke, and bacon. To make the journey worthwhile, you should make at least four cases (twelve bottles per case); we made sixteen cases.\n\n#### WHAT TO USE\n\n**_Clipboard, pencil, and log sheet_** You need to record your wine's progress, additions you make (such as yeast), and any preventative or preservative measures you take. We downloaded a free \"log chart\" from _WineMaker_ magazine (www.winemakermag.com).\n\n**_Wine grapes_** To make four cases of wine, you need about 125 pounds of grapes. Make sure you can get your hands on the wine grapes before you buy or rent any equipment. By midsummer, look into harvesting grapes in early fall at a U-pick vineyard (try El Dorado County, California's www.edc-farmtrails.org and search for \"wine grapes\"). PickYourOwn.org (www.pickyourown.org) lets you search for U-pick farms near you, with grape growers posting when vines are ready to harvest.  \nYou could put dibs on grapes in summer for fall delivery by mail or special truck shipment (both methods are fairly expensive). But if you live near a grower with excess grapes, you can load up for less by cruising by with your own van or truck (this is primarily an option in California, Oregon, and Washington). At MoreGrapes! (www.moregrapes.com), growers on the West Coast and beyond list available grapes, including Syrah from about $1 per pound. And many wine-making association Web sites dedicate a page to \"grapes available\" (check out the El Dorado Wine Grape Growers Association's comprehensive site: www.eldoradograpes.com).  \nA good first stop is to ask about grape options at your local home wine-making shop. To find one, go to www.winemakermag.com and click \"Resource Guide\" and then \"Supplier Directory.\" Many home-brew beer shops have wine contacts, too. They will likely refer you to small local growers or to largely Web-based enterprises like F. Colavita & Son (www.cawinegrapes.com) that cater to home winemakers.\n\n**_Potassium metabisulfite_** The industry-standard chemical for equipment sterilization and protecting finished wine from spoiling. Buy it in powdered form, not Campden tablets (for which you have to take the extra step of crushing). We used \u00bd teaspoon per 5-gallon carboy (water cooler\u2013style glass jugs) of Syrah. We sprinkled some into each piece of equipment we needed to sterilize, then added some water, sloshed it around every inner surface, and rinsed liberally. We also mixed some with water to create our airlock solution and to sterilize bottles before filling and corking them. About $5 per \u00bd pound (you shouldn't need more than this, for everything) online or at a home wine-making store.\n\n**_Large plastic garbage can_** For stomping grapes with your feet, after which you'll have to pick through the must (the newly crushed grapes) to remove the stems. About $10 at a hardware store or home-improvement center. Or, use a hand-cranked **_crusher-destemmer_** (like a large trough with a rotating screw in the middle), which gives you relatively stem-free must. Rent this from a home wine-making store; buying one will cost at least $450.\n\n**_5-gallon food-grade plastic buckets_** For schlepping grapes, must, and wine and for sanitizing tubing. About $7 at a hardware store.\n\n**_Two 32-gallon food-grade plastic drums with lids_** For your must's first (primary) fermentation. About $70, including lid, at a home wine-making store. Or, you can use two **_large plastic garbage cans_** (if you bought one for crushing and destemming, just pick through the must to remove the stems, then add yeast to start fermentation). About $10 each at a hardware store or home-improvement center.\n\n**_Cheesecloth_** For keeping bugs out of your fermenter. About $4.50 for 2 square yards at a hardware or cookware store.\n\n**_Garden hose and sprayer_** For making quick work of cleaning equipment at the end of a messy day. About $30 at a hardware store or home-improvement center.\n\n**_Wine yeast_** For starting your fermentation to convert your grape-juice must to wine. We used a strain called ICV-D80. About $1.50 for an 8-gram packet online or at a home wine-making store; for most wines, you need 1 gram of yeast per 1 gallon of must.\n\n**_Wooden or stainless-steel wine-cap punch-down tool_** For punching down the cap of skins and seeds, which gives red wine its beautiful color and contributes flavor and tannins. Or, with some basic lumber and tools, you can make a wooden \"plonker\" (for project directions, visit www.winemakermag.com\/component\/resource\/article\/107-build-3-winemaking-projects). At least $80 for a stainless-steel model at home wine-making stores.\n\n**_Hydrometer_** For measuring the sugar level of your fermenting must. About $6 from www.morebeer.com.\n\n**_Hydrometer jar_** A plastic tube for holding the wine sample you're measuring with the hydrometer. Some hydrometers come with their own jars. About $5 online or at a home wine-making store.\n\n**_Floating thermometer_** For taking the temperature of your fermenting must. About $10 online, or at a home wine-making store.\n\n**_Malolactic bacteria_** For prompting a secondary fermentation. $15 to $20 for 2.5 grams (enough for 66 gallons of wine) online or at a home wine-making store.\n\n**_Bladder press_** For pressing your young wine off the skins and seeds. Rent this at a home wine-making store; buying one will set you back at least $1,500. Or, you can use a **_basket press_**. Again, rent this at a home wine-making store; buying one will run at least $275.\n\n**_5-gallon glass carboys_** Surrogate barrels\u2014buy one for every 5 gallons of wine you are making, plus one extra for the racking stage. From $20 to $30 at a home wine-making or home-brewing shops.\n\n**_Airlocks_** For keeping oxygen and bugs out of your wine while allowing carbon dioxide to bubble out. Buy one for each carboy. About $1.50 each online or at a home wine-making store.\n\n**_Rubber stoppers_** Aka bungs with small holes in the center, for sealing your carboys while accommodating the airlocks. About $1.50 each online or at a home wine-making store.\n\n**_Two 3- to 5-quart nonreactive mixing bowls_** For sterilizing stoppers, tubing, and corks. Stainless steel is ideal (don't use aluminum or copper). Borrow them from your kitchen, or buy them for as low as $10 each online or at a cookware store.\n\n**_Wine thief_** A glass tube for extracting wine from a carboy for tasting and testing. From $25 online or at a home wine-making store. We resorted to a **_plastic turkey baster_**. From $5 online or at a cookware store.\n\n**_Plastic funnel_** For pouring wine into carboys. Choose an asymmetrical one with a high side to avoid splash back. From $3.50 online or at a home wine-making or cookware store.\n\n**_6- to 8-foot lengths of food-grade vinyl tubing_** For siphoning wine. We used two tubes with a \u215c-inch interior diameter: one could be siphoning while the other soaked in sanitizer. About 30\u00a2 per foot online or at a home wine-making or plumbing-supply store.\n\n**_Sturdy worktable_** For elevating the full carboys when racking. From $75 at a home-improvement center.\n\n**_Oak chips or cubes_** For barrel flavor substitute. We used small cubes\u201426 grams per 5-gallon carboy of Syrah. $10 to $30 per pound; buy online or at a home wine-making store.\n\n**_Digital kitchen scale_** For weighing the oak chips. From $30 at a cookware store.\n\n**_Wine bottles_** Reuse empty wine bottles (you'll need to scrub off the original labels and sanitize the bottles) or buy new ones (sanitize these, too). Consider a Rh\u00f4ne-style bottle (with sloping shoulders) if you want your Syrah to look authentic. From $15 per dozen at a home wine-making store; you'll need 26 standard (750-milliliter) wine bottles for each 5-gallon carboy of wine you're making.\n\n**_2 bottle rinsers and 1 \"bottle tree\" drying rack_** For sanitizing the insides of the bottles. You just slip a rinsed wine bottle over the sprayer nozzle and pump it up and down on the nozzle a few times, then drain each bottle on the drying rack, which is shaped like a tall, spiky tree trunk. Each bottle rinser runs about $20, and a drying rack starts at about $40; both can be purchased at a home wine-making or home-brew store.\n\n**_Manual bottle filler_** For controlling the bottle-filling process. You attach the plastic rod with a spring-loaded tip to your plastic tubing. About $6 online or at a home wine-making or home-brew store.\n\n**_Corks_** Price depends on quality. Natural cork is divided into several grades. Flor corks are the finest grade (about $150 for 250 corks), but we decided to go with similarly top-quality 1\u00be-inch \"overrun\" corks left over from bottling runs at Napa wineries (we paid $19 per 100 corks at MoreWine in Los Altos, California; www.morewinemaking.com or 800\/600-0033). Buy corks online or at a home wine-making store.\n\n**_Corker_** Rent a \"floor corker\" at a home wine-making store, or buy time on a vacuum corker at a home wine-making or home-brew store. Hand corkers are available and cost less, but they limit your ability to move between bottling elements. Buying a floor corker at a home wine-making store will cost at least $85 and more along the lines of $850 for a really sturdy one (the $85 version should be fine).\n\n**_Labels_** You can use a design-graphics program like Adobe Illustrator, or you can work with your local home wine-making or home-brew store to create a label on their software. Conveniently, we had designers down the hall.\n\n#### HOW TO DO IT\n\nWine is a living, changing thing, and your timeline will vary based on environmental factors like temperature, starting sugar level, and yeast health. Here is the timeline we followed. Consult the resources listed in Helpful Information for more general guidance.\n\n##### OCTOBER 4, 2007\n\n**Harvested 500 pounds of Syrah grapes** We picked our grapes at Thomas Fogarty Winery's Fat Buck Ridge Vineyard in the San Francisco Bay Area's Santa Cruz Mountains. After hauling the grapes back to our office, we crushed them, both by foot in sanitized garbage cans and with a hand-cranked crusher-destemmer. Then we put the destemmed must (crushed grapes, skins, seeds, and juice) into two food-grade plastic drums, covered each with cheesecloth and drum lid, and allowed the must to cold-soak (to extract color and flavor) for 4 days.\n\n_Pushing grapes into the crusher-destemmer_\n\n_Crushing by foot_\n\n_Shin-deep in grapes_\n\n##### OCTOBER 8\n\n**Added yeast** Following the package directions, we added the yeast to start primary fermentation.\n\n##### OCTOBER 12\u201328\n\n**Punched down the \"cap\"** Two or three times a day, we used our punch-down tool to push the cap of skins and seeds that continually formed on our fermenting must back down into the juice. The cap was thick and radiated heat, and we had to stand on a chair to get enough leverage to punch through it for the first few strokes.\n\nEvery afternoon during this period, we took two measurements: The wine's temperature (with the floating thermometer), to make sure the wine was warm and fairly constant (it hovered around 78\u00b0F), and the wine's sugar level (a Brix scale reading with the hydrometer), to check that the yeast continued to eat up the sugar, converting it into alcohol.\n\n##### OCTOBER 22\n\n**Started malolactic fermentation** This secondary, bacterial fermentation\u2014ML for short\u2014converts harsh malic acids into softer lactic ones. It's as simple as sprinkling the powdery bacteria into the wine (following the package directions, of course).\n\n##### OCTOBER 29\n\n**Pressed** **the wine off its pomace** The pomace is the skins, seeds, and other solids that form the cap. We used the bladder press, catching the \"free-run\" wine (what naturally spilled through the slats of the press and out through the spigot with only gravity's assistance). This was followed by the \"press-run\" wine, which was coaxed off the pomace by inflating the bladder of the press with a garden hose to 15 psi\u2014pounds (of pressure) per square inch.\n\nAs the wine streamed from the press, we ran a bucket brigade from the spigot over to sanitized 5-gallon carboys, each topped with a plastic funnel. Then we outfitted each carboy with an airlock filled about halfway with \"meta\" solution (2\u00bc teaspoons potassium metabisulfite dissolved in 1 quart water; we made our meta solution once and stored it in a sterilized gin bottle) and stuck the airlock in a bung to create a seal on top of the carboy, keeping oxygen (the enemy of wine) and bugs (we don't like to share, and we didn't want to risk bacteria from their tiny legs) out of the wine while allowing carbon dioxide to bubble out.\n\n_Pressing the Syrah_\n\n##### NOVEMBER 2007\u2013APRIL 2008\n\n**Periodically checked airlocks** Every two weeks or so, we checked the airlocks (refilling them with new meta solution if wine had burbled into the lock or if the meta level was looking low) and tasted our wine. In mid-February, we gave some wine samples to Fogarty winemaker Michael Martella to test pH and total acidity (TA) to make sure things were on track. Our pH was 3.8 (a little high; Martella thought it would come down), and our TA was .64 (which Martella said was fine).\n\nEach time we pulled wine out of a carboy with our wine thief (okay, our turkey baster) to sample it, we \"topped off\" the headspace (the air between the wine level and the airlock) with more Syrah (because, as mentioned above, oxygen is the enemy of wine). The extra Syrah came from smaller glass jugs, also topped with airlocks, that we had set aside for this purpose.\n\n##### APRIL 29, 2008\n\n**Racked the wine** We siphoned our wine off the lees (the spent yeast and other sediment that drops out as fermentation ends) into fresh carboys. Here's how: Put a full carboy on top of your worktable and position an empty, sterilized carboy on the floor under it. Remove the airlock and set it upright in a sterilized container to save for the carboy you are about to fill up. Put one end of the sterilized vinyl tubing in the full carboy (don't let the tubing end get too close to the lees at the bottom of the carboy), then gently suck the open end of the tube until wine is flowing toward it. (Be prepared to quickly pinch the open end and stop the wine with your index finger.) Put this open end into the clean carboy and let gravity do the rest of the work for you. Keep pushing the tubing in the full carboy lower and lower toward the lees to keep the wine flowing, but don't let it dip into the lees. Ask a friend or two to help you out for this step.\n\nOnce the wine was racked, we added oak chips for body and rounded flavor: 26 grams of small, medium-toast oak cubes in each 5-gallon carboy.\n\nWe also added \u00bd teaspoon powdered potassium metabisulfite per 5-gallon carboy to protect our finished wine from spoilage by microbes. We filled the headspace with more Syrah, and then topped the new carboys with the meta-filled airocks. Finally, we moved them into a cool, temperature-controlled environment (our basement, which is a steady 56\u00b0F).\n\n##### LATE FALL 2008 (A YEAR AFTER WE STARTED)\n\n**Created labels** In anticipation of bottling, we got our label design ready and printed it (see it here).\n\n##### JANUARY 30, 2009\n\n**Bottled our Syrah** With a drain and a hose-rigged spigot nearby for easy cleaning and cleanup, we dragged out the worktable; stainless-steel bowls for sterilizing our siphon tubing, bottle filler, and corks; two bottle rinsers; and our \"bottle tree\" drying rack.\n\n**_Sterilized bottles_** We whipped up a batch of bottle wash (4\u00bd teaspoons potassium metabisulfite dissolved in 1 gallon water) and split this solution between our two bottle rinsers. We gave each bottle a rinse with bottle wash: two pumps on one spring-loaded bottle rinser to wash away any dust, followed by two pumps on our second rinser to complete the sterilization. Then we placed each bottle onto the tree for 10 to 15 minutes of drying.\n\n**_Siphoned wine into bottles_** Here's how we did it: Stick one end of vinyl tubing into a carboy (as close to the remaining sediment as you dare), then put the other end in your mouth. Start sipping, as you did for racking, keeping a hand near to pinch off the tubing. Grab your bottle filler, and gently but firmly slide the rod into the tubing. As long as you keep the rod end lower than the carboy that's up on the table, your siphon is ready whenever you are.\n\nTake a bottle off the tree, place it at your feet, and poke the bottle filler into the empty bottle. Depress its tip against the bottom of the bottle, and the rod will let wine flow in. Fill the bottle until it is approaching full, pausing to let it foam as needed. When the wine crests the top of the bottle neck, gently lift the rod out.\n\n**_Corked the bottles_** Even though they're natural, corks still need sterilizing before being put in contact with wine (which remains alive, even when bottled). Prep another sanitizing solution (for corks, use \u00bd teaspoon potassium metabisulfite dissolved in 1 gallon water) in one of your stainless-steel bowls. To keep the corks from bobbing up in the solution, nestle a smaller nonreactive bowl on top of the corks.\n\nAfter 20 minutes, they're ready to use. Leave them bathing until you need them; just set the bowl at the base of the floor corker for easy access.\n\nPlace a full bottle on the spring-loaded platform of the corker, position a sanitized cork in the jaws of the \"compression chamber,\" or iris, then brace the corker with your foot and use your hands to pull down the handle. In one fluid motion, the cork gets squeezed on four sides and a metal rod comes down to plunge the compressed cork into the bottle.\n\nOnce in a bottle, the cork expands to create a tight seal. Place the bottles upright (cork side up) for 24 to 48 hours, then flip them upside down in a case or store them horizontally, either in a wine rack or by tilting a full case of bottles on its side, so the wine stays in contact with the cork.\n\n##### A FEW DAYS LATER\n\n**Labeled our Syrah** It was just a matter of lining the label up straight while pressing the label onto a clean, dry bottle.\n\nBut don't start pulling corks and sharing your wine with friends immediately. Your living wine is adapting to its new life in a bottle and could be experiencing bottle shock. Give your wine a few weeks to settle into its smaller confines, then uncork away.\n\n###    \nCHARDONNAY\n\nOur Chardonnay has a touch of creaminess to it, but with the vibrant, juicy acidity of crisp Granny Smith apples and none of the caramel and toast you would get from new oak barrels.\n\nIn terms of home wine making, the biggest differences between white and red wine are that for white, the juice is pressed off the skins before you start fermentation, and the fermentation takes place right in the glass carboys. Since pressing white grapes takes special equipment, we started with juice, not grapes.\n\n#### WHAT TO USE\n\nTo make Chardonnay, follow the What to Use list for Syrah. If you are starting with pressed juice, you won't need these items from the Syrah list:\n\n**_Large plastic garbage can or crusher-destemmer_**\n\n**_Food-grade plastic drum with lid or large plastic garbage can_**\n\n**_Cheesecloth_**\n\n**_Punch-down tool_**\n\n**_Bladder press or basket press_**\n\nYou'll also need:\n\n**_Juice (or wine grapes)_** In midsummer, you can put dibs on pressed juice. We bought 20 gallons of freshly pressed Chardonnay\u2014enough to make just over 100 standard (750-milliliter) bottles of wine\u2014from Thomas Fogarty Winery.\n\n**_Oak chips or cubes_** We used small cubes, adding a small handful per 5-gallon carboy of Chardonnay (we oaked only half of our 20 gallons). See our Syrah guide for where to buy.\n\n**_Rubber stoppers (bungs) without holes_** For \"stirring\" the lees (rolling the carboys to add character and complexity). You need one for each carboy. About $1.25 each online or at a home wine-making store.\n\n**_Duct tape_** For securing the stoppers when rolling the carboys. About $4 at a home-improvement center.\n\n**_Thick cardboard or a thick old rug_** For rolling the carboys.\n\n**_Wine bottles_** Consider a Burgundy-style bottle (sloping shoulders and a relatively wide base) if you want your Chardonnay to look authentic. See our Syrah bottle-buying advice for more tips and how to calculate the number of bottles you'll need.\n\n#### HOW TO DO IT\n\nThe process of Chardonnay making is much the same as for Syrah. Check our step-by-step guide for Syrah for more details on any of the phases described.\n\n##### OCTOBER 4, 2007\n\n**Brought home our Chardonnay juice** We split the 20 gallons among four 5-gallon carboys. Then we started fermentation by adding yeast to each carboy. Finally, we outfitted the carboys with airlocks filled about halfway with meta solution.\n\n_Yeast slurry_\n\n_Adding the slurry to Chardonnay juice_\n\n_Fitting airlocks into carboys_\n\n##### OCTOBER 11\n\n**Added oak chips** We put them in half of our carboys, placing just a small handful in each one.\n\n##### OCTOBER 16\n\n**Took two measurements** We noted both the wine's temperature and its sugar level.\n\n##### OCTOBER 17\n\n**Started malolactic fermentation.**\n\n##### MID-OCTOBER 2007 TO MARCH 2008\n\n**Periodically tasted** We sipped our Chardonnay over the months to see how it was evolving. Also, in mid-February, we gave some wine samples to Fogarty winemaker Michael Martella to test pH and total acidity (TA) to make sure things were on track. The pH was 3.2 (low, which means our acidity is high, which is an excellent thing, we think, for a Chardonnay). The TA was .68 (great).\n\nEach time we pulled wine out of a carboy, we had to \"top off\" the vacant headspace with more Chardonnay. We opened bottles of other West Coast Chardonnays for this purpose. Or we could have added marbles to the carboy.\n\n##### MARCH 3, 2008\n\n**Stirred the lees** We swapped each carboy's airlock and stopper for a stopper without a hole, duct-taped it down, and rolled each carboy on a thick rug until all of the sediment that was lodged on the bottom had been mixed back up into the wine. Then we added \u2153 teaspoon powdered potassium metabisulfite (swirled in a little Chardonnay and slightly heated in a microwave to dissolve the powder) per 5-gallon carboy to protect our wine. Finally, we retopped each carboy with a meta-filled airlock.\n\n##### MARCH 27\n\n**Rolled the carboys** We took our Chardonnay out on the rug again and retopped it with meta-filled airlocks.\n\n##### APRIL 29\n\n**Ditto.**\n\n##### MAY 13\n\n**Rolled the carboys** One last time, the carboys took a spin. Then we moved them to our basement.\n\n##### JULY 8\n\n**Racked the Chardonnay** We siphoned the wine off its lees it into fresh carboys. Then we added \u00bc teaspoon powdered potassium metabisulfite per 5-gallon carboy, filled the headspace with Chardonnay, and topped the new carboys with meta-filled airlocks.\n\n##### OCTOBER 1, 2008\n\n**Bottled, corked, and labeled** After letting our Chardonnay rest for nearly three months, we bottled, corked, and labeled it. Beyond wanting to let the wine settle, we were waiting for cooler weather so as not to expose the wine to the heat.\n\n_Corking Chardonnay_\n\n#### HELPFUL INFORMATION\n\n##### WEB SITES\n\n\u2022 For general and specific advice, plus free charts and sulfite calculator, check out www.winemakermag.com.\n\n\u2022 For general advice, visit www.grapestompers.com.\n\n##### BOOKS AND OTHER PUBLICATIONS\n\n\u2022 _The Way to Make Wine: How to Craft Superb Table Wines at Home_ by Sheridan Warrick (University of California Press, 2006).\n\n\u2022 _The Wine Maker's Answer Book: Solutions to Every Problem, Answers to Every Question_ by Alison Crowe (Storey Publishing, 2007).\n\n\u2022 _WineMaker Beginner's Guide_ (Battenkill Communications, no date).\n\n\u2022 _WineMaker_ magazine (available at home wine-making shops; find subscription information and many articles on www.winemakermag.com).\n\n##### HOME WINE-MAKING SHOPS\n\n\u2022 Find a home wine-making or home-brew shop near you: go to www.winemakermag.com and click \"Resource Guide\" and then \"Supplier Directory.\"\n\n\u2022 Our favorite local shop, MoreWine in Los Altos, California, also has an online shop (great for yeast, malolactic bacteria, and most equipment and materials); www.morewinemaking.com or 800\/600-0033.\n\n\u2022 An excellent Web-based store for equipment, materials, and kits is E.C. Kraus, www.eckraus.com or 800\/353-1906.\n\n_\u2014Erika Ehmsen_\n\n##    \nHOW TO MAKE  \nVINEGAR\n\nDelicious, fancy vinegars are easy to find in the United States. Go to a well-stocked grocery store and you can get everything from French Banyuls to Spanish sherry to Italian balsamic.\n\nWhat is harder to find is good ordinary red-wine vinegar. Most of what is available commercially for a couple of bucks a bottle is thin and flavorless. Some of it is laboratory-produced acetic acid, diluted with water and dressed up with coloring. Slightly better, though only marginally, is vinegar made using a speeded-up fermentation process (anywhere from one to three days). Traditional red-wine vinegar, left to ferment naturally on its own, takes about seventy-five days and results in a much richer texture and flavor.\n\nThe good news is that \"slow vinegar\" is easy to make at home, tastes wonderful, and is cheap to produce (it feeds on leftover wine). We have two crocks going in our kitchen that yield a constant supply for salad dressings, sauces, and gifts.\n\n_Decanting aged vinegar_\n\n###    \nSYRAH VINEGAR\n\nBecause we were already making Syrah wine, we decided to divert some of it to making vinegar. The result was a deep purple-red vinegar, intensely fruity and sharp and fresh.\n\n#### WHAT TO USE\n\nAvoid aluminum or iron kitchen tools for making vinegar, because they can impart off flavors. We used plastic, glass, and wood.\n\n**_A notebook and a pencil_** It's easy to lose track of when and how much you fed your vinegar, unless you record the dates and amounts. This is most important when the vinegar is newly establishing itself.\n\n**_A good mother_** In the world of vinegar, a \"mother\" is a live starter, similar to a sourdough starter for bread. It is home to acetic acid\u2013producing bacteria of the _Acetobacter_ genus that convert wine to vinegar. The mother will form a not-unpleasant and actually quite fascinating thin, somewhat firm gelatinous layer on the surface of your vinegar crock. This is a sign that the bacteria are alive and well and doing their work.  \nYou can either get your mother from a vinegar-making friend, as we did (see How to Do It), or buy it from a vinegar-supply shop, which more often than not will also be selling wine and\/or beer supplies (typically about $12.50 per 8-ounce jar).\n\n**_Leftover red wine_** We used our own Syrah, but you can use any decent, fruity red wine. It's a great use for that half bottle you didn't finish at dinner.\n\n**_1- to 1\u00bd-gallon fermenting container_** The best fermenting containers allow for a wide surface area and have an open top, so that the bacteria have enough oxygen, and are enclosed to keep out light, which slows down the bacteria's progress. A 1-gallon glass iced-tea jar can work (keep it in a cardboard box), but Mason jars are too narrow. We had our best results with 5-liter Italian demijohns enclosed in mesh holders ($37.50 each from Oak Barrel Winecraft, Inc., www.oakbarrel.com) and with gorgeous 1-gallon clay crocks ($80.00 each, from Clay Coyote Pottery, www.claycoyote.com).\n\n**_A simple countertop thermometer_** _Acetobacter_ bacteria prefer the 70\u00b0 to 90\u00b0F range.\n\n**_1-gallon aging container_** New vinegar is very sharp, almost feisty. To let your vinegar mellow, age it for at least a month in a separate, sterilized, lidded container after straining and pasteurizing.  \nClay crocks produce a fine, soft vinegar and were our favorite aging containers. French oak crocks are pricey (6-liter crock, $160 from Oak Barrel Winecraft), but they impart a lovely mellow toasty flavor to the vinegar and look stunning.\n\n**_Cheesecloth_** It keeps out fruit flies and dust, yet allows oxygen to reach the bacteria. About $4.50 for 2 square yards at a hardware or cookware store.\n\n**_1- to 1\u00bd-foot length of plastic tubing_** This is what you will use to feed your vinegar. $1 per foot at a hardware store.\n\n**_Plastic funnel_** Make sure the funnel is narrow enough to fit securely into your tubing and bottles. From $3.50 online and at a cookware store.\n\n**_Large plastic colander_** sized to fit the top of the pot, below. From $6 at a cookware store.\n\n**_Coffee filters_** About $3.50 for 40 filters at a grocery store.\n\n**_8-quart stainless-steel heavy-bottomed pot_** for pasteurizing the vinegar. From $60 at a cookware store.\n\n**_Candy or deep-fry thermometer_** with bracket so you can clip it to the side of the pot. From about $6 online or at a cookware store.\n\n**_Storage-serving bottles and corks_** The Olive Oil Source, www.oliveoilsource.com, sells bottles by the case, in various sizes; 200-milliliter bottles with corks are about $19.50 for a case of 12.\n\n**_21-quart boiling-water canner with canning rack_** Handy for sterilizing your bottles and for pasteurizing the vinegar. From $16 online and at a cookware store.\n\n**_Jar lifter_** For gripping steaming, slippery bottles, draining them, and positioning them for filling. Use it for canning and jam making, too. About $9 at a cookware store.\n\n#### HOW TO DO IT\n\n**1. Find the mother** We got our mother for free, from cookbook author and vinegar maven Paula Wolfert. Paula was given hers several years ago by her friend Abra Bennett, a food writer from Bainbridge Island, Washington. She thinks it's at least forty years old.\n\nPaula cut 5 playing card\u2013size pieces from a mother fished out of one of her crocks, slipped each piece into a small glass jar, and fed it with just enough diluted red wine (1 cup wine and \u00bd cup water) for it to travel safely back to our offices. \"Start small,\" she advised us. \"Swamp it, and it'll be dead.\"\n\n_A piece of the mother in its traveling jar_\n\n**2. Start the mother** Pour each jarful of mother into a fermenting container and add more diluted wine: 2 cups wine to 1 cup water. Cover the open top of each container with a double layer of cheesecloth and roll a rubber band down around the rim to keep it in place (or screw on a jar ring). Put the containers in a warm place out of direct sunlight.\n\n_Covering the vinegar with cheesecloth and a jar ring_\n\n**3. First feedings: a set of 3** Once the bacterial conversion has begun, which will be about 1\u00bd weeks after you have started the mother, you will need to start feeding your vinegar. Add 2\u00bd cups Syrah to each container three times over a period of 1\u00bd weeks.\n\n_Feeding the vinegar_\n\n_How to feed your vinegar:_ Sometime into the first-feeding period, a mother will form on the surface of your vinegar. To avoid \"swamping\" it, slide one end of the plastic tubing underneath the edge of the mother, then fit the funnel into the other end and pour in the wine. Work on a surface that's easy to wipe clean.\n\nYour vinegar is ready when it smells and tastes like vinegar. It is possible to do a titration test to figure out just how acidic the mixture is, but this is unnecessary unless you're using the vinegar for pickling food (you will need 4 percent acidity for pickling); for details, see Fresh Pickled Beets. We dipped clean plastic spoons into our vinegar, took thoughtful sips, and if it tasted like vinegar\u2014tart, sharp, strong, delicious\u2014we either pasteurized, aged, and bottled it (steps 5, 6, and 7), or continued feeding it (step 4) to increase the volume. If it tasted more like wine than vinegar, we left it alone until it was ready.\n\n_Warning sign:_ If your vinegar ever starts to smell like furniture polish, throw it away. It has been contaminated and can't be saved. Always taste a bit of the wine before you feed it to your vinegar.\n\n**4. Maintenance feedings** Once the _Acetobacter_ bacteria have established themselves vigorously, add 1 to 2 cups of wine every few weeks or so. When the vinegar is at a vinegary moment (taste it to see), you can pasteurize and age it.\n\nEvery now and then, the mother will wear out and sink to the bottom, and a new mother will take its place. This doesn't harm your vinegar, but after a while the old mothers will start to absorb the vinegar in the crock. Every month or so, using clean hands or plastic or wooden salad tongs, gently push aside the nice firm top mother, fish out any settled mothers, and throw them away.\n\n**5. Pasteurize the vinegar** This step ensures that a mother won't grow in the bottle or, if you decide to age your vinegar, the aging vessel. However, you can keep a mother from growing if you store the vinegar in the refrigerator (the bacteria go dormant). To age vinegar, though, you have to pasteurize or the mother will form again.\n\nFill the canner with hot water up to the first ring from the bottom, insert the canning rack upside-down (handles down), and bring it to a boil, covered. Meanwhile, line the colander with a few coffee filters and place it over the 8-quart pot. With a plastic ladle, scoop the vinegar into the lined colander. Homemade vinegar is exhilaratingly strong, and because it will evaporate as you heat it, you may want to add from 1 to 3 cups water to the pot. Keep tasting until it reaches the strength you like.\n\nPosition a clean candy thermometer in the vinegar and clip it to the side of the pot. Ease the pot into the boiling water, turn the heat off, and heat the vinegar to 155\u00b0F; hold it there for 30 minutes. If it climbs above 155\u00b0F, lift the pot out and let it sit near the stove until the temperature drops to 155\u00b0F. If it drops below, turn the burner on to give it a boost. You can now let your vinegar age for a while (step 6) or you can bottle it (step 7).\n\n**6. Age the vinegar** Let the pasteurized vinegar cool, then pour it into the aging vessel. Store in a dark, quiet, cool (50\u00b0 to 75\u00b0F) place. Taste periodically to see how the flavor is developing. After a couple of weeks, you should start to notice the mellowing. During aging, solids fall to the bottom of the vessel, so the vinegar not only mellows but also becomes beautifully bright and clear.\n\nWhen you like what you taste, sterilize a batch of bottles and bottle your vinegar, bearing in mind that some aging will continue in the bottle. You can also keep topping up your aging vessel with newly pasteurized vinegar for as long as you like.\n\n**7. Bottle the vinegar** Wash the bottles, corks, a plastic ladle, and a plastic funnel in hot, soapy water, then rinse. To sterilize the bottles, immerse them in the canner, cover with water by one inch, bring to a boil, and boil for 10 minutes. Remove the bottles carefully with a jar lifter (or tongs) and tip out the hot water. Using the ladle and funnel, fill each bottle with hot pasteurized vinegar or room-temperature aged vinegar, leaving \u00bd-inch headspace. Stopper the bottles with the clean corks.\n\nA bottle of unpasteurized vinegar is a form of insurance for vinegar making. If something goes wrong with your current batch of vinegar, your unpasteurized vinegar can be used to start a new one. A bottle of this \"live\" vinegar is also a great gift for friends interested in developing their own stash of flavorful homemade vinegar.\n\n#### HELPFUL INFORMATION\n\n\u2022 _Homemade Vinegar: Make Your Own with Mother of Vinegar_ , by Patrick and Carole Watkins (A-Printing Publishing, 1995).\n\n\u2022 _Making Vinegar at Home_ , by Frank Romanowski, Mark F. Larrow, and Gail Canon; revised by Mark F. Larrow (Beer & Winemaking Supplies, Inc., 1994).\n\n\u2022 _Vinegar: The User-Friendly Standard Text Reference & Guide to Appreciating, Making, and Enjoying Vinegar_, by Lawrence J. Diggs (Quiet Storm Trading Co., 1989; iUniverse, 2003).\n\n##    \nHOW TO MAKE  \nCHEESE (PART II)\n\nAs our one-block project continued, we kept making cheeses using just milk, lemon juice, salt, and herbs, but we also learned to use cheese cultures (freeze-dried packets of microorganisms that give acidity, flavor, and texture) and rennet (enzymes that help coagulate milk). Most of the world's great cheeses\u2014all the soft-ripened, oozy beauties and the long-aged hard cheeses\u2014depend on cultures for their identities, and many need rennet to form curds. We never seemed to make exactly the same cheese twice, although they were similar. And once we started playing around with presses and brines, the chances for variation only multiplied. So far, we have made six cheeses, with more to follow, which we'll write about on <http:\/\/oneblockdiet.sunset.com\/team_cheese>.\n\nAt this point, we like the fact that our cheeses are one of a kind. Their mutability helps us understand why some of our favorite artisanal cheeses differ from time to time. It also puts us in awe of the discipline, knowledge, and skill required to make a consistently great cheese.\n\n#### BEFORE YOU START\n\nTwo basic rules apply to all our cheese making: sanitizing all your equipment and making sure your thermometer is accurate. For details, see Before You Start. As for equipment for the four cheeses that follow, most of what you'll need is available at a good grocery store, cookware store, or hardware store. (We haven't included ordinary cookware like saucepans, baking sheets, or measuring cups in the lists, assuming those would already be in your kitchen.) For specialized cheesemaking tools and ingredients, we turned to the Beverage People, in Santa Rosa, California (www.thebeveragepeople.com or 800\/544-1867), unless otherwise mentioned.\n\n_Cheesemaking supplies_\n\n###    \nRICOTTA\n\nMAKES 1\u00bc to 1\u00bd cups (3\u00bd cups if you use all milk)\n\nTIME about 1\u00bd hours\n\nRicotta, which means \"recooked\" in Italian, is essentially a thrifty way to squeeze more cheese out of what another cheese left behind (usually with some milk added for richness). Bellwether Farms, in Sonoma, California, is famous for its sweet, light, delicious ricotta, and cheese maker Liam Callahan showed us how to make it at home. \"It takes a little bit of practice,\" he says, but the results are worth it.\n\n#### WHAT TO USE\n\n**_Fresh whey_** We used leftover whey from making Fresh Chive Cheese and Feta. We have also used whey from Fromage Blanc, but its acidity causes the curds to form almost as soon as the milk heats. Our Gouda does not yield enough whey. Use the whey right away or chill for up to 1 day.\n\n**_Milk, sea salt, and lemons_** For more on these ingredients, see How to Make Cheese (Part I). You can also make this recipe using 1 gallon whole milk instead of the whey-milk combination. It won't technically be ricotta, but it will taste similar, just less delicate.\n\n**_21-quart boiling-water canner with canning rack_** Large and lightweight, an aluminum canner filled with hot water makes a great water bath for your milk pot. The water bath helps keep the temperature steady and prevents the milk pot from scorching. From $16 at www.amazon.com.\n\n**_8-quart heavy-bottomed stainless-steel pot, colander, cheesecloth_** See the What to Use list for Fresh Chive Cheese for more about these tools.\n\n**_Dairy thermometer_** Unlike a candy thermometer, it measures low temperatures. Get the kind with a bracket so you can clip it to the side of the pot. About $25.\n\n**_Stainless-steel perforated cheese ladle_** You can use a slotted spoon, but a cheese ladle's large, flat surface makes stirring the milk and curds more efficient. $7.\n\n**_1 ricotta mold_** (4\u00bd inches wide; about $9 each; product code CH87). A small, open-weave basket made of food-grade plastic, it gives the cheese a pretty shape. Or, substitute the basket from a small salad spinner (8 inches in diameter or smaller works best).\n\n**_2 or 3 cookie or biscuit cutters without handles_** These are used to elevate the mold to let the whey drain freely (from $2 each at a cookware store). Or use small empty cans with the tops and bottoms removed.\n\n#### HOW TO DO IT\n\n10 cups fresh whey\n\n6 cups whole milk, pasteurized or raw (or 1 gallon whole milk if not using whey)\n\n2 teaspoons fine sea salt\n\n3\u00bd tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice if using whey (or 4\u00bd tablespoons if using only milk), from 2 to 3 large lemons\n\n**1. Heat the milk** Put the canner on the stove and insert the canning rack upside down (handles down). Fill the canner with water to 1 inch below the top ring. Cover the canner and bring the water to a boil over high heat. Meanwhile, fill a sink with cold water. This will be your cool-down spot should you need it.\n\nUncover the canner and set the empty 8-quart pot on the upturned rack (it will float a little). Pour the whey, milk (or milk only), and salt into the pot and insert the tip of the thermometer into the whey mixture. With the cheese ladle, stir the mixture 20 times with a gentle surface-to-bottom circular motion to evenly distribute the heat.\n\nRe-cover the canner and heat the mixture over high heat, undisturbed, until it registers 192\u00b0 to 194\u00b0F (the water will be boiling) on the thermometer, 30 to 40 minutes. Adjust the heat if necessary to maintain the temperature. If the mixture starts to get too hot, immerse the pot in the water-filled sink.\n\n_Heating milk for ricotta_\n\n**2. Acidify the milk** Slowly pour the lemon juice over the hot milk while stirring it with the cheese ladle. (The acid coaxes the remaining proteins in the whey to come together.) Stir 20 times with a gentle surface-to-bottom circular motion. Small curds will begin to form (they may have already). Re-cover the canner and leave the mixture undisturbed over high heat for 25 minutes to allow the curds to finish forming. The temperature should stay between 192\u00b0 and 194\u00b0F; check occasionally and adjust the heat as needed. Meanwhile, line the mold with a double thickness of cheesecloth, trimmed to hang slightly over the rim. Set cookie cutters in the stainless-steel bowl.\n\n**3. Drain the curds** Lift the cheese pot out of the water bath and put it next to the sink. Hold the mold over the sink and gently ladle the curds and whey into the mold. Allow the mold to drain until the whey flow slows to a trickle. This usually happens within a couple of minutes. Smooth the cheese in the mold so it's level, then set the mold on top of the cookie cutters in the bowl.\n\nCover the bowl with plastic wrap and chill right away to preserve the ricotta's delicate sweetness. Let the curds drain until there are no visible pockets of liquid (curds should still be moist). This will take up to 30 minutes. Your ricotta is ready to eat. You can either invert the mold onto a plate, or just spoon the cheese out of the mold.\n\n_Draining ricotta curds_\n\n**4. Store the cheese** Wrap the mold airtight with plastic wrap. Or, if you haven't used a mold, transfer the cheese to an airtight container. It keeps, chilled, for up to 4 days.\n\n_PER \u00bc-CUP SERVING 108 cal., 66% (71 cal.) from fat; 7 g protein; 8.1 g fat (5.2 g sat.); 2 g carbo (0 g fiber); 52 mg sodium; 32 mg chol._\n\n###    \nFROMAGE BLANC\n\nMAKES about 4 cups cheese and 10 cups whey\n\nTIME about 20 minutes, plus 16 to 18 hours to culture and drain\n\nSmooth, creamy, and delicately tangy, fromage blanc is a lot more sophisticated than its French name\u2014\"white cheese\"\u2014lets on. It's very versatile in the kitchen, and we've used it in a number of recipes in this book.\n\nSue Conley, co-owner of Cowgirl Creamery, in Petaluma and Point Reyes Station, California, taught us the Cowgirl way to make fromage blanc. She prefers to start with raw milk and use a gentle pasteurizing method, rather than the more intensive one typical for store-bought pasteurized milk. \"The less aggressive method maintains the integrity of the milk and allows it to form a strong curd,\" she explained. \"It also allows the culture to more fully express the flavors inherent in the milk as it ripens.\" (If you would like to use raw milk and gently pasteurize it yourself, see here.) If the milk is homogenized, the fat globules are much smaller and are difficult to retain in the curd; they escape into the whey, compromising the flavor, texture, and yield of the cheese. You can make a fine fromage blanc with pasteurized milk, but avoid homogenized milk if possible.\n\nFor specialized cheesemaking tools and ingredients, we turned to the Beverage People, in Santa Rosa, California (www.thebeveragepeople.com or 800\/544-1867), unless otherwise mentioned.\n\n#### WHAT TO USE\n\n**_Milk and sea salt_** For more on these ingredients, see the What to Use list for Fresh Chive Cheese.\n\n**_Farmhouse culture_** **_(MA4001)_**. Freeze-dried microscopic bacteria (it looks a lot like the freeze-dried yeast used for baking) that, once revived in warm milk, give the cheese both its flavor and texture\u2014and acidify the milk so that curds develop properly. Fromage blanc may be made with other cultures, but the Beverage People carries this one, and we liked the results. $10 per packet; each packet can make at least 12 batches of fromage blanc. Store it in the freezer in a resealable plastic bag.\n\n**_Calcium chloride (optional)_** A type of salt added as a liquid brine, calcium chloride helps firm up the curds (particularly useful with most commercially pasteurized and homogenized milk, which has a weaker structure than raw milk). Use it if your fromage blanc is not as thick as you'd like. $6.50 for a 120-milliliter (about 4-ounce) bottle.\n\n**_Vegetarian rennet_** A lab-created version of the natural enzymes that coagulate milk, this rennet is fine for any young cheese, but can give a bitter flavor to aged cheeses. That's why some cheese makers prefer using animal rennet, a group of enzymes derived from the stomachs of calves, lambs, or sheep, for making aged cheeses. $10 for a 60-milliliter (about 2-ounce) squeeze bottle.\n\n**_Cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche_** This enhances the smoothness to the cheese and rounds out its flavor. See the recipe here.\n\n**_Dairy thermometer_** See the What to Use list for Fresh Chive Cheese.\n\n**_Stainless-steel perforated cheese ladle_** You can use a large slotted spoon you already have, but a cheese ladle has a large, flat surface that makes the stirring of the milk and curds more efficient. $7.\n\n**_Cheese bucket_** A 5-gallon, food-grade plastic bucket to capture whey. From about $7 at a housewares stores.\n\n#### HOW TO DO IT\n\n1 gallon whole milk, pasteurized or raw\n\n\u215b teaspoon farmhouse culture (MA4001)\n\n2 drops (0.2 milliliter) calcium chloride, if needed\n\n1 drop (0.1 milliliter) vegetarian rennet\n\n\u00bd cup cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche, homemade or store-bought\n\n\u00be to 1 teaspoon fine sea salt\n\n**1. Heat the milk** Pour the milk into the 8-quart pot and insert the tip of the dairy thermometer. Heat the milk over medium-high heat until it registers 85\u00b0F on the thermometer, stirring often with the cheese ladle to prevent scorching. This takes about 5 minutes.\n\n**2. Add the culture** Remove the pot from the heat and remove the thermometer. Sprinkle the culture as evenly as possible over the milk and let sit for 10 minutes. Using the ladle, stir the milk 20 times to incorporate the culture, using a gentle, surface-to-bottom circular motion.\n\n**3. Add the calcium chloride and rennet** Dilute the calcium chloride in 2 tablespoons cool water. Pour the calcium chloride mixture evenly all over the milk and, using the ladle, stir the milk for 1 minute to get it moving in a circular direction. Dilute the rennet in 2 tablespoons cool water, pour it into the still-moving milk, and stir gently a couple of times in the same direction. (Rennet is extremely sensitive to trace minerals found in water and to agitation\u2014so don't dilute it until you're ready to add it, and incorporate it very gently.) Stir once in the opposite direction to stop the movement of the milk. Cover the pot with a double layer of cheesecloth and let rest overnight on the counter (the temperature can be anywhere between 60\u00b0 and 85\u00b0F). The milk will ripen and set during this time, creating curds (your future cheese, full of proteins and enzymes) and whey.\n\n_Sprinkling fromage blanc culture_\n\n**4. Drain the curds** Line the colander with a double thickness of cheesecloth and set the lined colander over the cheese bucket. Ladle the curds out of the pot into the colander. Drain the curds, scooping and turning them with a soup spoon every hour or so to help them dry evenly, until the mixture resembles thick sour cream. This will take 6 to 8 hours. The whey will drain into the bucket throughout this period. If you'd like to use it for making Ricotta, periodically transfer it to a bowl, cover, and refrigerate. Use the whey within a day.\n\n_Draining fromage blanc curds_\n\n**5. Add the cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche and salt** When the cheese is ready, turn it into the large bowl and stir in the cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche and the salt to taste. The cheese is now ready to eat. It will keep in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up to 1 week.\n\n_Adding cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche and salt_\n\n_PER OUNCE (ABOUT 2 TABLESPOONS) 45 cal., 60% (27 cal.) from fat; 2 g protein; 3 g fat (2 g sat.); 2 g carbo (0 g fiber); 40 mg sodium; 15 mg chol._\n\n###    \nFETA\n\nMAKES 2 small (4\u00bd-inch) wheels (about 1\u00bd pounds total)\n\nTIME about 6 hours, plus overnight to drain, at least 3 hours to brine, and at least 1 day to dry\n\nTangy, crumbly feta can be made many different ways. We've based our method on one developed by Margaret Morris, a well-known Canadian cheese maker and owner of Glengarry Cheesemaking and Dairy Supply, who documented it on her DVD _Home Cheesemaking with Margaret Morris_ (see Helpful Information, for details). This recipe demonstrates the amazing ability of milk to maintain a stable low temperature. Once you heat it up to 85\u00b0F, it's likely to stay there for several hours.\n\nFor specialized cheesemaking tools and ingredients, we turned to the Beverage People, in Santa Rosa, California (www.thebeveragepeople.com or 800\/544-1867), unless otherwise mentioned.\n\n#### WHAT TO USE\n\n**_Milk and sea salt_** For more on these ingredients, see the What to Use list for Fresh Chive Cheese.\n\n**_Feta cheese culture (ChoozitMT1)_** This mixture of four different freeze-dried microscopic bacteria (it looks a lot like the freeze-dried yeast used for baking) is what gives the cheese both its flavor and texture; it also acidifies the milk so that curds develop properly. $13 per packet; each packet can culture about 6 gallons of milk, or 6 batches of cheese. Store it in the freezer in a resealable plastic bag.\n\n**_Lipase powder_** One of the enzymes found in a calf's stomach, lipase breaks down the fatty acids in the milk into pleasingly tangy compounds. It makes cow's milk taste more like sheep's or goat's milk, the more traditional milks for making feta. $11 for 26 grams (just under 1 ounce).\n\n**_Calcium chloride and vegetarian rennet_** For more on these ingredients, see the What to Use list for Fromage Blanc.\n\n**_21-quart boiling-water canner with canning rack, dairy thermometer, 2 ricotta molds_** See the What to Use list for Ricotta. You can also use a small salad spinner insert (see photos) if you don't have the molds.\n\n**_8-quart heavy-bottomed stainless-steel pot, colander, cheesecloth_** For more on these, see the What to Use list for Fresh Chive Cheese.\n\n**_Stainless-steel perforated cheese ladle_** See the What to Use list for Fromage Blanc.\n\n**_Wooden spoon with a round, narrow handle_**\n\n**_Thin metal spatula (at least 8 inches long)_**\n\n**_Cheese bucket_** A 5-gallon, food-grade plastic bucket to capture the whey. From about $7 at a houseware store.\n\n#### HOW TO DO IT\n\n1 gallon whole milk, pasteurized or raw\n\n\u00bc teaspoon feta cheese culture (ChoozitMT1)\n\n\u00bc teaspoon lipase powder\n\n\u00be teaspoon calcium chloride\n\n\u00bc teaspoon vegetarian rennet\n\n\u00bd cup fine sea salt\n\n1\u00bd teaspoons freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n**1. Heat the milk** Put the canner on the stove and insert the canning rack upside down (handles down). Fill the canner with water up to the first ring from the bottom. Bring the water to a boil, covered, over high heat. Meanwhile, fill a sink with cold water. This will be your cool-down spot should you need it.\n\nTurn off the heat, uncover the canner, and set the empty 8-quart pot on the upturned rack (it may float a little). Pour the milk into the pot and insert the tip of the thermometer into the milk. Stir the milk with the cheese ladle 20 times in a gentle surface-to-bottom circular motion until it registers 85\u00baF. This will take only a couple of minutes.\n\nMake sure the milk stays between 85\u00b0 and 88\u00b0F for the duration of the cheese making. If it starts to climb above 86\u00b0F, lift the pot from the canner and set it in the sink of cold water until the temperature returns to 85\u00b0F; then return the pot to the water bath. If the temperature of the milk sinks, set the canner with the milk pot over medium-high heat, stirring gently every minute or so, until the milk once again registers 85\u00b0F.\n\n**2. Add the culture** Measure the feta culture into a measuring cup, add a big spoonful of warm milk from the pot, and stir to dissolve. Pour the mixture into the milk pot and, using the cheese ladle, stir 20 times with a gentle surface-to-bottom circular motion. Cover the canner and let the milk sit for 45 minutes to ripen.\n\n**3. Add the lipase, calcium chloride, and rennet** Put the lipase in a measuring cup, add a big spoonful of warm milk from the pot, and stir to dissolve. Pour the mixture into the milk and, using the ladle, stir 20 times with a gentle surface-to-bottom circular motion. Put \u00bd teaspoon of the calcium chloride in the measuring cup, add \u00bc cup cool water, and stir to dissolve. Add the mixture to the milk the same way you added the lipase mixture. Put the rennet in the measuring cup, add \u00bc cup cool water, stir to dissolve, and add to the milk the same way. Cover the canner and let the milk sit for 1\u00bd hours to set. Check every now and then to be sure the temperature stays at 85\u00b0F.\n\n**4. Check the curd set** Resting your hand on the edge of the pot, insert the tip of the wooden spoon handle at a 45\u00b0 angle into the middle of the pot and slowly lift it straight up. If the curd is ready, it will break cleanly over the rising handle. If it leaves lots of soft, milky residue on the handle, it is not. Re-cover, let rest for another 30 minutes, and check again. Repeat once more if the curds still haven't set. (If they are _still_ too soft, the milk may be weak or not properly acidified; or possibly the culture, lipase, or rennet is too old; or the temperature wasn't right. Drain the curds, add salt, and eat them like cottage cheese instead.)\n\n**5. Cut the curds** With the spatula, rapidly cut the curd into 1-inch slices, cutting all the way to the bottom of the pot. Then cut the curd again, perpendicular to the first direction, to create 1-inch cubes. Now slash the cubes on a diagonal, again spacing the cuts about 1 inch apart. The curds should look like soft tofu.\n\nLet the curds sit for 1 hour, covered, stirring every 10 minutes with the cheese ladle to break up large chunks (the curds should look like rough cottage cheese). Be sure the curds' temperature is still 85\u00b0F.\n\n**6. Drain the curds** Lift the stockpot from the canner and set it on the counter. Remove the thermometer. Line the colander with a double thickness of cheesecloth and set the lined colander over the cheese bucket. Drain the sink of water and put the bucket-colander setup in the empty sink. Put 1 mold in the lined colander and carefully ladle curds into the mold, filling it about halfway. When the mold is filled, transfer it to the rack set inside the baking sheet and fill the second mold. Even out the curds between the molds.\n\nEmpty the whey from the bucket (or save it for making ricotta cheese: put it in an airtight container, chill, and use within a day.) Let the cheeses drain for 30 minutes, then invert them into your clean hands and ease them back into the molds so that their bottoms are now facing up. Over the next 2 hours, invert them twice more; then let them drain overnight at room temperature, loosely covered with plastic wrap.\n\n_Feta\u2014our first attempts, using a salad spinner_\n\n**7. Brine the cheese** Meanwhile, in a saucepan, bring 4 cups water and \u2153 cup salt to a boil, stirring until the salt dissolves. Remove from the heat and let cool to room temperature. Stir in the remaining \u00bc teaspoon calcium chloride and the lemon juice to create a brine.\n\nUnmold the cheeses onto a clean work surface and cut into quarters. Put into a glass or ceramic bowl and pour in the brine. Let the cheeses pieces float in the brine, covered with plastic wrap and chilled, 1\u00bd hours. Turn the cheeses over and cure for 1\u00bd hours longer.\n\n**8. Dry the cheese** Transfer the cheese pieces to the cooling rack in the baking pan. Chill, turning them a couple of times a day, until their surfaces are dry and hard, for at least 1 day and up to 3. The feta is ready to eat.\n\n**9. Store the cheese** Make a storage brine with remaining 2\u00bd tablespoons sea salt dissolved in 4 cups water. Put the cheeses in an airtight container, pour in brine, and store, chilled, for up to 3 months. Whenever the brine starts forming a cloud on the surface, replace it with a fresh batch of brine. If you find the cheese too salty, soak it in cold water for 15 minutes before eating.\n\n_PER 2-OUNCE SERVING (about \u00bc cup crumbled) 150 cal., 73% (109 cal.) from fat; 8 g protein; 12 g fat (8.5 g sat.); 2 g carbo (0 g fiber); 632 mg sodium; 50 mg chol._\n\n###    \nGOUDA\n\nMAKES one 2-pound wheel\n\nTIME about 5 hours to set, cut, and wash the cheese; 6 to 8 hours to press; 3 to 4 days to dry; 4 hours to coat; and about 30 minutes to wax, plus between 2 and 6 months to age\n\nMild and creamy, Gouda gave us the \"melting cheese\" we needed for a number of different dishes in this book. As we did for our feta, we've based our method on one developed by Canadian cheese maker Margaret Morris, who calmly and cheerily demonstrates it on her _Home Cheesemaking with Margaret Morris_ DVD (see Helpful Information).\n\nFor specialized cheesemaking tools and ingredients, we turned to the Beverage People, in Santa Rosa, California (www.thebeveragepeople.com or 800\/544-1867), unless otherwise mentioned.\n\n#### WHAT TO USE\n\n**_Milk and sea salt_** For more on these ingredients, see the What to Use list for Fresh Chive Cheese.\n\n**_Annatto_** (sometimes called \"butter color\") A natural dye often used to color butter, annatto is made from the orange-red (achiote) seed. About $10 for 60 milliliters (about 2 ounces).\n\n**_Mesophilic type III culture_** A mixture of two strains of freeze-dried microscopic bacteria (it looks like the freeze-dried yeast for baking) that help create flavor and texture; it also acidifies the cheese so that curds develop properly. $11 for 10 grams, enough for 8 batches of cheese. Store in the freezer in a resealable plastic bag.\n\n**_Calcium chloride and vegetarian rennet_** For more on these ingredients, see the What to Use list for Fromage Blanc.\n\n**_21-quart boiling-water canner with canning rack, dairy thermometer, cheese bucket_** See the What to Use list for Ricotta.\n\n**_10-quart heavy-bottomed stockpot_** For setting the curd. About $60 at IKEA.\n\n**_Colander, cheesecloth, cheese ladle_** For more on these, see the What to Use list for Fresh Chive Cheese.\n\n**_Wooden spoon_** **_with long, round, narrow handle_**\n\n**_Stainless-steel wire whip_** The whip, designed specifically for cheese making, is 20 inches long and is sturdy enough to cut curds evenly. $8.25 from Hoegger Supply Company (www.hoeggergoatsupply.com or 800\/221-4628). A large standard wire whisk (not a balloon whisk) will also work, but not quite as well.\n\n**_2-pound cheese press_** Made of solid hardwood, it comes with a 1-pound press as part of the Hoegger's Deluxe Two Hoop Cheese Press. About $90 from Hoegger Supply Company (above). We used the 2-pound press instead of a pricier, single Gouda mold (the 1-kilogram Dutch Kadova mold, $82, from Glengarry Cheesemaking and Dairy Supply, www.glengarrycheesemaking.on.ca). The Hoegger mold works well, but produces a Gouda with sharp edges rather than the classic, round-shouldered shape.\n\n**_Cheese-press pressure scale_** This handy tool tells you how much pressure you're putting on the cheese. About $40 from Hoegger Supply Company (above).\n\n**_Cheese draining\/ripening mat_** A nylon grid that allows air to circulate underneath the cheese as it dries. $3.\n\n**_Cheese coating (cream wax)_** A liquid wax coating that you apply to your new cheese with a pastry brush; it quickly sets into a flexible rind that keeps the cheese moist and helps prevent mold. $19 for a 500-gram (17\u00bd-ounce) jar.\n\n**_New pastry brush_**\n\n**_Red cheese wax_** This paraffin-based wax is melted and used for dipping your new cheese into after you have sealed it with cheese coating (or, use your own beeswax, as we did; see above). About $6 per 1-pound block.\n\n**_Small deep saucepan_** At least 4 inches deep, for melting wax, and wide enough to dip the finished cheese.\n\n#### HOW TO DO IT\n\n2 gallons whole milk, pasteurized or raw\n\n2 drops annatto\n\n\u00bc teaspoon mesophilic type III culture\n\n\u00bd teaspoon calcium chloride\n\n\u00be teaspoon vegetarian rennet\n\n\u00bd cup fine sea salt\n\n**1. Heat the milk** Put the canner on the stove and insert the canning rack upside down (handles down). Fill the canner with water up to the first ring from the bottom. Bring the water to a boil, covered, over high heat. Meanwhile, fill a sink with cold water. This will be your cool-down spot should you need it.\n\nRemove the canner from the heat and set the stockpot on the upturned rack inside it. The water should come 2\u00bd inches up the sides of the stockpot; add more hot water as needed. (Some stockpots have handles that rest on the edge of the canner, preventing the pot from sitting fully on the rack.) Pour the milk into the pot and insert the tip of the thermometer into the milk. Stir the milk with the cheese ladle 20 times in a gentle surface-to-bottom circular motion to distribute the heat evenly. Watch for the thermometer to register 85\u00baF; this will take only a couple of minutes.\n\nThe milk should be held at about 85\u00baF for the duration of the cheese making. If it starts to climb above 86\u00b0F, lift the pot from the canner and set it in the sink of cold water until the temperature returns to 85\u00b0F; then return the pot to the water bath. If the temperature of the milk sinks, briefly set the canner with the milk pot over low heat until the milk again registers 85\u00b0F.\n\n**2. Add the annatto and culture** Add the annatto to \u00bc cup cool water and stir with a soup spoon to dissolve. Pour the mixture into the milk and, using the ladle, stir 20 times with a gentle surface-to-bottom circular motion. Immediately sprinkle the culture as evenly as possible over the milk and let rest for 10 minutes.\n\n**3. Add the calcium chloride and rennet** Place the calcium chloride in a measuring cup, add \u00bc cup cool water, and stir to dissolve. Pour the mixture into the milk and, using the ladle, stir 20 times in the same way as before. Place the rennet in a measuring cup, add \u00bc cup cool water, and stir to dissolve. Stir the mixture into the milk the same way you did the calcium chloride. Cover the canner and let the milk sit for 1 hour to set. Check the temperature occasionally to make sure it remains at 85\u00b0 F and correct if needed as described in step 1.\n\n**4. Check the curd set** Resting your hand on the edge of the pot, insert the tip of the wooden spoon handle at a 45\u00b0 angle into the middle of the pot and slowly lift it straight up. If the curd is ready, it will break cleanly over the rising handle. If it leaves lots of soft, milky residue on the handle, it is not. Re-cover, let rest for another 30 minutes, and check again. Repeat once more if the curds still haven't set. (If they are _still_ too soft, the milk may be weak or not properly acidified; or possibly the culture, lipase, or rennet is too old; or the temperature wasn't right. Drain the curds, add salt, and eat them like cottage cheese instead.)\n\n**5. Cut the curds** Drag the wire whip rapidly but evenly through the entire mass of curd once, breaking it into roughly \u00bd-inch bits. Repeat the motion, this time dragging perpendicular to the first direction. Then drag the whip through the curd on a diagonal.\n\nUsing the ladle, stir the curd for 5 to 10 minutes, using surface-to-bottom strokes in a circular motion. Let the curds settle into the whey for 5 minutes. Meanwhile, start heating 7 cups of water to 175\u00b0F in a saucepan.\n\n**6. Wash the curds** Lift the stockpot from the canner and set it on a work surface. Remove the thermometer. Line the colander with a double thickness of cheesecloth and set the lined colander over the cheese bucket. Drain the sink of water and put the bucket-colander setup in the empty sink.\n\nScoop out all the curds into the lined colander and let drain until the whey has almost stopped dripping. Pour the whey in to a large stainless-steel bowl. Return two-thirds of the whey and all of the curds to the pot.\n\nMeasure 3 cups of the 175\u00b0F water (you may need to heat the water a bit) and add to the curds and whey. Scoop the ladle down one side of the pot and lift the curds, jiggling the ladle to separate them. Using a surface-to-bottom motion, keep lifting and jiggling the curds until they begin to shrink, 10 to 15 minutes. Let the curds settle to the bottom of the pot, about 10 minutes.\n\n**7. Wash the curds a second time** Scoop out the whey down to the level of the curds and pour into the colander. Return any curds in the colander to the pot and discard the whey. Add enough of the 175\u00b0F water (2 to 3 cups) to the curds to heat them to 100\u00b0F, and stir and shake the curds with the ladle as before for about 10 minutes. Let the curds settle for another 10 minutes.\n\nScoop up a spoonful of the curds and squeeze them gently. If they're springy and moist, they're ready to be pressed. If they feel soft, let them sit in the hot water for several more minutes. When the curds are ready, pour them into the colander and let drain for 5 minutes.\n\n**8. Press the cheese** Arrange a double thickness of cheesecloth on the base of the press and place the 2-pound hoop on the base (or set a 2-pound Gouda mold into the press). Set the press in a rimmed baking pan. Scoop the curds into the press, packing them down as evenly as possible. Cover the curds with another double thickness of cheesecloth and set the follower (the inset top) of the mold over the curds. Screw down the wing nuts on either side of the hoop simultaneously to distribute the pressure evenly. Screw in the central pressure-gauge screw and tighten to 35 pounds of pressure.\n\nLeave the cheese in the press for 6 hours, checking the pressure every couple of hours and retightening the pressure-gauge screw as needed to register 35 pounds pressure. After 3 hours, turn the cheese over in the mold.\n\n**9. Brine the cheese** Meanwhile, in a medium saucepan, bring 4 cups water and the salt to a boil over high heat, stirring until the salt is mostly dissolved. Let the brine cool to room temperature, then slip the cheese out of the mold and into the brine. Cover and brine the cheese in the refrigerator for 12 hours.\n\n**10. Dry the cheese** Put the draining mat on a cake cooling rack and set both on the baking sheet. Remove the cheese from the brine, set it on the on draining mat, and let the cheese air-dry at room temperature, flipping it every several hours, until dry to the touch, 3 to 4 days.\n\n**11. Coat the cheese** Using the new pastry brush, paint the top and sides of the cheese with the cream wax. Let the wax dry completely, about 1 hour. Turn the cheese over, paint the bottom, and let dry completely, about 1 hour. Coat the cheese again the same way and let dry completely.\n\n_Applying cream wax to Gouda_\n\n**12. Wax the cheese** Line the small deep saucepan with heavy-duty foil. Put 1 pound cheese wax in the pan. Fill the roasting pan halfway with water and bring to a boil over medium-high heat. As it's heating, set the pan of wax in the roasting pan to melt. When the wax has melted, dip the cheese sideways into the wax to coat as completely as possible. Lift out, let harden (this takes only a couple of seconds), then dip the other side. Repeat at least twice, or until you have nice coverage. Set the cheese on the cooling rack (remove the mat first) to harden completely.\n\n**13. Age (ripen) the cheese** Ripen the cheese at 50\u00ba to 55\u00b0F and about 75 percent humidity for at least 2 months and up to 6 months. Make sure the area is well ventilated. You can repurpose an old refrigerator for greater control when ripening cheese. See Our Little Cheese Cave, opposite, for directions. The longer you ripen the cheese, the stronger in flavor and drier in texture it will be.\n\nOUR LITTLE CHEESE CAVE\n\nAlthough it would be very romantic if we had a cool, stone-lined cave dug into a mountain for aging cheeses, or even a modern cheese maker's walk-in cooler \"cave,\" our cheese cave is cheap and humble: a dorm fridge with its thermostat rejiggered to allow temperatures above 40\u00b0F. The living bacteria in cheeses are what ripen it, and they shut down when the temperature is too low. On the other hand, if the temperature shoots high, as room temperatures can, the cheeses may spoil; that's why they need to age in an atmosphere that can be controlled.\n\nTo override the fridge's normal temperature settings, we bought a Controller external thermostat (from Williams Brewing, www.williamsbrewing.com, about $60). It permits a range of temperatures from 37\u00b0 to 80\u00b0F, adjustable with a knob, and is easy to install. We also put in a tiny electric desk fan (from about $9 at hardware stores) for air circulation\u2014its cord snakes out through the fridge's door seal and into a nearby plug\u2014and shallow pans of water, for humidity. Lastly, we bought a combination thermometer and hygrometer (from about $9 online or at hardware stores), and set it next to our cheese so we could monitor the temperature and humidity.\n\n_PER 2-OUNCE SERVING 201 cal., 70% (140 cal.) from fat; 14 g protein; 15 g fat (9 g sat.); 1 g carbo (0 g fiber); 464 mg sodium; 64 mg chol._\n\n#### HELPFUL INFORMATION\n\nFor information on web sites, cheese-making supplies, and books and DVDs.\n\n_\u2014Margo True and Elaine Johnson_\n\n##    \nHOW TO GROW  \nMUSHROOMS\n\nWe took both the fast route, raising mushrooms from logs that you purchase as kits, and the slow, planting a morel patch in our garden. The kits are as easy as growing a houseplant. The process is fun and encourages the mad scientist in you as you watch the logs that you purchase as kits sprout weird, Dr. Seuss-like fungi. Home-cultivated mushrooms have a delicious, mild flavor and tender texture, and you can experiment with several varieties.\n\nMorels, on the other hand, are a long-term endeavor, with no guarantees that you will reap the rewards the first year (we are still waiting). But what rewards when they do come! Few treats compare with a panful of fragrant, earthy morels saut\u00e9ed in butter.\n\n###    \nSHIITAKE, OYSTER, AND POM POM BLANC MUSHROOMS (grown from a kit)\n\n_Shiitake mushrooms_\n\n_Oyster mushrooms_\n\n_Pom pom mushroom_\n\n#### WHAT TO USE\n\n**_Log kits_** Mushrooms are the fruit of a fungus whose body is the mycelium, a net of threadlike fibers. In a mushroom-log kit, the mycelium is distributed throughout a growing medium, such as sawdust mixed with rice bran. The log looks like a loaf of bread covered with a fine, soft mold. As the mushrooms grow, they sprout from the log. Although the kits come with instructions, they are fairly general, and we added a lot of extra notes based on our experiences.  \nFrom Far West Fungi (www.farwestfungi.com), we bought a shiitake minifarm kit ($19.50) and a tree oyster minifarm kit ($19.50). From Gourmet Mushrooms and Mushroom Products (www.gmushrooms.com), we purchased a shiitake kit ($20.00), plus kits for pom pom blanc mushrooms ($19.00) and brown oyster mushrooms ($17.00). Each kit comes with plastic bags, an important part of the mushroom-growing environment. The kits from Gourmet Mushrooms also include a sponge for the log to rest on, which allows the log to take up the moisture it needs without sitting in a pool of water.\n\n**_Extra materials_** Depending on the brand and type of kit, you may also need a spray bottle and a deep plate large enough to hold each log with a little water.\n\n#### HOW TO DO IT\n\n**1. Prepare the log's environment** For Far West Fungi kits, untie the twist tie and retie it at the top of the bag. Cut 10 to 20 (see package directions) small X-shaped holes in the upper part of the bag to allow the mushroom culture to breathe without drying out.\n\nFor Gourmet Mushrooms kits, leave the plastic covering on the logs. If shiitake logs have not started to sprout, they may need a pregrowing rest period of 7 to 12 days (see kit directions); ours didn't need this. Then rinse the log if the kit directs you to (it depends on the mushroom).\n\nNext, cut two X-shaped openings through the plastic covering over the oyster or pom pom blanc mushrooms and into the log. Each opening should be about 1 inch deep and on either side of the log near the top. Gouge a 1-inch-wide, 1-inch-deep hole in the top of the shiitake log with a table knife. Set the log on its sponge in a large, rimmed plate and add cool water to a depth of \u00bd to \u00be inch. Don't let standing water touch the log. Open the perforated plastic sleeve (or for shiitakes, inflate the bag by blowing into it), and put the sleeve over the log so the bottom of it rests inside the water dish. The top of the sleeve should be closed.\n\n**2. Find a good spot** Set the log indoors at room temperature or a bit cooler, away from the kitchen, which can foster mold growth (we learned this the hard way), and away from direct light and drafts.\n\n**3. Encourage growth** For Far West Fungi kits, lightly mist the mushrooms once or twice a day, but not enough to cause water to collect in the bottom of the bag. Open the bag a little as needed so the environment stays humid but not wet. Within a week or two, you'll begin to see tiny knobs, or \"pins\"\u2014the start of mushrooms\u2014on the log. When these are about 1 inch long or \u00bd inch across, remove the twist tie and open the bag slightly at the top to make room for the mushrooms to grow. Otherwise, you'll get strange, strangulated shapes.\n\nFor Gourmet Mushrooms kits _,_ add water as needed to the plate to keep the water about \u00bd inch deep. Every day until you see growth (2 to 21 days for pom poms or oysters, 5 to 9 days for shiitakes), open up the top of the plastic sleeve and either mist or drizzle a little water over the logs (for pom poms or oysters) or pour water into the hole in the top (for shiitakes).\n\n**4. Let the mushrooms mature** A few days after you see growth starting, the mushrooms will reach full size. As they grow, open up the sleeves a bit as needed to give them room, and continue to add moisture as before.\n\n**5. Harvest** Shiitakes are ready when the white cottony veil beneath the cap has fully broken away from the stem but the caps still curl under slightly. Harvest oyster mushrooms when the caps have grown but before their outer edges begin to curl up. Pom poms are ready when the heads have formed and are still firm and white. Cut mushrooms at the base with a sharp knife. Cook them, or enclose them in paper bags (not plastic ones, which can trap moisture and make the mushrooms slimy), and refrigerate. You may get anywhere from 8 ounces to 2 pounds mushrooms per log.\n\n_First fruits: shiitake and oyster mushrooms_\n\n**6. Cook** If consumed raw, these mushroom varieties can make some people ill.\n\n**7. Encourage additional mushrooms** You should get three or four more \"flushes\" of mushrooms that are a week to a month apart before the mycelium runs out of food. To encourage additional growth, clean off any remaining mushroom stems from the log with a knife. Wrap the log in paper towels (for Gourmet Mushrooms kits) or a plastic bag (for Far West Fungi kits) and let rest for about a week at room temperature for oysters and pom poms, 2 to 3 weeks for shiitakes. Then repeat the steps to grow more mushrooms, using a clean plastic bag. We had only sporadic production from our logs after the first harvest.\n\n**8. Deal with moldy logs** We had a little mold during our mushrooms' initial growth period, and simply scraped it off with a table knife, decreased the water, and opened the bags to let in more air. Between harvests, we got a lot of mold on a couple of the logs; we had some luck scraping it off with the knife, then cleaning the area with rubbing alcohol.\n\n**9. Recycle the logs** Once they have stopped producing, add them to your compost pile.\n\n###    \nMOREL MUSHROOMS (grown from spawn)\n\nIn the wild, morels grow in a number of different colors. We are raising common, or yellow, morels.\n\n#### WHAT TO USE\n\n**_Spawn_** This is mycelium in a wad of white, crumbly fiber that can be mixed straight into soil. As it grows, the mycelium spreads underground and produces mushrooms\u2014the fruit\u2014above ground when conditions are right. We bought our spawn from Gourmet Mushrooms and Mushroom Products (www.gmushrooms.com) for $30.\n\n**_Soil_** You need a 4- to 16-square-foot patch of ordinary, well-drained garden soil, in the ground or in a raised bed (in contact with the ground). The area should be shaded at least half the day, with less than 3 hours of direct sunlight, and protected from wind (you can build a windbreak if needed).\n\n**_Shovel_**\n\n**_Compostables_** Fresh materials from your kitchen, such as vegetable trimmings, coffee grounds, eggshells, and the like. We also added ash from a wood fire, as morels in the wild grow well in areas where there has been a forest fire or controlled burn.\n\n**_Water source_** Pick a spot within reach of a hose, or plan to make frequent trips with a watering can.\n\n#### HOW TO DO IT\n\n**1. Let the spawn rest** After the spawn arrives, it needs to sit in a cool (below 70\u00b0F), dark place for a couple of days. It will also keep in the refrigerator for up to 6 months.\n\n**2. Plant the spawn** Morels can be planted any time of year as long as the soil isn't frozen.\n\n**3. Prepare the soil** With a shovel, turn the soil to a depth of 6 to 12 inches to loosen it. Clear away any rocks or debris.\n\n_Turning the morel bed_\n\n**4. Scatter the spawn** Crumple the spawn over the prepared soil, then turn the soil under. Rake it smooth on top.\n\n_Raking it smooth_\n\n**5. Add compostables** About once a week, dig in a bowlful of fresh food scraps, 9 to 18 inches deep. Water the soil so it stays damp. Continue this for at least 3 months.\n\n**6. Wait** Now you need to let the soil rest so the mycelium can spread underground. Typically, it takes a full year before you'll see mushrooms, but depending on when you planted your spawn, you could get results in as soon as 2 months. As the soil rests, you may get plants sprouting from the compost. This is okay, and may even be helpful, as they will shade the area.\n\nIt's hard to predict exactly what month the mushrooms will pop above ground. They need the right conditions for a \"morel spring,\" which can be any time of year, though more often in spring. Typically they appear when there has been a period of heavy rain followed by a period of light to no rain for a week or two, with the weather changing to highs in the upper 60s and 70s. This can be January to April in areas with mild climates and May or June in areas with colder climates. Also, the spawn we used produces a warm-weather morel that comes up later than wild morels.\n\n**7. Water regularly** In warm weather, water your patch often enough to keep it damp.\n\n**8. Check for mushrooms** Our morels did not emerge in May, as we had hoped, and they haven't appeared in the months since. When we finally spot them, it will be a happy day. Young morels look like small, white toothpicks poking out of the soil. We'll probably need to give them a week or two to reach full size.\n\n**9. Harvest** We're planning to trim the mushrooms at the base without digging up the soil, which would disturb the mycelium. Gourmet Mushrooms tells us that the yield can vary from year to year\u2014sometimes none, and sometimes as many as 50, but the mycelium may keep producing for up to 15 years.\n\n**10. Cook** Since morels grow in dirt, they'll need a quick rinse to remove soil. They should only be eaten cooked. A word of caution: If the mushrooms you've picked don't look like morels, do not eat them until you've checked with an expert, such as someone at your local mycological society (see a couple of choices in Helpful Information, below).\n\n#### HELPFUL INFORMATION\n\n##### WEB SITES\n\n\u2022 \"6 Ways Mushrooms Can Save the World: Paul Stamets on TED.com.\" A dazzling 18-minute presentation from Stamets, an \"entrepreneurial mycologist,\" on the potential that mushrooms have to transform biotechnology. Watch and be awed by the not-so-humble 'shroom. <http:\/\/blog.ted.com\/2008\/05\/06\/paul_stamets>.\n\n\u2022 Fungi Perfecti LLC, www.fungi.com. A one-stop resource from Paul Stamets (see above) with indoor and outdoor mushroom kits, culinary mushroom products, dietary supplements, information for kids, recipes, articles, and books\u2014including Stamets' _Mycelium Running: How Mushrooms Can Help Save the World_ (Ten Speed Press, 2005).\n\n\u2022 The Great Morel, www.thegreatmorel.com. Interactive site with stories, recipes, and photos, from fellow 'shroomers around the world.\n\n##### BOOKS\n\n\u2022 _Growing Gourmet and Medicinal Mushrooms_ , by Paul Stamets (Ten Speed Press, 2000). An in-depth resource for growing and learning about mushrooms.\n\n##### ORGANIZATIONS\n\n\u2022 Cascade Mycological Society, www.cascademyco.org. Based in Eugene, Oregon, the group promotes wild mushroom education and identification, leads wild forays, and hosts an annual wild mushroom feast.\n\n\u2022 Mycological Society of San Francisco, www.mssf.org or 866\/807-7148. Gives information on how mushrooms grow, how to cultivate mushrooms, mushrooms in the wild, and recipes.\n\n_\u2014Elaine Johnson_\n\n##    \nHOW TO MAKE  \nOLIVE OIL\n\nIt was the sight of the olive trees all around Sunset that did it: tall, stately, and loaded with thousands of ripening olives. We needed some sort of cooking fat for our one-block feast, and after rejecting peanuts and corn for oil, we realized that our trees held the answer in their branches. Plus, we would be using a heretofore wasted resource\u2014every fall, olives rained down onto the ground and into the bushes, feeding only the birds and insects.\n\nUnfortunately, they were feeding the insects a little too well. Our olives, we learned, were thoroughly infested with the maggots of olive fruit flies. So we picked olives at a nearby, fruit-fly-free olive farm instead and drove them to a commercial olive press, where we had planned to press our olives anyway.\n\n_Harvesting olives in the Santa Cruz foothills_\n\nThe actual making of olive oil is instantly gratifying. Unlike with wine, there are no months of fermenting and aging. It all happens in a single day. The thick, jewel green new oil is ready to taste immediately, mere hours after it was fruit hanging on a tree. This new oil\u2014what the Italians call _olio nuovo_ \u2014is the biggest perk of crushing olives yourself, since it's difficult to find in stores. The other big perk: a stock of your own good oil to give as gifts and use whenever you like.\n\nWe are still holding out hope that by next harvest season we will be able to use our own olives, which we believe are a combination of Mission and Redding Picholine. In fact, as this book went to press, we had just started spraying our trees with an organic control called GF-120 that has been recently approved for backyard trees. For more on this, see Our Future Plans and see <http:\/\/oneblockdiet.sunset.com\/team_olive>, where we will post ongoing updates of Our Battle Against the Olive Fruit Fly.\n\n###    \nEXTRA VIRGIN OLIVE OIL\n\n20 gallons, pressed from a blend of six Italian olives: Maurino, Leccino, Frantoio, Pendolino, Ascolano, and Taggiasca\n\n#### WHAT TO USE\n\n**_Olives_** To make 20 gallons of olive oil, you'll need about 800 pounds of olives. Because many growers worry about liability these days, finding a farm where you can pick your own fruit is difficult. We got lucky and were kindly allowed to pick at a ranch, but it was a one-time-only situation. You can order olives by mail, however, through the Olive Growers Council of California (559\/734-1710 or adin@goldstate.net) and from La Conda Ranch (www.lacondaranch.com or 530\/824-5946). Call to place your order starting in early September. Prices vary depending on variety and growing conditions. As an example, last season, La Conda Ranch sold their olives for $1.75 per pound (plus shipping.) All of these olive farms are in California\u2014in fact, 98 percent of U.S. olive production is in the state.\n\n**_Olive press_** We didn't buy one. They are expensive (up-ward of $200,000!) and we were already spending money on the olives themselves. A separator and a washing system boost the bill even higher. The home-version First Press, available through the Olive Oil Source (see Helpful Information), is a relatively reasonable $2,790 and includes all the machinery you need. The advantage is that you can run just a few buckets of olives through it and get oil, and do it fresh from your trees. It is slow and labor-intensive, however.  \nWith a larger amount, at least a few hundred pounds, you can go to a communal mill: an olive-oil maker that rents its mill periodically to the public during harvesttime (and also takes care of the separating and washing). We took our olives to Pietra Santa Winery in Hollister, which makes its own superb olive oil ($525 minimum fee per ton or less; www.pietrasantawinery.com or 831\/636-1991). Frantoio Ristorante & Olive Oil in Mill Valley (www.frantoio.com or 415\/289-5777) will press a half ton for $250, which includes a $50 pomace disposal fee. If you want the skins and seeds yourself and can haul them away, you'll save $50. Frantoio will also press quantities less than a half ton, but they mix the olives with other small lots, so you'll end up with a blend. Other communal mills offer this small-lot service, too, on \"community press days.\" One is McCauley Brothers Olive Groves, in Brentwood (www.mccauleyolivegroves.com or 925\/754-6457); call for prices. For more communal presses and community press days, search the list of millers on the Olive Oil Source's website. It's usually about $450 per ton, depending on the mill, and less for smaller amounts.\n\n**_A cool, dark place_** Where you keep your oil as it settles and once it is bottled is important. Olive oil needs to be kept at temperatures between 60\u00b0 and 70\u00b0F, in as dark a place as possible. (Heat and light are the top degraders, along with oxygen.) We stored our olive oil in a temperature-controlled shed at Sunset, and laid big sheets of black plastic over the containers during the settling period to block the light completely.\n\n**_5-gallon food-grade plastic drums with spigot_** You need these for storing the new oil. They're about $15 each from the Olive Oil Source. We bought seven, figuring we could always use the extra three for the next harvest. Stainless-steel containers are ideal as they block out all light and oxygen and are beautiful. They are also expensive (from $515 for a 50-liter tank). Plastic drums admit a small amount of oxygen, but not enough to affect the oil as long as the drums are filled to the top. The drums do need to be scrupulously washed with a food-grade degreaser for reuse, because even a trace of old oil will contaminate your nice fresh batch.\n\n**_Power drill with a small bit_** You need to make a \"breather hole\" in each plastic drum when you are ready to bottle. From about $30 at a hardware store.\n\n**_Bottles and corks_** Dark green or amber glass is best, to prevent light from spoiling the oil. We chose small bottles (250-milliliter\/about 1-cup size) to give away as gifts and also because we could use up an opened bottle more quickly, with less chance of it oxidizing. Bottles sell out fast during harvest season in fall, so place your order well ahead of time. The Olive Oil Source sells bottles by the case, in various sizes; 200-milliliter bottles with corks in dark amber are about $19.50 for a case of 12. If you buy a minimum of 7 cases (over $100), the $20 handling fee is waived.\n\n**_Plastic funnels_** Get at least two, and make sure they're narrow enough to fit securely into your bottles. From $3.50 online or at a cookware store.\n\n**_Towels or rags_** For mopping up and wiping bottles.\n\n**_Sturdy worktable_** Where you will set the containers of olive oil for bottling, with their spigots hanging over the edge. From $75 at a home-improvement center.\n\n**_Plastic tarps_** As much as you'll try not to, you _will_ splatter, making a tarp under and around the worktable indispensable. If you care about your worktable top, spread one there, too. About $40 for a 10-by-100-foot tarp at a home-improvement center.\n\n**_Large aluminum pans_** Old turkey roasting pans or the like, placed beneath the spigots, work well for catching drips.\n\n**_Mallet or small hammer_** For tapping corks into bottles. From $6 at a hardware store.\n\n**_Hot, soapy water_** Mix up a batch in a bucket to use for cleaning slippery hands while bottling.\n\n#### HOW TO DO IT\n\nGiven that our own olive trees were infested with olive fruit fly maggots, we didn't grapple with harvesting them. If you have a backyard tree or several, and are interested in learning how to harvest olives, control the olive fruit fly, or care for your trees, see Helpful Information.\n\n##### NOVEMBER 29\n\n**Pick and press** We drove to Valencia Creek Farms in Aptos (www.valenciacreekfarms.com), about 50 miles south of Sunset, and hand-picked olives. We put them in 23 plastic crates, each of which measured \u00be by 16 by 9 inches and held 40 to 44 pounds of olives. Valencia Creek's Chris Banthien sells them for $1 per crate. Similar crates are available through the Fairfield, California, branch of MacroPlastics (www.macroplastics.com or 707\/437-1200).\n\nWe immediately drove 30 miles south to Pietra Santa Winery to press the olives. Our 800 pounds were mechanically washed and then crushed in an Italian stone press (three enormous rotating stone wheels weighing a total of 7,000 pounds). The mush was separated, filtered, and poured into the 5-gallon plastic drums we had brought with us.\n\n_Our brand-new oil_\n\n_The stone mill at Pietra Santa Winery_\n\n##### NOVEMBER 30\n\n**Settling** Olive particles in oil makes it spoil faster (although it does taste delicious when fresh), so we needed to let the solids fall to the bottom of the drums. We reserved a small portion to use as _olio nuovo_ , and then we put the drums in the Sunset prop shed and set them on their sides so they would be in the same position on bottling day, with the spigot facing down (if we stored them upright and then turned them, all the sediment would swirl back up into the oil). We draped them with black plastic to shut out light, and set the thermostat to 65\u00b0F to keep them properly cool.\n\n##### FEBRUARY 6\n\n**Bottle** After about 2 months of quiet resting, each drum had a layer of olive sludge on its bottom (settling usually happens within 30 to 45 days). It was time to bottle. Here's how:\n\n\u2022 **First, taste it** You don't want to go through all that work of bottling if your oil is no good! We tasted the oil as best we could to make sure it hadn't acquired any of the flaws that can downgrade an extra virgin olive oil to just plain olive oil: fustiness, mustiness, vinegariness, muddiness, or just plain rancidity. Phew\u2014it was still good. It was less \"green\" tasting and peppery than when just pressed, and the color had mellowed to a golden hue, but good.\n\n\u2022 **Divide the labor** Put 1 or 2 people to work filling the bottles, another pushing in the corks, and a fourth wiping the bottles free of oil and putting them in storage boxes (we reused the boxes that the bottles came in).\n\n\u2022 **Spread the tarp** Lay the tarp on the ground where you will be working. Set your worktable on top and cover it with a tarp, too, if it's a stainable surface.\n\n\u2022 **Set the drums on the table** Position each so the spigot is hanging over the edge. Drill a small \"breather hole\" into the tiny cap opposite the spigot to release pressure and enable flow. (Once the drum is empty and cleaned, it can be reused for storage as long as the cap's cover is in place; it comes with the drum.)\n\n\u2022 **Put the aluminum pans on the ground** Slip a pan under each spigot to catch drips.\n\n\u2022 **Fill and cork the bottles** Slip a funnel into the neck of the first bottle, stick it under the spigot, open up the valve, and let the oil pour in, stopping within \u00bd inch of the rim to leave room for the cork. Close the valve, push in the cork, clean off the bottle, and put the bottle in the box. Keep going until you've bottled up all the oil.\n\n_Bottling olive oil_\n\n##### APRIL 22\n\n**Store** We moved our boxes of oil down into the Sunset wine cellar, where it's always cool and dark.\n\n##### NOVEMBER\n\n**An anniversary taste** One year had passed since the harvest. Some bottles were starting to lose flavor and turn bitter once they were removed from their cool home in the cellar. Others stayed stable.\n\n##### FEBRUARY\n\n**A last taste** Although our remaining couple dozen bottles tasted passable, the oil was no longer as flavorful as it was in November. We relegated these final bottles to cooking, rather than saving them for drizzling over dishes before serving.\n\n#### OUR FUTURE PLANS\n\nWe have finally mounted a plan of attack against the olive fruit fly. By the time you read this, we hope to have executed the plan, harvested our olives, and pressed them into oil. (Check our blog to read all about it.)\n\n##### IDENTIFY WHICH TREES TO TREAT\n\n**Short, or at least thinned in the canopy** Olive trees for fruit production should be no more than 14 feet high, and\/or pruned so that they are not densely foliaged. Big, full trees like ours are ideal habitats for the fruit fly. Our trees were planted decades ago as ornamentals, however, so they are now 40 to 50 feet tall and beautiful, and are part of the landscaping at Sunset. Team Olive can't go hacking away at them. But we don't want them to stand around spreading disease, either (untended, infested public and backyard trees pose a major problem for olive growers in California). One avenue we are exploring for most of these statuesque lovelies is spraying them with a plant growth regulator called FruitStop, which goes on at blossom time and prevents the baby olives from forming. This way we'll still have pretty trees. No olives to pick, but no olive fruit flies to contend with either\u2014and we'll focus on treating the trees that we do hope to harvest.\n\nIn the meantime, we've decided to treat just four of our twenty-one olive trees\u2014the shortest (25 to 30 feet) and relatively best-pruned ones.\n\n_Infested olive tree at Sunset_\n\n**Relatively free of surrounding bushes and other plants** This makes harvesting and treating them easier and also means they're relatively pest-free (olives with larvae drop into bushes and can't be raked up; the larvae burrow into the ground and overwinter there).\n\n##### CHOOSE THE WEAPONS\n\n**Organic spray** The best organic control of the olive fruit fly is a spray called GF-120 NF Naturalyte, which contains a tiny amount of natural pesticide called Spinosad, plus a sticky, molasses-like substance (hydrolyzed protein). When you spray the stuff on the trees, it lands as gooey globs that act as bait. Ingesting GF-120 makes the insects' muscles contract, leading to paralysis\u2014and, within a day or two, death. It doesn't hurt birds (even if they eat the bugs). It can harm honeybees that land directly on the globs, but according to olive ranchers we spoke to who also raise bees, the bees would much rather go for blossoms than for the GF-120, and don't seem affected at all by the spraying. Just in case, spray early in the morning, before the bees are up.\n\nThe price of GF-120 NF Naturalyte ranges from $100 to $150 per gallon. For sources, see Helpful Information.\n\n**Hanging traps** Also known as olipe traps. We're painting liter-size plastic bottles yellow, filling them with water, cutting a \u00bc-inch hole in the top of each bottle, dropping 4 yeast tablets (available from Napa Valley Ag Supply, 707\/963-3495; $59 for 180 tablets) into each bottle, and then hanging the bottles. The flies love the yeast. They'll fly into the bottles and never come out. Traps will also be a great indicator of just how infested our trees are. We plan to check them (and dump out the dead flies) once a week.\n\n##### PICK UP FALLEN OLIVES\n\nOlive fruit flies really like the olives they find on the ground. And any larvae laid inside burrow into the dirt and live there all winter long, to hatch as flies in the spring. So we will have to be diligent about picking up fallen fruit from last year, to help keep the olive fly population down (it would help to get all the old fruit off the tree, too). We do, of course, still have day jobs, but it looks like Olive Pick-Up might be the new lunch hour.\n\n##### OUR WORRIES, OUR DOUBTS\n\nOkay, we'll be honest here. Our number-one worry: Is this all for naught? Our trees have been infested for _years, probably decades._ (The olive fruit fly was discovered in California in 1998, and in our complete ignorance that we even had a problem, we have never sprayed our trees. And, like we said, we are only treating four of our twenty-one trees. That means that seventeen trees are going untreated. We can't imagine that these relentless olive flies will be afraid to cross the street to where the treated trees are. The Spinosad spray attracts flies from up to a couple of miles away! As Bill Krueger, an olive-tree expert from UC Davis, told us, \"They're the superfly of fruit flies.\" Is this going to work? \"Well...,\" says Sunset's head gardener, Rick LaFrentz, \"I wouldn't bet on it. But you have to try. You have to try.\" So, we're giving it our best shot.\n\n##### HARVESTING\n\nHow we'll go about actually picking the olives from our tall trees is still somewhat up in the air. Ladders that tall, we're told, are pretty dangerous. It is more likely we'll stand on standard ladders and beat our trees with sticks. We hear that PVC pipes (a type of plastic, and the main kind of irrigation pipe buried underground) are good, too. Or, if we can get a hold of some mechanized rakes, that would be helpful. We'll definitely need tarps to spread out under the trees to catch the olives as they drop.\n\n##### PLANTING NEW TREES\n\nThis is an idea we've been tossing around: planting a few short, high-density olive trees on trellises. It's the latest trend in the industry, and UC Davis has an exhibition planting near its Olive Center. High-density trees are easier to manage, harvest, and\u2014best of all\u2014are more likely to hold their own against the olive fly.\n\n#### HELPFUL INFORMATION\n\n##### ORGANIZATIONS\n\n\u2022 The Olive Oil Source, based in Santa Ynez, California (805\/688-1014 or www.oliveoilsource.com), sells everything from books to mills to bottles and has a trove of resources and links on its Web site, including information on how to grow and harvest olives.\n\n\u2022 The new Olive Center at the University of California at Davis (www.olivecenter.ucdavis.edu) has horticultural information about raising olives for oil and for the table. Also, the university harvests its own landscape olive trees and makes good oil, which it sells in the campus bookstore and through its Web site for $10 per bottle.\n\n\u2022 The California Olive Oil Council (COOC) gives pointers and guidance to anyone interested in growing olives or learning about olive oil. From time to time, they hold informative olive oil\u2013tasting workshops open to the public. They also certify extra virgin olive oils via an expert tasting panel, following the Italian model. Look for the COOC label the next time you buy oil and you won't be disappointed (www.cooc.com or 888\/718-9830).\n\n##### BOOKS\n\n\u2022 _California's Olive Pioneers: Early Essays on Olives & Olive Oil_, foreword by Judith M. Taylor, MD (Robert Mondavi Institute for Wine and Food Science, 2009); available through the Olive Center (see opposite).\n\n\u2022 _Olive Oil: From Tree to Table_ by Peggy Knickerbocker (Chronicle Books, 1997). A gorgeous overview (photographs by Laurie Smith) of olive oil production around the world, with guidance on tasting and usage, plus recipes.\n\n\u2022 _Olive Production Manual_ , edited by Louise Ferguson and G. Steven Sibbett (A.N.R. Publications, 1994). A good introduction to olive growing.\n\n\u2022 _Olives: The Life and Lore of a Noble Fruit_ , by Mort Rosenblum (Absolute Press, 2000). A mesmerizing story of the olive and its deep, abiding roots in cultures around the Mediterranean, prompted by the author's quest to revive some ancient olive trees on his property in Provence.\n\n\u2022 _The New American Olive Oil: Profiles of Artisan Producers and 75 Recipes,_ by Fran Gage (Stewart, Tabori & Chang, 2009). Profiles of growers, with recipes, tips on choosing and storing extra virgin olive oils, and how to host an olive oil tasting.\n\n\u2022 _The Olive in California: History of an Immigrant Tree_ , by Judith M. Taylor, MD (Ten Speed Press, 2004). A richly detailed account of more than two hundred years of olive growing in the Golden State.\n\n##### OLIVE FRUIT FLY CONTROL\n\nThe olive fruit fly invaded California more than ten years ago and has ruined many an olive crop. Here are some resources to help you battle the pest:\n\n_Tyingolipe traps in one of our olive trees_\n\n\u2022 \"Controlling Olive Fruit Fly at Home,\" by Paul Vossen and Alexandra Kicenik Devarenne, two of California's leading olive fruit fly experts. cesonoma.ucdavis.edu\/files\/27230.pdf.\n\n\u2022 \"Olive Fly Control,\" The Olive Oil Source, Santa Ynez, California. www.oliveoilsource.com\/olive_fly.htm.\n\n\u2022 University of California Cooperative Extension. www.ucanr.org (enter \"olive fruit fly\" in search field).\n\n\u2022 \"Pruning: Topping Tall or Neglected Olive Trees,\" by Paul Vossen. www.ucce.ucdavis.edu\/files\/filelibrary\/2161\/36224.pdf.\n\n\u2022 Ernie's Pest Control, Orland, California; 530\/865-9829. Sells GF-120 NF Naturalyte; specializes in olive fruit fly control.\n\n\u2022 ISCA Technologies, www.iscatech.com. For yellow sticky traps.\n\n\u2022 Wilbur-Ellis, St. Helena, California; 707\/963-3495 (website is hard to navigate; it's easier to call). Sells GF-120 NF Naturalyte, yellow sticky traps, torula yeast tablets, and FruitStop.\n\n_\u2014Rachel Levin_\n\n_Butternut Squash and 'Cipollini' Onion Soup_\n\n# THE FALL RECIPES\n\n##    \nFRESH APPLE CIDER AND APPLESAUCE\n\nNot having a powerful juicer or a purpose-built press for creating cider from the apples, we came up with this twofer: a rather unorthodox way to make the cider, plus an applesauce bonus.\n\nMAKES 2\u00bd to 3 cups cider and 3\u00bd to 4 cups applesauce\n\nTIME about 1 hour\n\n8 or 9 large Honey Crisp or other favorite local apple (about 5 pounds total)\n\n1. Peel, quarter, and core the apples, then cut the quarters in half crosswise. Put half the apples in a food processor and add \u00be cup water. Whirl into a smooth puree.\n\n2. Pour the puree into a medium-mesh strainer set over a bowl, and press and rub with the back of a spoon to extract the cider. Transfer the puree to a saucepan.\n\n3. Process the remaining apples the same way, adding \u00be cup of the cider instead of water. Add the puree to the saucepan.\n\n4. Cover the pan and bring the puree to a gentle simmer over medium heat, stirring occasionally. Cook, stirring occasionally and reducing the heat if the sauce starts to stick, until very soft, 15 to 20 minutes.\n\n5. Serve the applesauce warm or at room temperature. Serve the cider hot or at room temperature.\n\n**MAKE AHEAD** Both the applesauce and the cider can be made up to 3 days in advance and refrigerated. Bring to room temperature before serving.\n\n_PER 1 CUP CIDER 120 cal., 0% from fat; 0 g protein; 30 g carbo (0 g fiber); 25 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n_PER \u00bd-CUP APPLESAUCE 51 cal., 0.02% (1.1 cal.) from fat; 0.2 g protein; 0.1 g fat (0 g sat.); 13.8 g carbo (1.3 g fiber); 2.4 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n  PICKLED COCKTAIL MUSHROOMS AND ONIONS\n\nThese tangy, spicy, thyme-scented pickles would be great with a martini.\n\nMAKES about 5 cups\n\nTIME about 40 minutes, plus at least 9 hours to cool and chill\n\n4 tablespoons olive oil\n\n4 cloves garlic, peeled and crushed\n\n2 cups Chardonnay\n\n6 to 8 sprigs thyme, plus a few small sprigs\n\n2 dried red serrano or \u00e1rbol chiles, finely chopped\n\n1 teaspoon fine sea salt\n\n\u00bd pound small cipollini onions, peeled\n\n\u00bd pound medium-size shiitake mushrooms, stemmed\n\n\u00bd pound medium-size oyster mushrooms, stemmed\n\n1 to 2 teaspoons freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n1. In a large frying pan, heat 1 tablespoon of the oil over medium-high heat. Add the garlic and cook, stirring, for 1 minute. Add the wine, thyme (the amount depends on your tastes), chiles, and salt. Reduce the heat to low, cover partially, and simmer for 5 minutes.\n\n2. Add the onions, mushrooms, and the remaining 3 table-spoons oil. Cover and simmer until the mushrooms are barely tender, 10 to 15 minutes.\n\n3. Remove from the heat, pour into a heatproof bowl, and let cool completely. Remove and discard the thyme sprigs and stir in the lemon juice to taste. Cover and refrigerate for at least 8 hours or up to 1 week.\n\n4. To serve, bring to room temperature. Put the onions and mushrooms in a bowl, pour a little of the marinade over them, and add a few small thyme sprigs. Set out with toothpicks.\n\n_PER \u00bc-CUP SERVING 56 cal., 45% (25 cal.) from fat; 0.7 g protein; 2.8 g fat (0.4 g sat.); 3.3 g carbo (0.7 g fiber); 116 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n  QUINOA BITES WITH WALNUT ROMESCO\n\nWe liked these crisp-edged little nuggets so much that we made a bigger version as a main course.\n\nMAKES about 40 patties\n\nTIME about 1\u00bd hours, plus 30 minutes to cool\n\n1 cup quinoa*\n\n2 large eggs, lightly beaten\n\n\u00bc teaspoon fine sea salt\n\nAbout 4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil\n\n1 cup Walnut Romesco (recipe follows)\n\nAbout 40 fresh flat-leaf parsley leaves\n\n1. Fill a large bowl halfway with water. Add the quinoa and rub the grains briefly between your palms in the water. Drain in a fine-mesh strainer, then combine with 2 cups water in a medium saucepan. Bring to a boil, reduce the heat to a simmer, and cook until translucent in the center and a white ring appears, about 15 minutes. Transfer to a bowl and let cool. Stir in the eggs and salt.\n\n2. In a large nonstick frying pan, heat 1 tablespoon of the oil over medium heat. Working in batches of 8 to 10, spoon 2 teaspoons of the quinoa mixture into the pan for each patty, spacing them about \u00bd inch apart. Cook until browned underneath, about 4 minutes. Turn the patties with a fork and cook until just browned on other side, about 3 minutes more. Transfer the patties to a plate lined with a paper towel to drain. Cook the remaining quinoa mixture the same way, adding more oil as needed.\n\n3. Arrange the patties on a serving plate and top each with about \u00bd teaspoon romesco and a parsley leaf.\n\n**MAKE AHEAD** You can prepare the patties through step 2 up to 4 hours ahead and leave them at room temperature. To serve, reheat them at 350\u00b0F until hot, 10 minutes.\n\n_PER 3-BITE SERVING 96 cal., 52% (50 cal.) from fat; 2.7 g protein; 5.8 g fat (1 g sat.); 8.6 g carbo (0.9 g fiber); 53.8 mg sodium; 33 mg chol._\n\n### WALNUT ROMESCO\n\nWe eat this Spanish-style sauce (traditionally made with almonds and usually tomatoes) on everything from potatoes to toast to green beans to eggs. It's as versatile as pesto.\n\nMAKES about 1 cup\n\nTIME about 30 minutes\n\n2 'Mariachi' or 'Carmen' peppers or red bell peppers\n\n4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil\n\n4 dried red serrano or \u00e1rbol chiles\n\n\u00bd cup walnut pieces, lightly toasted\n\n2 small cloves garlic\n\n\u00bd teaspoon fine sea salt\n\n1 tablespoon red-wine vinegar\n\n1. Preheat the broiler. Rub the peppers with 1 tablespoon of the oil and put on a rimmed baking sheet. Broil, turning as needed, until completely charred on all sides, 12 to 15 minutes. During the last minute, add the chiles to the baking sheet to warm and soften. Let the peppers and chiles cool until they can be handled. Stem the chiles, and stem, seed, and peel the peppers.\n\n2. In a food processor, pulse the walnuts and garlic until coarsely chopped. Add the chiles, peppers, salt, vinegar, and the remaining oil and process until smooth.\n\n**MAKE AHEAD** Keeps, covered and chilled, at least 3 days.\n\n_PER 2-TABLESPOON SERVING 114 cal., 85% (98 cal.) from fat; 1.4 g protein; 11 g fat (1.4 g sat.); 3.3 g carbo (1.2 g fiber); 141 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n* _For instructions on how to rinse homegrown quinoa to rid it of bitterness, seehere._\n\n  CREAMY FLAGEOLET DIP WITH RED PEPPER STICKS\n\nWith their elegant, oblong shapes and soft green color, flageolet beans look like bits of pale jade. They are sweet and mild and make a great bean dip.\n\nMAKES about 2 cups\n\nTIME about 10 minutes\n\n2 cups drained cooked flageolet beans (see method)\n\n\u00bd cup cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche, homemade or store-bought\n\n2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil\n\n1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n1 teaspoon finely shredded lemon zest\n\n\u00be teaspoon fine sea salt\n\n2 tablespoons coarsely chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley\n\n'Mariachi' and 'Carmen' peppers or other sweet red peppers, seeded and cut into narrow strips\n\nIn a food processor, whirl together the beans, cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche, oil, lemon juice and zest, and salt until smooth. Transfer to a bowl and stir in the parsley. Serve with pepper strips alongside the dip.\n\n_PER 3-TABLESPOON SERVING 190 cal., 35% (67 cal.) from fat; 9 g protein; 8 g fat (3 g sat.); 22 g carbo (9 g fiber); 177 mg sodium; 10 mg chol._\n\n  ROASTED SPICED BUTTERNUT SQUASH SEEDS\n\nNext time you cut up a butternut squash, save the seeds for this tasty snack. The roasted seeds are good sprinkled over gnocchi, soup, or salads, too.\n\nMAKES about \u00be cup\n\nTIME about 1 hour\n\n1 cup butternut squash seeds (from about 3 squashes), rinsed free of any squash flesh and patted dry (be patient; this takes a quite a while)\n\n1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil\n\nAbout \u00bd teaspoon fine sea salt\n\n\u00bd teaspoon finely ground dried red serrano or \u00e1rbol chile\n\n1. Preheat the oven to 350\u00b0F. In a bowl, toss the seeds with the oil, salt, and ground chile until they are evenly coated. Spread the seeds on a rimmed baking sheet\n\n2. Roast the seeds, turning them often with a spatula, until lightly golden and crunchy, about 15 minutes. Let them cool, then season with more salt, if you like. Store in an airtight container at room temperature for up to 2 weeks.\n\n_PER TABLESPOON 34 cal., 55% (19 cal.) from fat; 1 g protein; 2.2 g fat (0.4 g sat.) 1 g carbo (000 g fiber); 230 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n##    \nROASTED TOMATO-FENNEL SOUP\n\nThe velvety richness of this soup comes not from cream, but from the slowly roasted vegetables themselves\u2014and plenty of good olive oil. We used the very last of our vine-ripened tomatoes for this soup, but you could easily use roasted tomatoes that you froze earlier in the season; just thaw and reheat in the broth, then blend in with the fennel and onion.\n\nMAKES about 6 cups or 4 servings\n\nTIME about 1\u00bd hours\n\n3 pounds ripe red tomatoes such as Brandywine, cored, halved, seeded, and cut into 1-inch wedges\n\n2 fennel bulbs, trimmed and cut into 1-inch wedges\n\n1 white onion, cut into slivers\n\n1\u00bc teaspoons fine sea salt\n\n1 teaspoon dried thyme\n\n\u00bc cup extra virgin olive oil, plus more for finishing\n\n3 cups Herb Vegetable Broth (recipe follows), heated to a simmer\n\n1. Preheat the oven to 425\u00b0F. Combine the tomatoes, fennel, and onion in a roasting pan. Sprinkle with the salt and thyme, drizzle with the oil, and toss to coat evenly. Spread the vegetables in a single layer in the pan and roast them, turning once halfway through cooking, until very tender and collapsed, about 1 hour.\n\n2. Remove from the oven, add the broth, and stir to scrape up any browned bits. Puree the soup in a blender.\n\n3. Serve the soup with a drizzle of olive oil.\n\n_PER 1\u00bd-CUP SERVING 277 cal., 56% (155 cal.) from fat; 4.3 g protein; 18 g fat (2.4 g sat.); 29 g carbo (7 g fiber); 1,404 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n##    \nHERB VEGETABLE BROTH\n\nUnlike some vegetable broths, which can be strong flavored, this one tastes light, sweet, and gentle.\n\nMAKES 4 to 4\u00bd quarts\n\nTIME about 2 hours\n\n\u00bc cup extra virgin olive oil\n\n2\u00bd pounds cipollini or white onions, loose peels removed and coarsely chopped\n\n2 cups coarsely chopped mushroom stems or whole mushrooms such as shiitake and\/or oyster\n\n20 large sprigs flat-leaf parsley\n\n16 large sprigs thyme\n\n10 fresh sage leaves\n\n2 sprigs rosemary, 6 inches each\n\n2 tablespoons fine sea salt\n\n1. In an 8- to 10-quart pot, heat the oil over high heat. Add the onions and mushrooms and saut\u00e9 until the vegetables start to brown, 10 minutes. Add the parsley, thyme, sage, rosemary, salt, and 5 quarts water. Cover and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer about 1\u00bc hours.\n\n2. Strain the broth through a colander set over another large pot. Discard the solids. For perfectly clear broth, strain again through a fine-mesh strainer.\n\n3. Use the broth right away, or let cool, cover, and refrigerate for up to 1 week or freeze for up to 6 months.\n\n_PER 1-CUP SERVING 49 cal., 63% (31 cal.) from fat; 0.6 g protein; 3.6 g fat (0.5 g sat.); 4.3 g carbo (0 g fiber); 842 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n##    \nBUTTERNUT SQUASH AND 'CIPOLLINI' ONION SOUP\n\nEvery cook's repertoire should include a good butternut squash soup. For this one, you roast a big batch of vegetables and puree most of them for the soup. A few choice pieces become the garnish, along with fried sage leaves and a drizzle of brown butter.\n\nMAKES about 2\u00bd quarts or 6 servings\n\nTIME about 2 hours\n\n4\u00bd pounds butternut squash (from 1 large or 2 medium)\n\n3 tablespoons plus \u00bd cup extra virgin olive oil\n\n1\u00bd tablespoons fresh thyme leaves\n\n1\u00bd teaspoons fine sea salt, plus more for sprinkling\n\n1\u2153 pounds small cipollini onions, peeled\n\n4 tablespoons unsalted butter\n\nAbout 18 small fresh sage leaves, patted dry\n\nAbout 7 cups Herb Vegetable Broth, heated until boiling\n\n1. Preheat the oven to 425\u00b0F. Cut the ends off the squash and discard. Cut the squash in half lengthwise, then scrape out the seeds (save the seeds for roasting, if you like). Using a vegetable peeler, peel the squash halves, then cut the flesh into 1\u00bd-inch chunks. Put the chunks on a large rimmed baking sheet and toss with 2 tablespoons of the oil, 1 tablespoon of the thyme, and 1 teaspoon of the salt. Spread in a single layer.\n\n2. Place the onions on a second rimmed baking sheet. Drizzle with 1 tablespoon of the oil and sprinkle with the remaining 1\u00bd teaspoons thyme and \u00bd teaspoon salt. Toss to coat evenly, then spread in a single layer.\n\n3. Roast the vegetables for 30 minutes. Using a wide spatula, turn over the onions and squash chunks and switch the pan positions. Continue to roast until the onions are very soft and golden brown all over, 10 to 15 minutes longer, and the squash is tender and beginning to brown, 20 to 25 minutes longer.\n\n4. While the vegetables are roasting, melt the butter in a small saucepan over medium-low heat. Heat, shaking the pan occasionally, until the butter has turned a dark gold, 5 to 6 minutes. Pour into a heatproof bowl and set aside.\n\n5. In another small saucepan, heat the remaining \u00bd cup oil over medium-high heat. Working in batches, add the sage leaves and cook, stirring occasionally, until their color fades to light olive, 20 to 30 seconds. With a slotted spoon, transfer to paper towels to drain. Sprinkle with salt.\n\n6. When the vegetables are ready, remove the pans from the oven. Set aside 12 small squash pieces and 6 small onions for garnish. Working in batches, puree the remaining roasted vegetables in a blender with 6 cups of the broth until very smooth, then pour into a large saucepan. Divide about 1 cup broth between the vegetable-roasting pans. Stir to scrape up any browned bits, then add to the saucepan with the soup. Heat the soup over medium-low heat until piping hot. Add enough additional broth to create a velvety, pourable soup.\n\n7. Ladle the soup into warmed bowls. Garnish each serving with the reserved whole onions, squash chunks, fried sage, and a drizzle of brown butter.\n\n_PER SERVING 493 cal., 66% (326 cal.) from fat; 5 g protein; 38 g fat (9 g sat.); 43 g carbo (12 g fiber); 1,609 mg sodium; 20 mg chol._\n\n  GRILLED RADICCHIO AND FENNEL SALAD WITH APPLES AND TOASTED WALNUTS\n\nOur radicchio took forever to ripen. It sat stubbornly in the ground, green as green cabbage, for months. Finally, tinges of red started to take hold. By the time we used it for this salad, its leaves were a beautiful streaky combination of green and red. It lasted well into winter, turning redder and sweeter after the first frost.\n\nMAKES 4 to 6 servings\n\nTIME about 1 hour\n\n3 small heads radicchio, about 1\u00bd pounds total\n\n2 large fennel bulbs with stalks and feathery fronds\n\n4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil\n\nAbout 1\u00bd teaspoons fine sea salt\n\n\u00bc cup Syrah Vinegar or other fruity red-wine vinegar\n\n\u00bc lemon\n\n1 Honey Crisp or other firm, tart-sweet red apple\n\n\u00be cup coarsely chopped toasted walnuts\n\n1. Prepare a grill for medium-low heat (about 300\u00b0F; you should be able to hold your hand 5 inches above the cooking grate for only 7 to 9 seconds).\n\n2. Cut the radicchio heads lengthwise into quarters. Trim the stalks from the fennel bulbs and cut the bulbs crosswise into \u00bd-inch-thick slices. Snip enough fronds from the stalks to measure about \u00be cup loosely packed fronds. Slice the stalks very thinly and set aside.\n\n3. Put the radicchio quarters and fennel bulb slices on rimmed baking sheets and drizzle with 3 tablespoons of the oil, doing your best to keep their pieces together. Sprinkle lightly with \u00bd teaspoon of the salt.\n\n4. Arrange the radicchio and fennel bulb slices on the cooking grate. Grill the radicchio, turning as needed, until the edges are crisp and browned on all sides, 15 to 20 minutes. As they are ready, return them to the baking sheet. Grill the fennel slices, turning as needed until browned on both sides and very tender, 20 to 25 minutes. (If the grate bars are widely spaced, grill the fennel on a baking sheet.) Return the slices to the baking sheet.\n\n5. Meanwhile, in a small bowl, whisk together the remaining 1 teaspoon salt and the vinegar. Squeeze the lemon quarter into a medium-size bowl filled with water. Quarter the apple through the stem end and core with a melon baller or a knife. Slice the apple quarters thinly crosswise, and slip the slices into the lemon water.\n\n6. Cut away the core from each radicchio quarter and separate the leaves. Slice the outer leaves in half lengthwise. Cut the grilled fennel into bite-size pieces. Drain the apple slices. Put the radicchio, grilled fennel, apple slices, and about three-fourths of the sliced raw fennel stalks in a large bowl. Whisk the remaining 1 tablespoon oil into the vinegar-salt mixture to make a vinaigrette. Pour all but about 1 tablespoon of the vinaigrette over the salad and toss gently to coat evenly.\n\n7. Divide the salad among 4 to 6 plates. Top with the remaining sliced raw fennel and the walnuts, drizzle with the remaining vinaigrette, and garnish with the fennel fronds.\n\n_PER 2-CUP SERVING 251 cal., 68% (171 cal.) from fat; 5 g protein; 19 g fat (2 g sat.); 19 g carbo (6 g fiber); 640 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n##    \n'SCARLET EMPEROR' RAGO\u00dbT\n\n'Scarlet Emperor' is a particularly pretty variety of scarlet runner bean. The flowers are a deep lipstick pink and, in summer, pop out all over the vine\u2014which itself is a graceful, twirling, high-climbing plant. The bean inside the pod, when freshly picked, is the same color the flower was; then it quickly oxidizes to a shiny purple, then purple-black. This rago\u00fbt (a French style of stew) is simple yet incredibly flavorful, and we ate big bowls of it by itself with bread, or with braised greens.\n\nMAKES 4 to 6 servings as a side dish\n\nTIME about 1\u00bd hours\n\n2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil, plus more for finishing\n\n12 cipollini onions, peeled and halved\n\n16 roasted tomato halves (see Slow-Roasted Tomatoes for the Freezer)\n\n1 tablespoon minced garlic\n\n2 cups drained cooked 'Cannellini' beans (method follows)\n\n2 cups drained cooked 'Scarlet Emperor' beans (method follows)\n\n1\u00bd teaspoons fine sea salt\n\n1 tablespoon chopped fresh rosemary\n\n1. Preheat the oven to 350\u00b0F. In a Dutch oven or other heavy pot, heat the oil over medium heat. Add the onions and cook, stirring often, until browned and softened, 5 to 6 minutes. Add the tomatoes and garlic and cook, stirring, until fragrant, 1 minute. Stir in the beans and salt. Pour in just enough water to cover the beans.\n\n2. Cover the pot, place in the oven, and bake for 30 minutes. Stir the rago\u00fbt, return the pot to the oven, uncovered, and cook for another 30 minutes to blend the flavors and reduce and thicken the liquid.\n\n3. Remove from the oven and stir in the rosemary. Spoon into warmed bowls, and top each serving with a drizzle of oil.\n\n_PER 1-CUP SERVING 238 cal., 24% (58 cal.) from fat; 12.5 g protein; 6.4 g fat (0.9 g sat.); 33 g carbo (6.5 g fiber); 619 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n### HOW TO COOK DRIED BEANS\n\nIn general, 1 pound (about 2\u00bc cups) dried beans yields 2 to 2\u00bd pounds (about 6 cups) cooked beans.\n\nIn a large pot, combine the dried beans with water to cover by 2 inches, cover, and bring to a boil over high heat. Reduce the heat to a simmer and cook, occasionally skimming off any foam from the surface, until the beans are just tender, 45 minutes to 1\u00bd hours. Add fine sea salt to taste (1 teaspoon for every 2 cups uncooked beans is about right) when the beans are still a little crunchy, about 15 minutes before they have finished cooking. For the most velvety texture, let the beans cool in their liquid. The beans can be stored, covered, in their liquid, in the refrigerator for up to 2 days and frozen (drained) for up to 1 month.\n\n_Stuffed Poblanos with Red Pepper Sauce_\n\n##    \nSTUFFED POBLANOS WITH RED PEPPER SAUCE\n\nWith their filling of quinoa and dried corn, these stuffed poblanos are both earthy and light. We used the last of the fresh poblanos in our garden for this recipe.\n\nMAKES 6 servings\n\nTIME about 1\u00bd hours\n\n\u2154 cup quinoa*\n\n\u00bc cup dried corn kernels**\n\n6 poblano chiles\n\n2 'Mariachi' or 'Carmen' peppers, or red bell peppers\n\n3 cloves garlic, unpeeled\n\n\u00bd white onion, unpeeled\n\n1 cup shredded Gouda cheese, homemade or store-bought\n\n1 large egg, lightly beaten\n\n2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh oregano\n\n1 teaspoon fine sea salt\n\n\u00bc cup extra virgin olive oil\n\n2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n1. Fill a large bowl halfway with cool water. Add the quinoa and briefly rub the grains between your palms in the water. Drain the quinoa in a fine-mesh strainer, transfer to a saucepan, add 2 cups water, and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer until translucent in the center and a white ring appears, about 15 minutes. Let cool for a few minutes, then fluff with a fork.\n\n2. In a small saucepan, combine the corn kernels with water just to cover. Bring to a boil, then reduce the heat and simmer until tender, about 2 minutes. Drain.\n\n3. Preheat the broiler. Place the poblanos on a rimmed baking sheet lined with aluminum foil. Broil, turning as needed, until completely charred on all sides, 15 to 20 minutes. Cover the poblanos with a kitchen towel and let cool until they can be handled. Reduce the oven temperature to 425\u00b0F.\n\n4. Put the red peppers, garlic, and the onion half, cut side down, on a rimmed baking sheet lined with foil. Roast until the peppers have blackened slightly, about 20 minutes. Let the vegetables cool until they can be handled. Leave the oven set at 425\u00baF.\n\n5. When the poblanos are cool enough to handle, peel off and discard the skins. Cut a lengthwise slit 2 to 3 inches long on one side of each poblano, and carefully scoop out the seeds with your fingers or a small spoon. Put the poblanos back on the baking sheet.\n\n6. In a bowl, mix together the quinoa, \u00bd cup of the cheese, the egg, the oregano, \u00bd teaspoon of the salt, and the corn. Carefully spoon the mixture into the poblanos, dividing it evenly. Cover the poblanos with foil.\n\n7. Bake the poblanos for 15 minutes. Uncover, sprinkle with the remaining cheese, and bake until the cheese has melted and has begun to turn golden, about 5 minutes.\n\n8. While the poblanos are baking, peel the roasted garlic and onion and stem and seed the red peppers. Put them all in a food processor; add the oil, lemon juice, and the remaining salt; and puree until smooth. If the puree is cool, warm it in a small saucepan over low heat.\n\n9. To serve, spoon the warm sauce into a serving dish and top with the hot stuffed poblanos.\n\n_PER POBLANO WITH \u00bc CUP SAUCE 286 cal., 52% (149 cal.) from fat; 10 g protein; 17 g fat (5 g sat.); 25 g carbo (4 g fiber); 548 mg sodium; 57 mg chol._\n\n* _For instructions on how to rinse homegrown quinoa to rid it of bitterness, seehere._\n\n** _We used corn from our summer garden that we dried ourselves (here). Feel free to use fresh corn kernels, if you like, increasing the amount to \u00bd cup._\n\n##    \nQUINOA HUARACHES WITH EGG AND PARSLEY SALAD\n\nIn Mexico, _huaraches_ is the word for sandals and also for the thick, oval tortilla-like cakes that resemble them. They are usually piled with lots of delicious toppings, and so are these.\n\nMAKES 6 servings\n\nTIME about 1\u00bd hours\n\n1 cup quinoa*\n\n9 large eggs\n\n\u00bd teaspoon fine sea salt\n\n4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil\n\n2 cups drained cooked 'Cannellini' beans (see method), warmed\n\n2 cups Walnut Romesco (double recipe)\n\n2 cups fresh flat-leaf parsley leaves\n\n1 teaspoon freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n\u00bc cup 1-inch-long fresh chive pieces\n\n1. Fill a large bowl halfway with cool water. Add the quinoa and briefly rub the grains between your palms in the water. Drain the quinoa in a fine-mesh strainer, transfer to a saucepan, add 2 cups water, and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer until translucent in the center and a white ring appears, about 15 minutes.\n\n2. Transfer the quinoa to a bowl and refrigerate 20 minutes. Meanwhile, put 6 eggs in another small saucepan and add water to cover. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat, remove from the heat, cover, and let stand for 15 minutes. Drain the eggs and rinse with cold water until cool. Peel the eggs and quarter lengthwise. Set aside.\n\n3. Lightly beat the remaining 3 eggs, add to the cooled quinoa with \u00bc teaspoon of the salt, and stir to combine.\n\n4. In a large nonstick frying pan, heat 1 tablespoon of the oil over medium heat. To make 2 _huaraches_ at a time, spoon 2 ladlefuls (about \u00bd cup) of the quinoa mixture into the oil for each _huarache_ and use a spoon or spatula to spread into \u00bd-inch-thick oval patties. Cook the patties, turning once, until firm and golden brown, about 6 minutes. Transfer each patty to a plate and repeat with the remaining quinoa mixture, adding 1 tablespoon oil to the pan for each batch.\n\n5. Top each patty with \u2153 cup beans. Then dollop 2 heaping tablespoons of the romesco onto each mound of beans. In a small bowl, gently mix together the parsley, the remaining 1 tablespoon oil, the lemon juice, the chives, the remaining \u00bc teaspoon salt, and the quartered eggs. Carefully set the salad mixture on top of the cakes.\n\n_PER SERVING 685 cal., 61% (421 cal.) from fat; 23 g protein; 48 g fat (7.6 g sat.); 47 g carbo (10 g fiber); 808 mg sodium; 322 mg chol._\n\n* _For instructions on how to rinse homegrown quinoa to rid it of bitterness, seehere._\n\n  BUTTERNUT SQUASH GNOCCHI WITH CHARD AND SAGE BROWN BUTTER\n\nUnlike many of the vegetables we grew for our fall dinner, our butternut squash thrived. They bulged by the dozen from the vine, so we made the most of them, as in this radiant main course.\n\nMAKES 4 to 6 servings\n\nTIME about 4 hours\n\n**GNOCCHI**\n\n3 pounds butternut squash (about 1 large)\n\n1\u00bd teaspoons extra virgin olive oil\n\n\u2154 cup ricotta cheese, homemade or store-bought\n\n1 large egg, lightly beaten\n\n1\u00bd tablespoons honey\n\n\u00be teaspoon fine sea salt\n\nAbout 3 cups sifted 'Expresso' whole-wheat flour* (to remove some of the coarse germ), plus more for sprinkling\n\n**SAGE BUTTER**\n\n\u00bd cup unsalted butter\n\n2\u00bd teaspoons freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n2 tablespoons thinly sliced fresh sage leaves\n\n1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil, plus more for oiling baking sheet\n\n1\u00bd teaspoons minced garlic\n\n9 to 10 ounces Swiss chard (about 1 bunch), stemmed and leaves chopped\n\nAbout \u00be cup Roasted Spiced Butternut Squash Seeds\n\n1. To start the gnocchi, preheat the oven to 350\u00b0F. Cut off the ends of the squash and discard. Cut the squash into large chunks, but do not peel. Scrape off the seeds and save them for roasting if you like. Rub the flesh sides of the squash chunks with the oil, set on a rimmed baking sheet, and cover with aluminum foil.\n\n2. Roast the squash until tender when pierced with a knife tip and starting to brown, 45 to 60 minutes. Remove from the oven and let cool, then scoop the flesh from the skins into a medium-mesh strainer set over a bowl. Let the squash drain of any excess liquid, about 15 minutes. Reserve the squash and liquid separately and throw away the skins.\n\n3. In a food processor, whirl the squash flesh until smooth. If it's dry and not moving freely, add 2 tablespoons of squash liquid. Continue adding the liquid 2 tablespoons at a time, until the squash has the consistency of velvety mashed potatoes. Set the puree aside.\n\n4. To make the sage butter, melt the butter in a large saucepan over high heat. Reduce the heat to medium and simmer until the butter darkens to a medium brown, about 10 minutes. Be careful not to let the butter get too dark. Remove from the heat and stir in the lemon juice and sage. Set the butter aside.\n\n5. To finish the gnocchi, in a large bowl, combine 2 cups squash puree (save the extra for another use), the ricotta, egg, honey, and salt, mixing well. Gently stir in 2 to 3 cups of the flour in \u00bd-cup increments, adding just enough flour to form a very soft dough. It should still be quite wet.\n\n6. Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Meanwhile, heavily dust a work surface with more sifted flour. Scoop about 1 cup of the dough onto the flour (the dough will be extremely soft) and sift a little more flour on top. Roll the dough with your hands into a rope 15 inches long. Cut the rope into 1-inch pieces, sprinkling the dough with more flour if it gets sticky. As the pieces are cut, transfer them to a rimmed baking sheet lightly dusted with sifted flour. Repeat with the remaining dough.\n\n7. Reduce the heat under the boiling water to medium-low. Working in batches of 15 to 20 pieces, carefully drop the gnocchi into the water and cook until they are firm and float to the surface, about 5 minutes. With a slotted spoon, transfer the gnocchi to a large colander to drain, then to a lightly oiled rimmed baking sheet. Cook and drain the remaining gnocchi the same way.\n\n8. To assemble the gnocchi, heat 1\u00bd teaspoons of the oil in a large nonstick frying pan over medium-high heat. Working in batches, add the gnocchi to the pan and cook, stirring often, until browned, 5 to 8 minutes. Transfer to a warmed serving dish.\n\n9. Add the remaining 1\u00bd teaspoons oil and the garlic to the same pan over medium-high heat and cook, stirring, until the garlic is fragrant, 2 minutes. Add the chard and cook, stirring occasionally, until softened, 5 minutes. Gently combine the chard with the gnocchi.\n\n10. Warm the reserved sage butter and drizzle half of it over the gnocchi. Sprinkle the gnocchi with the roasted squash seeds. Pass the remaining sage butter at the table.\n\n**MAKE AHEAD:** You can prepare the gnocchi through step 6, cover tightly, and refrigerate for up to 3 days. Or, you can freeze the gnocchi on the baking sheet until solid, then transfer them to resealable plastic bags for up to 3 weeks. Cook directly from the refrigerator or freezer.\n\n_PER 1\u00bd-CUP SERVING 733 cal., 49% (366 cal.) from fat; 22 g protein; 41 g fat (15.5 g sat.); 77 g carbo (13 g fiber); 594 mg sodium; 91 mg chol._\n\n* _We liked the nutty flavor of this freshly milled local flour, but any whole-wheat flour will work. SeeThe Allure of Local Wheat for more on local flours._\n\n##    \nANCHO CHILE\u2013SAUCED NOODLES WITH SHIITAKES AND BUTTERNUT SQUASH\n\nWe used a combination of flours to give these noodles a more supple, finer texture than they have when they are made from regular whole-wheat flour. If you like a rustic, hearty noodle, use just the regular whole-wheat flour.\n\nMAKES 4 to 6 servings\n\nTIME about 3 hours\n\n1 cup 'Sonora' whole-wheat flour* or whole-wheat pastry flour, plus more for sprinkling\n\n1\u00bc cups 'Expresso' whole-wheat flour* or other whole-wheat flour\n\n1\u00bd teaspoons fine sea salt\n\n3 large eggs plus 2 large egg yolks\n\n6 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil\n\n1 butternut squash, 2 to 2\u00bd pounds\n\n4 small ancho chiles (about 1 ounce total)\n\n\u00bc white onion\n\n3 cloves garlic, unpeeled\n\n1 pound shiitake mushrooms, stems removed and caps sliced 1 inch thick\n\n4 roasted tomato halves (about 2 tablespoons; see Slow-Roasted Tomatoes for the Freezer)\n\n\u00bd cup chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley\n\n1. To make the noodle dough, in a large bowl, whisk together the flours and \u00bd teaspoon of the salt. Form a well in the center and add the eggs and egg yolks to the well. Break up the eggs with a fork and mix in 1 tablespoon of the oil. Gradually mix the flour from the sides of the well into the eggs. Stir until a dough forms.\n\n2. Turn the dough out onto a well-floured work surface and sprinkle with a little more flour. Knead the dough, dusting it lightly with flour whenever it starts sticking to your hands, until it is smooth, 2 to 3 minutes. Cover with a damp kitchen towel and let rest for at least 30 minutes or up to 1\u00bd hours.\n\n3. Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 450\u00b0F. Cut off the ends of the squash and discard. Halve the squash lengthwise and scrape out the seeds. Rinse any flesh off the seeds and pat dry on a kitchen towel. Using a vegetable peeler, peel the squash halves, then cut them crosswise into \u00be-inch-thick slices.\n\n4. Start the ancho sauce: In a heavy frying pan (not nonstick), toast the chiles over medium-high heat, pressing down on them occasionally with tongs, until soft and pliable, 2 to 3 minutes. Transfer 3 of the chiles to a small heatproof bowl and pour 1\u00bc cups boiling water over them. Let soften for 20 minutes. Stem the remaining chile, break into pieces, and pulverize in a spice grinder or in a mortar with a pestle.\n\n5. Add the onion and garlic cloves to the same frying pan over medium-high heat and toast, turning occasionally, until browned in several spots, 10 minutes. Transfer to a small bowl. Add 1 tablespoon of the oil to the same pan over medium heat, add the squash seeds, sprinkle with \u00bd teaspoon of the salt, and toast, stirring, until crisp, 5 minutes. Pour into a bowl.\n\n6. Cook the vegetables: Arrange the squash slices in a single layer on a large rimmed baking sheet and arrange the mushrooms in a 9-by-13-inch baking dish. Sprinkle the squash slices and mushrooms with the ground chile, then sprinkle with the remaining \u00bd teaspoon salt. Add \u00bd cup water to the mushrooms, cover the dish tightly with aluminum foil, and braise in the oven until tender, about 30 minutes. Drizzle the squash slices with 2 tablespoons of the oil and roast, turning the slices halfway through cooking, until browned and tender, about 40 minutes. Set aside, covered.\n\n7. Finish the sauce: Stem the soaked chiles and put in a blender. Add \u00be cup of the chile soaking water and the toasted squash seeds and blend until smooth. Peel the toasted garlic and add to the blender along with the onion, tomatoes, and the remaining oil. Blend again until smooth.\n\n8. Divide the dough into 4 equal portions and pat each into a square \u00bd inch thick. Put 1 square on a floured work surface (keep the others covered with the towel), and roll out \u215b inch thick. Using a pizza cutter, cut the dough sheet into noodles \u00bc inch wide. Scoop up the noodles with a bench scraper or a large, wide spatula and lay them on a cooling rack. Repeat with the remaining dough. Let the noodles dry for at least 20 minutes or up to 1 day.\n\n9. Bring an 8- to 10-quart pot of salted water to a boil. Add the noodles to the boiling water, shaking off excess flour. Cook until chewy-tender, 3 to 4 minutes. Drain the noodles, reserving \u00bd cup of the cooking water, and pour into a large bowl.\n\n10. Add the ancho sauce to the noodles and toss to coat, adding as much of the reserved cooking water or remaining chile soaking water as needed to loosen the sauce a little. Add three-fourths of the parsley and toss again. Arrange the noodles on a warmed platter. Top with the roasted squash slices, the braised mushrooms, and the remaining parsley.\n\n_PER SERVING 431 cal., 40% (172 cal.) from fat; 14 g protein; 20 g fat (3.6 g sat.); 58 g carbo (13 g fiber); 627 mg sodium; 177 mg chol._\n\n* _We used finely milled 'Sonora' white whole-wheat flour, because it behaves like commercial whole-wheat pastry flour. For the regular whole-wheat flour, we used 'Expresso', a hard red winter wheat. SeeThe Allure of Local Wheat for more on local flours._\n\n##    \nMEXICAN SKILLET EGGS\n\nOur eggs seemed especially flavorful in this one-pan dinner, fortified with pureed 'Scarlet Emperor' beans (our substitute for black beans, because they have a similar starchy texture), intense oven-roasted tomatoes preserved from summer, and our last few fresh chiles. Once we ran out of fresh, we made it with frozen poblanos and dried serrano chiles.\n\nMAKES 4 to 6 servings\n\nTIME about 30 minutes\n\n2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil\n\n\u00bd white onion, sliced\n\n2 red or green poblano chiles, stemmed, seeded, and sliced\n\n1 tablespoon minced garlic\n\n1 tablespoon minced red serrano chile\n\n1\u00bd teaspoons fine sea salt\n\n3 cups drained cooked 'Scarlet Emperor' beans (see method)\n\n8 roasted tomato halves (see Slow-Roasted Tomatoes for the Freezer), halved\n\n4 to 6 large eggs\n\n1 tablespoon fresh oregano leaves\n\n1. In a large nonstick frying pan, heat the oil over medium heat. Add the onion and poblanos and cook, stirring often, until starting to soften, about 4 minutes. Add the garlic, serrano chile, and \u00bd teaspoon of the salt and cook, stirring, until fragrant, about 1 minute. Set aside off the heat and cover to keep warm.\n\n2. In a small saucepan, combine the beans, \u00bd cup water, and the remaining 1 teaspoon salt over low heat and heat just until warm. Transfer to a food processor and puree until smooth and loose, adding more water as needed.\n\n3. Return the frying pan to medium heat, pour the bean puree over the vegetables, and heat until the mixture begins to simmer. Scatter the tomato halves over the beans. Use a spoon to make 4 or 6 wells, depending on how many people you are serving, and crack an egg into each well. Cover the pan and cook until the eggs are just set but still a little runny in the center, about 5 minutes. Sprinkle with the oregano and serve.\n\n_PER EGG WITH \u00bc CUP BEANS 217 cal., 42% (93 cal.) from fat; 13 g protein; 10.5 g fat (20 g sat.); 18 g carbo (2 g fiber); 649 mg sodium; 211 mg chol._\n\n##    \nCREAMY SCRAMBLED EGGS WITH OYSTER MUSHROOMS\n\nThis recipe is based on one by Niloufer Ichaporia King, a wonderful Bay Area cook and the author of _My Bombay Kitchen: Traditional and Modern Parsi Home Cooking_.\n\nMAKES 4 to 6 servings\n\nTIME about 30 minutes\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter, homemade or store-bought\n\n7 ounces oyster mushrooms, stems trimmed if woody and any large caps halved\n\n1\u00bd teaspoons fresh thyme leaves, minced\n\nFine sea salt\n\n2 cloves garlic, minced\n\n8 large eggs\n\n\u00bd cup whole milk\n\n1. In a nonstick frying pan, melt the butter over medium heat. Pour about half of the melted butter into a medium bowl and set aside. Add the mushrooms, thyme, and \u00bc teaspoon salt to the frying pan and cook, stirring every now and then, until the mushrooms have softened and are starting to brown, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic and cook, stirring, for 1 minute more.\n\n2. Add the eggs, milk, and a couple of pinches of salt to the bowl with the melted butter and whisk to blend. Pour the egg mixture into a medium saucepan and cook over low heat, stirring slowly with a rubber spatula and keeping contact with the bottom of the pan, until small, soft curds begin to form, 10 to 15 minutes.\n\n3. Stir in the mushrooms and keep cooking and stirring until the eggs are just set, about a minute longer.\n\n_PER SERVING 151 cal., 63% (95 cal.) from fat; 10 g protein; 11 g fat (5 g sat.); 4 g carbo (0.7 g fiber); 222 mg sodium; 299 mg chol._\n\n  WHOLE-WHEAT ROSEMARY SHORTBREADS\n\nWe wanted some kind of buttery cracker to go with our fall cheese platter. These melt-in-your-mouth shortbreads are too fragile to be topped or spread with anything, but they taste wonderful with cheese and fruit.\n\nMAKES about 12 shortbread squares\n\nTIME about 30 minutes, plus 1 hour to chill\n\n\u00be cup unsalted butter, homemade or store-bought, at room temperature\n\n1 teaspoon honey\n\n\u00bd teaspoon fine sea salt\n\n\u00bd teaspoon minced fresh rosemary\n\n1\u00bd cups 'Sonora' whole-wheat flour,* plus more for sprinkling\n\n1. In a medium bowl, using a mixer on medium speed, beat together the butter and honey until light and fluffy. Beat in the salt and rosemary. On low speed, gradually beat in the flour just until well combined.\n\n2. Line a rimless cookie sheet with waxed paper and scrape dough onto the paper. Sprinkle the dough lightly with flour. With a floured rolling pin, roll out the dough to about \u00bc inch thick. Top with another sheet of waxed paper and refrigerate for at least 1 hour or up to 2 days.\n\n3. Preheat the oven to 325\u00b0F. Using a 2-inch square cookie cutter (we used one with a scalloped edge), cut out as many squares as possible and place on 2 rimmed baking sheets, spacing them \u00bd inch apart. Gather up the dough scraps, reroll, cut out more squares, and add to the baking sheet. (If the dough gets too sticky to roll, chill and try again.)\n\n4. Bake until set but not browned, 10 to 12 minutes. Let cool completely on the baking sheets set on wire racks.\n\n**MAKE AHEAD** Shortbreads keep, stored airtight, at room temperature, for up to 1 week.\n\n_PER SHORTBREAD 159 cal., 66% (105 cal.) from fat; 2.4 g protein; 12 g fat (7 g sat.); 12 g carbo (2 g fiber); 176 mg sodium; 31 mg chol._\n\n* _We liked a medium-fine grind of this local flour, but regular whole-wheat flour works well, too. SeeThe Allure of Local Wheat for more on local flours._\n\n##    \nWALNUT-HONEY CRISPS\n\nWe started out trying to make _tuiles_ , thin, blond, curvy French cookies that shatter when you eat them. Our sole sweetener, though, was honey\u2014which is too moist to produce anything thin or crisp enough to hold a curve, and our wheat flour made the cookies dark. So these are _tuiles'_ flat, homey, but very tasty cousins.\n\nMAKES 10 cookies\n\nTIME about 30 minutes\n\n\u2153 cup unsalted butter\n\n\u00bc cup honey\n\n\u215b teaspoon fine sea salt\n\n\u00bc cup finely chopped toasted walnuts\n\n\u00bc cup 'Expresso' whole-wheat flour* or other whole-wheat flour\n\n1. Preheat the oven to 325\u00b0F. Line 2 rimmed baking sheets with parchment paper.\n\n2. In a small saucepan, heat the butter, honey, and salt over medium heat until boiling, stirring often. Remove from the heat and whisk in the walnuts and flour. Continue to whisk until the mixture is very smooth and thick and no fat dots appear on the surface, about 3 minutes.\n\n3. For each cookie, spoon 1 tablespoon batter onto the prepared sheets, spacing the spoonfuls about 3 inches apart (the batter will spread a lot).\n\n4. Bake the crisps until dark golden brown, about 12 minutes. Halfway through baking, switch the pan positions and rotate the pans back to front to ensure the cookies bake evenly. Let cool completely on the pans on wire racks. Store in an airtight container at room temperature for up to 1 day.\n\n_PER COOKIE 95 cal., 78% (74 cal.) from fat; 3.4 g protein; 8.3 g fat (1.3 g sat.); 1.8 g carbo (0.5 g fiber); 97 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n* _We liked the nutty flavor of this freshly milled local flour, but any whole-wheat flour will work. SeeThe Allure of Local Wheat for more on local flours._\n\n##    \n  HONEY ICE CREAM\n\nWe were knocked out by the intensely floral, seductive flavor of our honey all over again in this simple, lovely ice cream. Use your favorite honey when you make this.\n\nMAKES 4 cups\n\nTIME about 1 hour, plus 6 hours to freeze\n\n2 cups heavy cream\n\n1\u00bd cups whole milk\n\n4 large egg yolks\n\nAbout 1 cup honey\n\nPinch of fine sea salt, plus more for finishing\n\nIce cubes\n\n1. Pour the cream and milk into a medium saucepan and bring to a simmer over medium heat. Right before it comes to a simmer, in a medium heatproof bowl, whisk together the egg yolks, \u00be cup of the honey, and the salt.\n\n2. Immediately pour the cream and milk slowly into the yolk mixture while whisking constantly. Return the mixture to the pan and cook over medium heat, stirring constantly and adjusting the heat to prevent the mixture from boiling, until it begins to thicken, about 8 minutes.\n\n3. Fill a large bowl with ice cubes and water, and nest a medium bowl in the ice water. Strain the custard mixture through a fine-mesh strainer into the medium bowl. Let cool completely, stirring occasionally and replacing the ice if needed.\n\n4. Freeze in an ice cream maker according to the manufacturer's directions. Transfer to an airtight container and freeze until firm, at least 6 hours or up to 2 weeks.\n\n5. To serve, scoop ice cream into bowls. Drizzle with more honey and top with a sprinkle of salt.\n\n_PER \u00bd-CUP SERVING 390 cal., 60% (234 cal.) from fat; 4.1 g protein; 26 g fat (15.5 g sat.); 38.7 g carbo (0.1 g fiber); 328 mg sodium; 192 mg chol._\n\n##    \nLEMON-THYME ICE CREAM SANDWICHES\n\nMade with nutty whole-wheat flour and honey, the cookie part tastes like graham crackers, with the barest hint of thyme. The ice cream brings back summer, when we harvested the last of the heavy, dripping frames of honey.\n\nMAKES 30 ice cream sandwiches (60 cookies)\n\nTIME about 1 hour, plus about 1\u00be hours to chill\n\n1 cup butter, at room temperature\n\n\u00bd cup honey\n\nGrated zest of 1 lemon\n\n1 teaspoon minced fresh thyme\n\n2\u00bc cups whole-wheat pastry flour*\n\nAbout 1 pint Honey Ice Cream (opposite), frozen overnight\n\n1. In a large bowl, using a mixer on medium speed, beat together the butter, honey, lemon zest, and thyme until smooth. On low speed, gradually beat in the flour until a smooth dough forms.\n\n2. Divide the dough in half. Put each portion on a sheet of plastic wrap and pat into a rough log about 7 inches long. Move the logs, still on the plastic wrap, onto a rimmed baking sheet and freeze until firm enough to shape, about 20 minutes.\n\n3. Pat each log until it is smooth and reaches a uniform 1\u00bd inches in diameter, squeezing the dough together if it starts to crack. Wrap airtight in plastic wrap and freeze until firm enough to slice, 20 to 30 minutes.\n\n4. Preheat the oven to 325\u00b0F. Line 2 rimmed baking sheets with parchment paper. Unwrap the dough. Using a thin, sharp knife, cut the logs into \u00bc-inch-thick slices. Arrange the slices \u00bd inch apart on the baking sheets.\n\n5. Bake the cookies until the edges are golden brown, 12 to 15 minutes. Switch the pan positions and rotate the pans back to front about halfway through baking so the cookies bake evenly. Let cool on the pans on wire racks for 5 minutes. Transfer to the racks to cool completely.\n\n6. To make the sandwiches, put a baking sheet in the freezer until it is cold. Arrange 5 or 6 cookies, bottom side up, on a work surface. Put 1 tablespoon ice cream on each cookie, then top with a second cookie, bottom side down, and squish gently to spread the ice cream evenly. Put the finished sandwiches on the baking sheet in the freezer, then repeat with the remaining cookies and ice cream, working in batches. When all of the sandwiches are made, wrap them individually in plastic wrap and freeze until the ice cream is firm, about 1 hour.\n\n**MAKE AHEAD** Plain cookies can be stored in an airtight container at room temperature for up to 2 days or in the freezer for up to 1 month. Ice cream sandwiches will keep in the freezer for up to 1 week.\n\n_PER ICE CREAM SANDWICH 156 cal., 56% (87 cal.) from fat; 1.5 g protein; 9.7 g fat (6 g sat.); 17 g carbo (1.2 g fiber); 88 mg sodium; 42 mg chol._\n\n* _We used finely milled local 'Sonora' whole-wheat flour, but any whole-wheat pastry flour will work. SeeThe Allure of Local Wheat for more on local flours._\n\n_Apple Cheese Puff_\n\n##    \nAPPLE CHEESE PUFF\n\nThis pastry is all about layers: a thin, buttery crust, then a poufed circle of cream puff dough topped with creamy, sweetened cheese and caramelized apples. You can cook the apples a day ahead, but not the crust\u2014it gets leathery as it sits. This is a dessert best eaten in one go.\n\nMAKES one 7- to 8-inch pastry or 9 servings\n\nTIME about 1\u00bd hours\n\n\u00bd cup plus 3 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, homemade or store-bought\n\n1 cup 'Sonora' whole-wheat pastry flour*\n\n1 large egg plus 1 large egg white, lightly beaten\n\n4 Honey Crisp or other firm, tart-sweet apples\n\n9 tablespoons honey\n\n\u00be cup fromage blanc, homemade or store-bought**\n\n1. Preheat the oven to 350\u00b0F. Cut \u00bc cup of the butter into small cubes. Put \u00bd cup of the flour in a small bowl, scatter the butter cubes over the top, and mix the butter into the flour with a pastry blender or your fingertips until the mixture is the consistency of crushed crackers. Sprinkle in 1 tablespoon water and mix with a wooden spoon until the dough comes together. If the dough is not coming together, sprinkle in another 1 tablespoon water. Press the dough into a disk.\n\n2. Put the disk on an ungreased rimmed baking sheet and pat into a round 8 inches in diameter and \u215b inch thick.\n\n3. In a saucepan, bring \u00bc cup of the butter and \u00bd cup water to a rolling boil. Remove from the heat and quickly stir in the remaining \u00bd cup flour with a wooden spoon. Pour in the eggs and stir vigorously until smooth. With a wet soup spoon, spread the mixture over the dough disk, pushing it higher on the edge to form a narrow rim. Poke the center several times with a fork to keep the pastry from puffing up when it bakes.\n\n4. Bake the pastry until crisp and brown, 45 to 55 minutes. Let cool completely on the pan on a cooling rack.\n\n5. Meanwhile, make the toppings: Peel, halve, and core the apples, then slice \u00bc inch thick. In a large nonstick frying pan, melt the remaining 3 tablespoons butter over medium-high heat. Add the apples and cook, stirring occasionally, until they start to brown, about 8 minutes. Turn the heat to its lowest setting, cover, and cook the apples until they are very soft, about 20 minutes more. Add 6 tablespoons of the honey, raise the heat to medium-high, and cook, uncovered, until the apples are deep golden brown and most of the liquid has evaporated, about 20 minutes. Let cool until just warm.\n\n6. In a small bowl, whisk together the fromage blanc and the remaining 3 tablespoons honey. Spread the mixture on the cooled pastry and top with the warm apples.\n\n_PER SERVING 387 cal., 52% (200 cal.) from fat; 5.5 g protein; 22.5 g fat (13.8 g sat.); 43 g carbo (2.9 g fiber); 303 mg sodium; 91.5 mg chol._\n\n* _We liked this local finely milled soft whole-wheat flour for this recipe because its texture is great in pastries. Any whole-wheat pastry flour will work, however. SeeThe Allure of Local Wheat for more on local flours._\n\n** _Store-bought fromage blanc is often much drier than homemade fromage blanc. If you use it, stir in enough heavy cream (at least 3 tablespoons) to give it the consistency of softened cream cheese._\n\n##    \nBUTTERNUT SQUASH COMPOTE WITH HONEY AND TOASTED WALNUTS\n\nA quick glance at the ingredients here might give you an unpromising impression, but this dessert is a standout: as the squash bakes slowly in honey, it takes on a deeply floral, slightly caramelized note. Resist the temptation to take it out of the oven once it is cooked. When left in the oven to cool, the squash becomes infused with the flavor of the honey, and its texture turns velvety. The recipe is based on one in _The Slow Mediterranean Kitchen: Recipes for the Passionate Cook_ (Wiley, 2003) by Paula Wolfert.\n\nMAKES 4 to 6 servings\n\nTIME about 2 hours, plus about 3 hours to stand\n\n1 small butternut squash, about 1\u00be pounds\n\n1 cup honey\n\n1 teaspoon salted butter, homemade (at right) or store-bought\n\n\u00bd cup walnut halves\n\n\u00be cup cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche, homemade or store-bought\n\n1. Preheat the oven to 300\u00b0F. Cut off the ends of the squash and discard. Cut the squash in half lengthwise, then scrape out the seeds (save the seeds for roasting, if you like). Using a vegetable peeler, peel the squash halves, then cut the flesh into 1\u00bd-inch chunks. You should have 3\u00bd to 4 cups.\n\n2. Put the squash chunks in a deep 1- to 1\u00bd-quart baking dish such as a souffl\u00e9 dish. Add the honey and stir to coat the squash chunks evenly. Cut a piece of parchment paper a few inches larger than the diameter of the dish. Crumple the parchment, moisten it with water, and then flatten it on a work surface. Cover the squash with the parchment, tucking it around the inside of the dish to fit snugly.\n\n3. Bake the squash, stirring every 30 minutes or so, until it is tender when pierced, 1\u00be to 2 hours. Turn off the oven and leave the squash inside for about 3 hours to finish cooking evenly.\n\n4. Meanwhile, in a small frying pan, melt the butter over medium heat. Add the walnuts and cook, stirring often, until the nuts are lightly browned, 3 to 4 minutes.\n\n5. Spoon the slightly warm squash and honey syrup into bowls. Garnish each serving with a spoonful of cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche and a scattering of the walnuts.\n\n**MAKE AHEAD** The compote can be refrigerated for up to 2 days. Warm slightly in a microwave for about 1\u00bd minutes or in a 300\u00baF oven before serving.\n\n_PER SERVING 387 cal., 40% (156 cal.) from fat; 3.5 g protein; 17 g fat (8 g sat.); 60 g carbo (4 g fiber); 11 mg sodium; 27 mg chol._\n\n##    \nHOMEMADE BUTTER AND BUTTERMILK\n\nHere is your chance to ignore that rule about not overbeating cream and go straight for the clumps of butter. Unlike commercial butter, which has small amounts of culture added, homemade butter tastes extra sweet and fresh\u2014and so does the buttermilk that's left over. (We use it to make Wheat Berry Ciabatta.)\n\nMAKES 1 cup butter and \u00be cup sweet buttermilk\n\nTIME about 10 minutes\n\n2 cups heavy cream\n\nFine sea salt (optional)\n\n1. Whirl the cream in a food processor until it separates into buttermilk and clumps of butter that look like fluffy scrambled eggs. Then keep whirling until the butter forms bigger clumps. This takes 2 to 3 minutes total.\n\n2. Set a fine-mesh strainer over a bowl. Pour the butter-milk and butter into the strainer and let drain briefly. Squeeze the butter with your hands to extract the remaining buttermilk (it's okay if a little is left).\n\n3. Turn the butter into another bowl and stir in salt to taste, if you like. Both the butter and buttermilk will keep in the refrigerator for up to 1 week.\n\n_PER TABLESPOON BUTTER 101 cal., 100% (101 cal.) from fat; 0.1 g protein; 11.5 g fat (7.3 g sat.); 0 g carbo (0 g fiber); 1.5 mg sodium; 30.5 mg chol._\n\n_PER \u00bd CUP BUTTERMILK 75 cal., 20% (14.5 cal.) from fat; 6 g protein; 1.5 g fat (1.2 g sat.); 9 g carbo (0 g fiber); 193 mg sodium; 7.5 mg chol._\n\n  LAST-MINUTE PINEAPPLE GUAVA PRESERVES\n\nWe wanted some sort of fruity component for our cheese course, and in the wake of the Fig Disaster, we scoured the garden for fruit, any fruit at all\u2014and found some very ripe pineapple guavas still hanging on our tree.\n\nWe had not considered including guavas in the feast (we'd been focused on those figs), but suddenly they seemed perfect: We would make a classic Spanish-style membrillo (quince paste)\u2014so good with cheese\u2014only with pineapple guavas! Like quince, pineapple guavas are extremely fragrant and are used to make purees, pastes, and preserves. Also known as feijoas, they have a wonderful flavor that combines pineapple, pear, and strawberry, and their flesh is slightly grainy, like that of a Bosc pear.\n\nWe ended up with both a thick guava jam (shown in photo) and, in later tests, a firm paste that can be cut into pieces. Both were delicious, and went well with the Gouda and feta.\n\nMAKES about 2 cups\n\nTIME about 3 hours, plus 30 minutes to cool and 2 hours to chill\n\n2 pounds ripe pineapple guavas (fejoias)\n\n1 cup water\n\n1 cup honey\n\n1. Trim off the ends of the guavas, then chop coarsely, skins and all. Put the chunks in a large pot with the water. Cook over low heat, stirring occasionally, until the chunks are soft, about 1 hour.\n\n2. Preheat the oven to 250\u00b0F if making a paste. Transfer the cooked fruit to a food processor and pulse until smooth. Strain the mixture back into the pot and add the honey. Cook over medium-low heat, stirring frequently with a rubber spatula and scraping the bottom of the pot to prevent the mixture from sticking, until it is very thick and bubbling, the consistency of mashed potatoes, about 1 hour. The color goes from green to light brown. If you want a firm paste, continue with the next step. Otherwise, let the preserves cool, then chill them until ready to serve.\n\n3. Scrape the jam into a nonstick 9-inch square baking dish and bake, stirring occasionally, until dark brown and very thick, about 45 minutes. Remove the preserves from the oven, stir, and let cool 30 minutes. Chill until cold, then cut into pieces.\n\n**MAKE AHEAD** The preserves can be made up to 2 weeks in advance and stored, tightly covered, in the refrigerator.\n\n_PER 2-TABLESPOON SERVING 85 cal., 3% (3 cal.) from fat; 0.05 g protein; 0.3 g fat (0 g sat.); 22 g carbo (2.2 g fiber); 2 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n_Fall cheese platter:Gouda and feta with fresh honeycomb, walnuts, pineapple guava slices, Last-Minute Pineapple Guava Preserves, and Whole-Wheat Rosemary Shortbreads_\n\nTHE ALLURE OF LOCAL WHEAT\n\nAfter we ran out of our own wheat, we decided to try to find the next best thing: locally grown whole-wheat flour.\n\nAt a farmers' market near our office, we found a finely milled soft white variety called 'Sonora', grown and milled by Full Belly Farm in Yolo County, to the northeast of us. At Pie Ranch in Pescadero, on the coast to the south, we found more 'Sonora', with a medium-fine texture. Eatwell Farm\u2014in inland Solano County\u2014sold several flours at San Francisco's Ferry Plaza Farmers Market; we tried 'Expresso', a hard red type.\n\nWhen you're used to standard refined all-purpose flour, it's exciting to cook with flour made from nonstandard wheat varieties. They each have their own character and flavor, and you have to adjust your recipes to suit them. The 'Sonora' has a delicate, fresh taste, and, we discovered, works best as a pastry flour; it is very soft and doesn't develop the stretchiness needed for bread making. The very finely milled 'Sonora' sold by Full Belly Farm was great for tempura, which usually requires rice flour in order to be lacy and crisp. The protein content of 'Sonora' is typically 9 percent, about the same as pastry flour. The 'Expresso', at 12.3 percent protein, makes good, nutty-tasting bread with a fine rise. All three farms we bought from mill their grains every couple of weeks, so the flour is fresh and sweet\u2014another big difference between the little guys and the big manufacturers.\n\nModern Wheat\n\nAs we cooked with the flours, we found out more about them. 'Expresso', developed by Arizona breeder Kim Shantz in 2005, is a thoroughly modern \"inbred\" variety created to fight off a common wheat disease called stripe rust. It is mainly grown in the Sacramento Valley. Its parent, 'Express', came from an international breeding program in Mexico. Neither had roots in California. \"Breeders use varieties from around the world. You can't really regionalize any more,\" says Shantz. I asked him whether the fine flavor of 'Expresso' flour was making the wheat more popular. \"Big producers don't care so much about that,\" he said. \"They're looking at protein level and mixing qualities.\" (The term _mixing qualities_ refers to the strength of the dough and how long it can be mixed without breaking down.)\n\nNigel Walker, of Eatwell Farm, bought the 'Expresso' originally to feed to his chickens. Then he heard that it made good bread, so he milled some, and now he sells all he can supply. \"I know it's not an heirloom. But it makes really good baking flour and responds to organic methods,\" he says. Modern flours typically need heavy doses of herbicide to fight off weeds. But so far, Walker's 'Expresso' is doing fine on his organic farm.\n\nLandrace Wheat\n\n'Sonora' wheat comes from the other end of the wheat spectrum. It is a landrace variety, meaning it has adapted to its specific environment over many years. In the case of 'Sonora', that means centuries. Monica Spiller, the founder of Whole Grain Connection, in Mountain View, California, thinks its cultivation in California probably predates the Spanish missionaries. It is known to have existed in Sonora, in northern Mexico, since at least the early 1700s, hence its name. (The big white flour tortillas famous in that part of Mexico were once made with 'Sonora' wheat.)\n\nIn California, 'Sonora' thrived. Along with a few other wheat varieties, it made California the number one wheat producer in the country by the late 1800s. So much of it was grown in 1884\u2014nearly three million acres\u2014that it set the floor prices at the London International Wheat Exchange.\n\nUnfortunately, its decline began immediately afterward, with the rise of hard red wheat from the Midwest, and the invention of the roller mill. Hard red was not only superprolific, but it could be put through a roller mill that sheared off the germ and bran to produce refined white flour, for which the public had an insatiable appetite. 'Sonora' didn't work well in the roller mills\u2014it was best ground whole\u2014and, not being quite as white as refined white flour, it floundered. By 1910, California's total wheat acreage fell to six hundred thousand, and gradually modern hybrids replaced the older strains.\n\nWheat Revival\n\nIt is thanks in large part to Spiller that 'Sonora' is back on the scene. A former chemist, she has spent the past thirty years researching which varieties do best in our area, and 'Sonora', which she found preserved at the United States Department of Agriculture's Small Grains Collection in Idaho, tops the list. Unlike hybrids, which tend to get knocked out by evolving strains of stripe rust, 'Sonora' is enduringly resistant to the disease, requires no chemical fertilizing, and needs very little water once it gets going, which makes it great for drought-prone California and also Arizona. The next time we plant wheat, we'll probably give both 'Sonora' and 'Expresso' a try.\n\n**HELPFUL INFORMATION**\n\nWhole-wheat flour\n\n**Oregon Tilth** A good list of national producers who grow organic wheat (www.tilth.org\/producer-search\/producers).\n\n**Anson Mills, Columbia, South Carolina** Owner Glenn Roberts grows a range of heritage wheats for flour, including colonial-era 'Red May' (www.ansonmills.com).\n\n**Bob's Red Mill, Milwaukie, Oregon** The whole-grain, stone-ground giant gives guided tours of the mill. (www.bobsredmill.com)\n\n**Pie Ranch, Pescadero, California** Organic 'Sonora' wheat berries and flour. Sold at the farm stand in Pescadero, March through October; Pie Ranch's flour (as well as its produce) also goes to make pies and other baked goods at local sustainable food businesses such as Mission Pie in San Francisco and Companion Bakers in Santa Cruz. $3 per 1-pound bag (www.pieranch.org).\n\n**Full Belly Farm, Guinda, California** Organic 'Sonora' wheat flour and wheat berries sold at various Bay Area farmers' markets and some grocery stores. $3 per 1\u00bd-pound bag (www.fullbellyfarm.com).\n\n**Eatwell Farm, near Dixon, California** Organic 'Expresso' hard red wheat flour, as well as flour milled from several other varieties. Sold at San Francisco's Ferry Plaza Farmers Market on Saturdays. $1 per 1-pound bag wheat berries, $5 per 3-pound bag flour (www.eatwell.com).\n\n**Community Grains, Oakland, California** Oliveto restaurant co-owner Bob Klein has just launched a new business that sells freshly milled, locally grown wheat flours, as well as super-flavorful polentas, at specialty stores in the Bay Area. \"This is not health nut stuff,\" says Klein. \"This is stepping into full flavor.\" The Web site, www.communitygrains.com, offers terrific in-depth information about wheat.\n\nWheat seeds\n\n**Whole Grain Connection, Mountain View, California** Monica Spiller's Web site includes a history of wheat growing in America, recipes for bread made with barm (sourdough starter), and a report on field trials of various old wheat strains, plus a plan for how to bring them back into production. $1.25 per pound for seeds, plus packaging and shipping (www.sustainablegrains.org or 650\/938-2865).\n\n**Wheat berries from Pie Ranch, Full Belly, and Eatwell Farm** (see above, under whole-wheat flour) can be planted as seed. Wheat berries from the grocery store may not be viable, but theoretically could sprout, too.\n\nBooks\n\n_Homegrown Whole Grains_ , by Sara Pitzer (Storey Publishing, 2009). A charming, restfully designed, yet information-packed guide to growing your own, with helpful illustrations.\n\n_Professional Baking_ , by Wayne Gisslen (John Wiley & Sons, fifth edition, 2008). Although intended primarily for culinary-school students, this is an invaluable book for home bakers, too, and answers questions you didn't know you had.\n\n_Small-Scale Grain Raising_ , by Gene Logsdon (Chelsea Green Publishing Company, 2009). First printed in 1977, this book explains how to grow, thresh, winnow, grind, and store all kinds of grains at home, including wheat.\n\n_'Sonora' wheat_\n\n# WINTER\n\n**_The One-Block Winter Feast_**\n\nArugula and Red Butterhead Lettuce Salad with Tangerines and Hard-Cooked Eggs\n\nWinter Vegetable Chowder\n\nWheat Berry Ciabatta with Homemade Butter\n\nTangerine Honey Flan\n\nChardonnay, Syrah, and Mead\n\nBright, chilly weather with an occasional frost, followed by a few months of rain\u2014this is winter in the Bay Area. Even though it's nothing like the long, hunker-down, snow-blanketed hiatus of the Midwest or the Northeast, it's still a slow time that made us take stock of where we were and what we had.\n\nOur wines sat quietly aging in their carboys. The olive oil, stored in small dark bottles, was a little over a year old and starting to lose some of its oomph. But we had cases and cases of it, enough to last several more months if we kept it cool and dark. The vinegar thrived, despite our forgetting to feed it several times. Our hens were doing fine, laying eggs regularly, and they liked the heat lamp we'd turn on for them whenever the temperature hit freezing. They'd hang out in the henhouse all morning until the sun could warm up the yard. Their favorite new treat was maggoty olives. They hailed down from our trees daily, tiny weights on the collective conscience of Team Olive\u2014which hadn't yet found a practical and affordable solution for dealing with the infestation of olive fruit flies. But at least the chickens were happy. They scarfed up those black, wormy nuggets like party crashers at a caviar bar.\n\nWe were especially reluctant to treat our trees because we didn't know whether the spray would harm our bees. And the poor bees! As it was, they were battling a seemingly unending stream of pests and diseases. The latest two were the small hive beetle, which eats brood, bees, and honey; and nosema, which is sort of like bee flu. We dealt with the first by using traps and pouring a concrete slab under the hives so the beetles couldn't pupate in the ground beneath, and the second miraculously seemed to go away on its own.\n\nMites were a more persistent problem. We had already tried dusting the bees with powdered sugar (when they clean themselves, they knock off the mites) and using Apiguard, a mite-killing gel that the bees track all through the hive. Now it was time for pads soaked with formic acid, which gives off awful, powerful fumes that make your throat burn and your eyes water. It was a good thing that the women of Team Bee were utterly smitten with the hives\u2014with their uncanny collective intelligence, their hardworking drive, and their sheer power, which Margaret would sometimes describe as \"a tiger in a box.\" They would do whatever they could to help those hives survive.\n\nWhen we had finished surveying all of our projects, we felt pretty happy about them\u2014and the sheer fact that we'd managed to keep them going, given how busy our lives were. They provided great holiday presents for our friends and families: jars of honey, fragrant hand salve (from our own beeswax, which Team Bee had carefully melted in a homemade solar wax melter), and bottles of olive oil and vinegar and beer. Cheeses weren't added to the list of gifts, because they took so long and we had made so few. We labeled all our jars and bottles (see How to Make Your Own Labels) and it felt good to be giving gifts that represented more than what they were\u2014but were fine just _as_ they were, too.\n\n_Pouring beeswax hand salve_\n\nOur winter menu garden had been planned and mostly planted in the fall. This time around, we were going for a cozy supper of big food: A giant, bright winter salad of frilly escarole and crisp endive, with poached eggs and croutons from homemade bread (we had a bit of wheat carefully set aside for flour). Then we'd have a huge stew or a creamy hot chowder of winter greens and other vegetables, and a loaf of bread on the side with homemade butter. For dessert, Stephanie would make one of her specialties, a tender olive oil and orange cake. We told ourselves (blithely, as it turned out) that we would adapt the cake to use the ingredients on hand. We wouldn't make beer this time around, since at long last we would have our Syrah as well as Chardonnay\u2014and, in a surprise development, mead.\n\n_Our partly fermented mead, with airlock inserted_\n\nSooner or later, every beekeeper considers making mead, or honey wine. Team Bee had visited a local meadery in the fall and been completely inspired by what they had sipped. This was no cloying, supersweet Renaissance faire beverage. It was crisp and simple, with \"the luscious flavor of the honey shining through,\" Brianne said. Mead, as explained to them by the meadery's owner, seemed easy to make, too: Mix water, honey, and yeast. So that's exactly what the newly formed Team Mead did\u2014using some of the same equipment we had used for beer\u2014and now the result was fermenting in a glass carboy.\n\nThe winter garden was shaping up to be a beauty. It was laid out in a U shape facing the path, compact and tidy\u2014unlike our fall garden, which had no particular design other than to give the plants optimum sun exposure. The two arms of the U were meant to mirror one another, each planted with the same pleasing symmetry of greens, with brassicas like cauliflower, cabbage, and weird, beautiful broccoli romanesco also worked into the pattern. The garden department threw in some red butterhead lettuce, too (in our mild winter, it would do fine). Our hardy thyme and oregano beds neatly capped each end of the U.\n\nAmong the garden's many admirers were snails. As in just about every California garden, we had tons of them, thanks to some well-meaning immigrant in the 1800s who brought these edible gastropods (known as _petit gris_ in France) to the West thinking they could form a great new food supply\u2014and instead introduced a major agricultural pest. Whenever Johanna found them snacking on our pretty garden, she would mercilessly crunch them with her boot or feed them to the chickens, who loved them.\n\nThen one day, it occurred to her that they could fulfill their original nineteenth-century purpose, right here on our one-block table. She walked into the test kitchen and persuaded Amy, who is a lot less squeamish than your average cook (her father was a hunter), to form Team Escargot.\n\n_Tasting escargots_\n\nWithin a week, they had purged, fattened, and even _named_ about a dozen snails. Amy, not having had time to research snail cooking\u2014do you pound them like abalone and flash-cook? or braise like octopus?\u2014relied on French-style panache and threw Shelli, Chelle, Shelby, and the rest of the clan into a saut\u00e9 pan with our wine, butter, and herbs. We tasted bravely and regretted it. Turns out it takes more than a quick saut\u00e9 to remove mucus from a snail.\n\nBut Amy always rises to a challenge. Boiling, she read, would help deslime the snails. This produced lots of bilious green goo and some screaming from Amy, who refused to ever cook snails again: \"The French can have them!\" Several weeks later she got her mojo back, added a salting step to the process to reduce the slime, and made some incredibly tasty escargots. We did not add them to the menu, though\u2014making snails for the entire staff was too much to ask of any cook.\n\nSixteen months after we had picked our Syrah grapes, crushed and destemmed them, fretted over them as they cold-soaked, went through two separate fermentations, pressed them, and then figured out how to siphon off the lees, our wine was at last ready to be bottled. We had to make sure with a final taste test, and used a turkey baster to sip from our first carboy. The wine was more than just okay\u2014it was a flood of dark, delicious fruit. Cheers broke out all around. \"We did it!\" said Sara, and danced a little jig. She swirled, swished, and sipped, and got to analyze her own wine: brambles (good in Syrah) and blackberries, plus leafy tobacco, mocha, and black pepper.\n\n_Sampling the Syrah_\n\nWe tasted each of our seven carboys and were amazed by how different they were\u2014proof, as Sara said, that wine is alive, and how tiny molecular shifts along the way can affect the \"yum factor.\" The star carboys were definitely 1 and 5. Carboy 2 was good but with sweeter-seeming fruit, said Sara, and molasses character. Number 3 would need some age to smooth out its rough spots.\n\nThen we got down to work. The entire team pitched in, including Dan Brenzel, our wisecracking advisor and perpetual provider of home wine-making equipment. Using the same techniques from a couple of months earlier, when we bottled the Chardonnay, we siphoned the inky wine into the 135 bottles we had saved up and sanitized, and then used Dan's nifty floor corker to drive each cork home. We ended the day with purple hands, purple teeth, and high spirits.\n\nWe hadn't exactly been hibernating in winter, what with most of our projects needing tending of one kind or another. Then we really started to bustle: We launched Team Cow.\n\nFor months, I'd been dreaming of finding our own cow. We'd been \"importing\" excellent store-bought organic milk and cream from Straus Family Creamery, north of San Francisco, but getting milk from our own cow\u2014preferably a Jersey, which produces the richest milk in cowdom\u2014would take our dairy products to a whole new level. Imagine the butter, ice cream, and cheese we could make from her superfresh, unadulterated, unhomogenized milk! Plus, we'd get to know an actual cow, an animal once common in backyards and farms across the country. Now they're familiar to most of us only as a picture on a milk carton.\n\nWe already knew we couldn't keep a cow at Sunset (even though our city regulations allow it, amazingly enough). The twice-daily milkings weren't the main issue. In order to lactate, cows must get pregnant and give birth, and the impregnation part\u2014and then the delivery-of-calf part, and the dealing with calf (possibly many calves) afterward\u2014seemed a little intense for people with desk jobs. Sharing a cow with a knowledgeable owner seemed like the best solution.\n\nWe looked and looked for a cow. Once there were small dairies all over the San Francisco Peninsula, but those are gone now. Finally we found her in Pescadero, on the coast to the south, at Pie Ranch Farm. She was an adorable Jersey named Adelaide, with a thick, glossy coat and sparkling brown eyes. Her owners, Jered and Nancy Lawson, had already set up a share arrangement, and we would be one of several owners.\n\nUnfortunately, Adelaide got a staph infection in her udder right before our first visit. The Lawsons decided she had to dry up, which would help her heal, and then go through a whole new pregnancy (about nine months, just like humans) before her milk would be available. So Team Cow, with much regret, had to press the pause button.\n\nAt least our bees were on the mend. Both hives had lots of baby bees, enough to ensure that they would survive their mite infestation. Also, because mites prefer to lay their eggs in the larger drone cells rather than worker bee cells, we got in the habit of removing the drone frames every few weeks and freezing them. This killed the drone larvae along with the mites, but drones are relatively expendable, and, as Margaret remarked, \"beekeeping is not all sweetness and honey.\"\n\nThe garden had lived up to its promise and was a gorgeous, dense display of textures and colors\u2014reds, burgundies, jade, lime green. The snowy heads of cauliflower were like pom-poms. Broccoli rabe towered at the back, with sprays of spicy yellow blossoms. The broccoli romanesco could mesmerize you for minutes with its perfectly symmetrical, spiraling turrets, like something out of an Escher engraving. And with their curvy, frilly leaves, the chard and kale and lettuce looked like the feathers on Vegas showgirls.\n\nIt was almost heartbreaking to have to harvest it for our feast. We managed to stop thinking about how barren and forlorn it looked once we had carried our huge, luscious basketfuls into the kitchen and started cooking. What a pleasure it is to cook with vegetables that still have life-force in them! Everything was crisp, tight, and juicy.\n\nWe were missing the escarole (a seed shortage prevented us from ever planting it) and the endive (it never germinated), so we changed our salad to use what we did have: red butterhead lettuce and arugula. We hard-cooked the eggs instead of poaching them, because liquidy poached yolks, great on crisp endive and escarole, would have turned the tender lettuces into a sticky clump.\n\nFor bread to go with our chowder, we ground some of our wheat berries, first coarsely (and laboriously) in a sausage grinder, and then finely in tiny batches in an electric coffee grinder. (We probably should have gotten a home grain mill, but we had so little to grind.) We turned the flour into a couple of rough, rustic loaves of ciabatta; we could just imagine butter pooling and melting in its nooks and crannies. So Elaine made butter, using nothing but cream and a food processor.\n\n_We ground flour with a sausage grinder_\n\nI had hoped we'd be able to preserve some onions and a few garlic bulbs from the summer\u2014they are crucial kitchen workhorses, and we really needed them for this winter menu. But they had barely lasted through fall; we hadn't grown good storage varieties. We caved and added both to our winter \"imports\" list, telling ourselves we would grow storage types next year. Surprisingly, though, we did have a few remaining Yukon Gold potatoes, which we had experimentally stored in an old fridge. We had just enough for our winter chowder.\n\nGiven the chilly weather, we ate our winter feast indoors, at a couple of long tables in the kitchen. We poured our deep, dark Syrah along with our Chardonnay, and I think it's the first time I've ever made a toast _to_ wine as well as with it.\n\nI had worried that this dinner would somehow be lumpy and bland. But it was as vigorous and pretty as the garden it came from. The salad had bits of juicy tangerine and yellow egg scattered among its red and green leaves. We sprinkled the chowder with yellow broccoli rabe and blue rosemary flowers, and it looked and tasted great with hunks of the dark, shaggy ciabatta. Dessert actually _had_ started out lumpy and bland\u2014it's why I'd been worried. Several days earlier, when Stephanie tried to make her olive oil cake with whole-wheat flour and honey instead of the usual refined white flour, baking powder, and sugar, it cooked up into a dark, heavy mass. She ditched it and instead made a lovely big flan for the dinner, glistening with caramelized honey and bits of tangerine peel. It looked like a golden moon.\n\nI'd also wondered whether our winter menu would be substantial enough. When it's cold, you need some rib-sticking food. Thanks, though, to the cream in the chowder, the butter, the whole-grain bread, and all those hearty winter vegetables\u2014plus eggs, milk, and honey in the flan\u2014it had sturdiness as well as freshness.\n\nWe ended dinner with another toast, this time to (and with) our mead, poured into tiny frosted shot glasses. It was a baby, really not meant to be tasted until it had aged for at least a year, better two. Even so, it was surprisingly drinkable\u2014not \"like cough syrup,\" Brianne's biggest fear. Like so much else in our one-block project, it was living and evolving, and every taste in the months to come would teach us more.\n\nHOW TO MAKE YOUR OWN LABELS\n\nWe labeled nearly all of the foods we made, because it was fun and because we gave away lots of food as gifts, especially around the holidays. It's not difficult to produce your own labels. Here's how:\n\n**Create the design** Use a design\/graphics program like Adobe Illustrator, or work with your local home wine-making\/home-brew store to create a label on their software.\n\n**Print the labels** We laser-printed each design onto white Avery 5265 full-sheet labels (available at office-supply stores and www.officemax.com).\n\n**Cut the labels** On a self-healing mat (available at craft stores and www.dickblick.com), line up a metal ruler along the label's edge and use a craft knife (available at craft stores and www.dickblick.com) to cut out each label. (We also tried trimming labels with a paper cutter, but sticky bits gummed up the blade.)\n\n**Stick them on** Make sure the surface of the container to be labeled is clean and dry. Peel back one corner of the label and use that sticky spot to help you position the label on the surface. Then reach under the label and gently remove the backing with one hand; with the other, smooth down the label as you peel off the backing. Use a paper towel to do the smoothing, to keep the label clean. With wine, wait at least 48 hours after you bottle to start labeling; you want to give your wine some time to adapt to the bottle.\n\n# THE WINTER GARDEN\n\n10 feet\n\n**WINTER GARDEN PLAN**\n\n**1. Thyme**\n\n**2. Arugula**\n\n**3. Lettuce**\n\n**4. Savoy cabbage**\n\n**5. Mustard**\n\n**6. Broccoli rabe**\n\n**7. Broccoli romanesco**\n\n**8. Cauliflower**\n\n**9. Swiss chard**\n\n**10. Kale, Tuscan**\n\n**11. Kale, curly-leafed**\n\n**12. Oregano**\n\n**13. Marjoram**\n\n**14. Rosemary**\n\n**15. Lemon tree**\n\n**16. Tangerine tree**\n\nThe leafy greens and succulent cruciferous vegetables we raised for our winter menu grow best when air temperatures are cool. Yet they thrive in sunny locations (at least 6 hours of sun per day). Arugula is easy to grow from seeds, while other crops, including lettuce, yield plentifully from nursery plants. (For seed-starting and planting tips, see Essential Gardening Guidelines.) If you can, avoid planting in any \"frost pockets\"\u2014low areas that can get frost earlier than other parts of your garden.\n\n### Arugula\n\nArugula or rocket ( _roquette_ in French) has tender, deep green leaves that add a peppery bite to salads. Crops come fast: You can pick baby leaves in as little as 3 weeks. To prolong the harvest, sow in succession every 3 weeks.\n\n**Best Site** An open, sunny spot and well-drained soil.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 35 days from seed.\n\n**Planting and Care** Sow seeds during cool weather in ground that has been raked or hoed clean of weeds and clods. You can either broadcast (scatter) the seeds or sow thinly in rows, and cover lightly with \u00bc inch of soil. Water the plot lightly and often to bring up the seedlings, then regularly (once a week or so) as they grow. To speed them up, apply a high-nitrogen fertilizer after the first unformed leaves appear. Thin seedlings to about 6 inches apart (the thinnings are great in salads). Arugula also thrives in pots at least 6 inches deep and 14 inches wide.\n\n**How to Harvest** Pick the leaves as needed once plants are larger.\n\n**Seed Source** Burpee, www.burpee.com.\n\n_Arugula_\n\n### Broccoli Rabe\n\nBroccoli rabe, also called broccoli raab or rapini, is a choice cool-season crop to grow alongside cabbage and carrots. It resembles broccoli, but instead of producing one giant head, it grows many longer, smaller budding stalks that you can selectively harvest all winter and spring. The plant grows 12 to 15 inches tall, and usually resprouts from the stalks until hot weather settles in.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun, though it can tolerate some shade, and well-drained soil. Prefers cool weather.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 60 days from seeds.\n\n**Planting and Care** Plant in well-composted soil in early fall, sowing seeds 2 inches apart in rows 6 to 8 inches apart. When seedlings are 3 to 4 inches tall, thin them to 6 inches apart. Keep the soil evenly moist.\n\n**How to Harvest** Clip stalks when buds appear, or allow a few of their yellow flowers to bloom for splashes of garden color (the blooms are edible, too). Plants will keep shooting out new buds for an extended yield.\n\n**Seed Sources** (search under \"broccoli raab\") Johnny's Selected Seeds, www.johnnyseeds.com, and John Scheepers Kitchen Garden Seeds, www.kitchengardenseeds.com.\n\n### Broccoli Romanesco 'Veronica'\n\nThis variety's round heads, made up of chartreuse florets that spiral into little peaks, make it look like cauliflower from another planet. It has a texture and flavor similar to mild, sweet cauliflower, too. The florets turn a slightly deeper, more olive green when cooked, and can also be eaten raw as whole florets (good with dips) or sliced in salads.\n\n**Best Site** Grow it in loamy soil that's been well amended with compost, and make sure it gets full sun (though it can tolerate some shade). Broccoli Romanesco prefers cool weather.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 77 days from seed.\n\n**Planting and Care** In mild climates, plant in late summer or early fall for a winter harvest. (Plants develop the best heads when they mature in cool weather; in heat, the flower buds open prematurely.) Start seeds in flats or small pots indoors 6 weeks before transplanting into the garden. Before planting in the garden, work some well-aged compost and a granular complete fertilizer into the soil. Space the plants 18 to 24 inches apart, keep the soil evenly moist, and cover the seedlings with floating row covers (available at nurseries) until they're big and leafy enough to withstand cabbage worms.\n\n**How to Harvest** For the best quality, harvest the heads when they are firm and tight. As they get older, they open up and lose their crunch.\n\n**Seed Source** John Scheepers Kitchen Garden Seeds, www.kitchengardenseeds.com.\n\n_Broccoli Romanesco 'Veronica'_\n\n### Cabbage, Savoy 'Alcosa'\n\nThis curly-leaved Savoy cabbage forms tight heads that are ideal for closely spaced planting. Also, its leaves are dense, crinkled, and colorful\u2014blue-green outside, lighter green to creamy white inside\u2014and pretty in garden beds with other greens. We love this cabbage in stir-fries, because it retains its crunch, and in salads. It has an exceptionally mild, sweet flavor.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun in mild coastal areas, part shade in hot-summer interiors, and loose, fast-draining soil enriched with compost.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 72 days from seed.\n\n**Planting and Care** Time your planting so heads will mature in cooler weather before or after hot summer months. We started our plants from seeds, sowing them in flats in our greenhouse 4 weeks before planting the seedlings outdoors in garden beds in September. Space the seedlings 24 to 30 inches apart. Water the plants often enough to ensure they never wilt, and give them frequent light feedings of dilute liquid fish emulsion (follow package directions).\n\n**How to Harvest** When the heads feel firm and look well formed, cut them off at the base with pruners or loppers. The plants can take light frost, which sweetens their flavor, but heavy freezes can knock them down.\n\n**Seed Source** Johnny's Selected Seeds, www.johnnyseeds.com.\n\n_'Alcosa' Savoy cabbage_\n\n### Cauliflower 'Cassius'\n\nWe grew this variety because it produces round, creamy white heads 7 to 8 inches across\u2014the perfect size for a compact kitchen garden. Some varieties need to have their leaves tied together over the heads to keep the sun from discoloring them, but 'Cassius' is a self-blanching variety, so it didn't need all that fussing. Its flavor is mellow and sweet.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and well-drained soil.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 65 to 75 days from seed.\n\n**Planting and Care** Start seeds in flats or small pots indoors 4 to 6 weeks before transplanting into a garden bed that has been well amended with compost. Space seedlings 18 to 24 inches apart. Keep soil moist until seedlings get growing, then water deeply and regularly, especially in dry weather. Feed once or twice with complete fertilizer before heads start to form.\n\n**How to Harvest** Use a sharp knife to slice the entire head from the mature stem. It's a bit of a dance to know when cauliflower is ready to harvest. The head should be firm and fully formed; harvest it before the curd (the white part) separates into flowers (check it regularly). Make the cut beneath the top set of leaves.\n\n**Seed Source** Territorial Seed Company, www.territorialseed.com.\n\n_'Cassius' cauliflower_\n\n### Kale, Curly-Leafed and Tuscan\n\nRich and nutrient-packed (high in vitamins A and C), kale is indispensable for winter soups and stews. We grew two varieties: 'Winterbor', whose curly-edged, blue-green leaves form low rosettes that stretch out to 2 feet, and 'Nero di Toscana', a Tuscan heirloom kale whose strappy, dark green leaves form statuesque, upright plants that reach 3 feet. (Tuscan kale is also often labeled lacinato or dinosaur kale.) Both kale types are ornamental and cold-hardy and add texture and color to the winter garden. Light frost sweetens their flavors.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun or light shade in mild climates, part shade in hotter inland areas.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 55 to 65 days for 'Winterbor' and 60 days for 'Nero di Toscana' from seed.\n\n**Planting and Care** Plant in September for a winter crop. Till the soil and mix in compost or aged manure before planting. Sow seeds in place and thin seedlings to 24 to 36 inches apart. Or, set out nursery seedlings at the same spacing. Keep the soil moist during the growing season.\n\n**How to Harvest** Remove leaves from the outside of the clusters as needed, or harvest the entire plant by pulling it up and cutting off the base.\n\n**Seed Source** John Scheepers Kitchen Garden Seeds, www.kitchengardenseeds.com.\n\n### Lemon 'Eureka'\n\nSee the Summer Garden.\n\n### Lettuce, Red Butterhead\n\nLettuce is one of the most satisfying vegetables you can grow: It's fast and easy from seed as long as you plant it at the right time of year (fall or spring in mild climates). We chose 'Marvel of Four Seasons' ('Merveille des Quatre Saisons'), a French heirloom variety whose loosely cupped green leaves are tinged with shades of ruby, rose-pink, and bronze.\n\n**Best Site** A sunny spot in cool areas, part shade where it is hot, and loose, well-drained soil.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 50 to 60 days from seed.\n\n**Planting and Care** Sow seeds about 4 inches apart in well-prepared soil, then barely cover the seeds with about \u00bc inch of soil. Thin seedlings to 12 inches apart. Spray the seedbed with water regularly until the seeds germinate, then water regularly to keep the soil moist. Feed once or twice during the growing season with dilute liquid fish emulsion.\n\n**How to Harvest** Pick leaves any time from the seedling (thinning) size on. Harvest after loose heads form.\n\n**Seed Sources** The Cook's Garden, www.cooksgarden.com, and John Scheepers Kitchen Garden Seeds, www.kitchengardenseeds.com.\n\n_Red Butterhead lettuce_\n\n### Marjoram, Sweet\n\nSee the Summer Garden.\n\n### Mushrooms\n\nSee How to Grow Mushrooms.\n\n### Mustard 'Green Wave'\n\nMustard comes in different colors and textures, but we like 'Green Wave' for its lime-green hue, ruffled edges, and pungent, peppery flavor. The plant looked so good in the garden that we neglected to harvest it and ended up with very big (and very spicy) leaves. Luckily, they were perfect when braised with other winter greens (see recipe).\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and well-drained soil.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 50 days from seed.\n\n**Planting and Care** We planted mustard in October for our winter dinner. You can also plant in early spring or late summer; the key is to avoid exposing the plants to too much heat, which causes premature bolting (setting of seed). Start seeds indoors or plant them directly in well-fertilized soil \u00bd inch deep, eventually thinning the seedlings to 6 to 12 inches apart. Water regularly, and feed with a complete fertilizer every 2 to 3 weeks.\n\n**How to Harvest** Pick outer leaves as needed, or let the plant reach about 6 inches tall, then snip it down to an inch above the soil (new leaves can shoot up again from the base).\n\n**Seed Source** Territorial Seed Company, www.territorialseed.com.\n\n_'Green Wave' mustard_\n\n### Oregano, Italian\n\nSee the Summer Garden.\n\n### Rosemary 'Tuscan Blue'\n\nSee the Summer Garden.\n\n### Swiss Chard\n\nSee the Fall Garden.\n\n### Tangerine 'Dancy'\n\n'Dancy' is the standard variety that appears in markets before Christmas: smallish and seedy, but with excellent, complex flavor. We picked from a tree that has been at Sunset for decades. Like all tangerines, it's a member of the mandarin family.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and deep, fast-draining soil.\n\n**Days to Harvest** Plants start bearing fruits in early winter.\n\n**Planting and Care** Plant after spring frost but before summer heat. Dig in a 4- to 6-inch layer of compost before planting, then dig a hole twice as wide as the root-ball and mix a granular, controlled-release general-purpose fertilizer into the backfill. Or, plant in large containers (at least 18 inches in diameter) in fast-draining potting mix. Mulch with compost. Water established trees every other week, soaking the soil thoroughly. Feed several times during the growing season with a fertilizer formulated for citrus (follow package directions).\n\n**How to Harvest** Citrus fruits ripen only on the tree. Pluck one and taste for ripeness.\n\n**Plant Sources** Shop nurseries, or online at Four Winds Growers, www.fourwindsgrowers.com.\n\n### Thyme, French\n\nSee the Summer Garden.\n\n_\u2014Kathleen N. Brenzel and Johanna Silver_\n\nTHE \"IMPORTS\"\n\n**We went outside our garden for these local foods:** Milk, whole and unhomogenized (for butter and cheese); seawater (for salt); active dry yeast (for bread); sweet mead liquid yeast (for mead); whole-wheat flour and wheat berries ('Sonora' and 'Expresso'), garlic (ours ran out); 'Spanish White' onions (ditto); walnuts\n\n# THE WINTER PROJECTS\n\n##    \nHOW TO MAKE  \nSALT\n\nOf all the projects we attempted as part of our One-Block feasts, this may have been the most far-fetched. We had read of other people's efforts, most memorably Michael Pollan's in _The Omnivore's Dilemma_ , in which he scavenges water from trash-strewn wetlands and evaporates it on his stove top into brown salt that, he writes, \"tasted so metallic and so much like chemicals that it actually made me gag.\"\n\nBut we persisted because we knew we had to have seasoning for our dinner, and figured\u2014what with the San Francisco Bay to one side of us (the same bay that Pollan harvested, actually) and the Pacific Ocean on the other, we had some water to choose from. Also, the other raw materials that we had \"imported\" for our feast\u2014grapes for the wine, olives for the oil, and milk for the cheese\u2014at least were transformed from their natural state by our own hands. It would be copping out to just go buy salt.\n\nThe process proved surprisingly easy, and the yield was much higher than we had expected. And our salt looked pretty (pure white), smelled fresh, tasted exactly like the ocean, and made a fine seasoning for our feast. As to whether it was safe to consume or would behave like normal salt in cooking, we weren't sure. We were just happy that we had, in fact, made our own salt from local seawater.\n\n###    \nPACIFIC SEA SALT\n\nWe hauled drums filled with Pacific seawater to our Menlo Park offices and reduced several gallons to salt.\n\n#### WHAT TO USE\n\n**_Food-grade plastic drums_** We had a few clean 5-gallon food-grade plastic drums left over from making olive oil, so we used them to transport the brine. Any thoroughly washed bucket will do. Drums cost about $15 each, plus $20 handling fee if your order is less than $100, at The Olive Oil Source, www.oliveoilsource.com or 805\/688-1014.\n\n**_Coffee filters or a triple layer of cheesecloth_** For filtering the water. About $4.50 for 2 square yards at a hardware store or cookware store.\n\n**_Pyrex liquid-measuring cups_** To measure the hot brine.\n\n**_Stockpot_** For boiling the brine. From $60 online or at a cookware shop.\n\n**_Two Pyrex 9 by 13 inch baking dishes_** For baking and evaporating the brine. About $7 each at a cookware shop.\n\n**_Rigid metal spatula_** Once the salt crystals have formed, you have to scrape them off the pan.\n\n#### HOW TO DO IT\n\n**1. Collect seawater** After thinking about the nearest cleanest portion of the ocean, we settled on Bean Hollow State Beach near Pescadero, since no streams (which can carry toxins and other runoff) flow into the ocean there. We collected 40 gallons of the chilly Pacific in our plastic drums. Another time, we collected seawater near Fort Bragg, a small coastal town north of San Francisco. Both batches were processed the same way.\n\n**2. Filter** Back at the office, we poured a test batch of water through a coffee filter (or layered cheesecloth) into the stockpot.\n\n_Our Pacific sea salt_\n\n**3. Boil** We brought the filtered water to a rolling boil and held it there for 20 minutes to kill any noxious bacteria. We were aware that this would have no effect on other toxins or heavy metals. In fact, if they were present, the cooking might concentrate them.\n\n**4. Filter again** To remove any remaining particles, we filtered the water again, this time into heatproof measuring cups.\n\n**5. Bake** The first time we made salt, we used aluminum baking sheets, which gave us a large yield\u2014but the salt was grayish and tasted like aluminum. We then switched to Pyrex baking dishes and got salt as white as snow with no funny taste. Here's how: We poured the filtered water in 3-cup batches into the pans, then baked it in a 350\u00b0F oven for about 2\u00bd hours, checking often toward the end to make sure we didn't burn the crystals as they formed.\n\n_Sun evaporation as an alternative._ Feeling sheepish about the fossil fuel consumed by baking, we also tried putting the brine-filled baking sheets outside to evaporate in the sun. This didn't work very well, owing to spotty weather and to lots of leaves and other debris blowing into the exposed salt. We tried again, covering the pans with cheesecloth, and after several days, we had salt. The yield was much lower than what we got with the baking method, however.\n\n_Or stovetop boiling._ Another early attempt involved boiling filtered seawater until the liquid completely evaporated and salt lined the inside and bottom of the pan. This ended with a steamy kitchen and burning hot crystals of salt flying out of the pot like popcorn and hitting us on the arms. Plus, boiling down all that water and then running the fan to cool off the kitchen wasn't energy efficient, so baking became the best choice.\n\n**6. Scrape** At the end of baking, the crystals rimmed the pan, and we scraped them off with the metal spatula. The yield varied depending on the source of the brine: We got about 2 tablespoons good-tasting, snowy white salt from 3 cups brine collected at Pescadero. The same amount of brine from Fort Bragg yielded between \u2153 and \u00bd cup.\n\n_Our first stab at making salt_\n\n**7. Taste** We sent a sample of our Fort Bragg salt to salt expert Mark Bitterman, owner of the specialty shop The Meadow in Portland, Oregon. Here's what he said: \"[It] has a lovely opaque, cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche color that comes from an abundance of the sea's trace minerals. The crystals are marvelously diverse in form, ranging from finely fringed micro-grains to layers of laminated flakes. And the flavor: a roiling oceanic assault on the senses\u2014only nice, like being caught in a wave of sun-warmed water, briny and bitter and butter-sweet.\" He further pointed out that, unlike commercial salt manufacturers, we had reduced all the available salts in our brine, each of which has a different salinity and flavor. The big guys tend to go for sodium chloride only, which provides most of the salt and precipitates first, because it is more efficient. \"What you guys have done is grab it all, including the calcium and magnesium salts. You've got a big dynamo of saltiness. It has everything in it.\" This, it seems, is the hallmark of artisanal salts. We are artisans!\n\n**8. Test** We spent some fruitless time contacting various clean-water agencies to ask about getting our water samples tested. One officer, with a branch of the Environmental Protection Agency, said to us, \"Why would anyone want to drink salt water?\" He had a point. So we moved on to the salt itself.\n\nWe then considered sending a salt sample to a food lab, but a heavy-metals screening would have cost $275 for each possible contaminant (and there are many), and a test for pesticides at least $100. Kind of pricey for seasoning, we thought. As Bitterman pointed out, salt is extremely dilute in the ocean\u2014and is not a bioaccumulator of toxins\u2014so the chances of it containing large amounts of bad stuff are probably not all that high.\n\nAt this point, we are happy to have produced salt that tastes good and, we hope, might be harmless.\n\n#### HELPFUL INFORMATION\n\nSalt is a fascinating subject. It has roughly fourteen thousand applications, from de-icing roads to food preservation, and was so valued in Roman times that soldiers were paid wages in it.\n\n##### BOOKS\n\n\u2022 _Neptune's Gift: A History of Common Salt_ , by Robert P. Multhauf (Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978).\n\n\u2022 _Salt: A World History_ , by Mark Kurlansky (Penguin Books, 2002).\n\n\u2022 _Salted: A Manifesto on the World's Most Essential Mineral, with Recipes_ , by Mark Bitterman (Ten Speed Press, 2010).\n\n##### OTHER RESOURCES\n\n\u2022 \"How to Make Salt from Sea-Water,\" by John Leconte (Governor and Council of South Carolina, 1862). An oddly engrossing pamphlet written at the request of the state's governor by a chemistry and physics professor at South Carolina College. At a time when the oceans were cleaner than they are today, Leconte spells out how to boil down seawater in 20-foot sheet-iron pans over wood fires. You'll find yourself engrossed in the details of sludging and soccage (crystallization). For the free download, visit www.docsouth.unc.edu\/imls\/lecontej\/leconte.html.\n\n\u2022 The Salt Institute, an association of salt producers, puts forth all sorts of information about salt on its Web site\u2014everything from stats on world production (China leads) to solution mining to nutrition (www.saltinstitute.org).\n\n_\u2014Amy Machnak_\n\n##    \nHOW TO MAKE  \nESCARGOTS  \n(FROM YOUR OWN GARDEN SNAILS)\n\nGrowing edibles inevitably means growing snails, especially because our garden is organic and hospitable to wildlife. We have a big snail population snacking on our carefully tended leafy vegetables. One day Johanna, our test-garden coordinator, suggested that we eat them. Eat them? As in\u2014 _escargots_?\n\nThat was definitely the French approach to dealing with snails in the garden. In fact, the French don't consider them a nuisance at all, but a reason to spend time with the family, walking with buckets through their yards\u2014even grassy fields\u2014in pursuit of their prize. They refer to it as \"hunting.\"\n\nBut were ours the type of snails that could be eaten? Maybe they produced toxins. And, most important, how would we make them taste like the French gourmet item served in overpriced restaurants?\n\nFirst, we experimented with saut\u00e9ing them, and discovered that preparing snails wasn't as simple as tossing them around in butter in a frying pan. They were, er, slimy. So we did some research and consulted many authorities on the cooking of France, including M. F. K. Fisher and Georgeanne Brennan, and reread our own article on escargots, published in 1988. All advised pretty much the same technique for cooking snails, with slight variations: Purge the snails (put them on a cornmeal diet in a closed dish for several days to clear their innards of any noxious stuff they may have been nibbling), boil them, extract them from their shells, and then use them in whatever recipe you have in mind.\n\nHaving now nabbed and cooked several batches of snails, let's just say that making escargots, though not difficult, is not for the squeamish. In fact, it reminds us of a sixth-grade science project. But the final outcome is delicious.\n\n###    \nESCARGOTS\n\nWe plucked our little shelled nuisances from the garden.\n\nHelix aspersa _in the one-block garden_\n\n#### WHAT TO USE\n\n**_About 12 live snails_** Choose the biggest snails possible. Unfortunately, we didn't seem to have any big snails. Ours were all small to medium.\n\n**_Bowl_** For collecting snails.\n\n**_Kitchen towel_** To drape over the snail-collecting bowl, to keep your catch from crawling out.\n\n**_Roasting pan_** A large, rimmed pan, such as a 10-by-14-inch roasting pan. About $10 at most cookware stores or online.\n\n**_About 2 cups yellow cornmeal_** For the purge. About $3 for 1 pound at most grocery stores.\n\n**_Several thyme sprigs_** For the purge.\n\n**_2 tablespoons fine sea salt_** For salting to remove slime, plus more for seasoning when saut\u00e9ing.\n\n**_Small bowl_** For salting the snails.\n\n**_Large saucepan_**\n\n**_\u00bd cup white wine_**\n\n**_Fresh herbs_**\n\n**_\u00bd small onion_**\n\n**_1 carrot_**\n\n**_2 celery stalks_**\n\n**_Garlic_**\n\n**_Flat-leaf parsley_**\n\n**_Lemon juice_**\n\n**_White wine_**\n\n**_Butter_**\n\n#### HOW TO DO IT\n\n**1. Choose wisely** Determine the species of snail you have; not all are edible. The most popular snail in France is the big, fat Burgundy snail, _Helix pomatia_. Ours are common brown garden snails, _Helix aspersa_ , also considered fine to eat. They were brought to this country, probably by the French, in the 1850s and are now a major pest in gardens everywhere. Make sure you hunt for snails in a garden free of pesticides. This isn't a problem for us, as Sunset has had a no-spray policy for decades.\n\n**2. Collect** We found the majority of our snails on the inside rims of potted plants, mostly edibles but occasionally flowers, too. They tend to like plants that give shade in the afternoon heat, such as agapanthus, but they also like to hang out in whichever plant they are eating, especially radicchio, lettuce, kale, cabbage, and strawberries. Just pull them off and put them in a basket or bowl, covered with a towel, for transporting to the kitchen.\n\n**3. Wash** Since snails crawl around in dirt, you need to make sure they are really clean. Rinse them in a colander under cold running water while rubbing them together.\n\n**4. Purge** This controlled feeding of the snails ensures that their digestive tracts are clean of impurities, toxins, and dirt. Put the snails into the roasting pan with a small dish of fresh water, about \u00bc cup yellow cornmeal poured into the corner of the pan, and a few sprigs of thyme from the garden. Cover the pan with a double layer of cheesecloth secured around the edge of the pan with rubber bands or tied string. Every other day, take the snails out of the pan, wash the pan, return the snails to the pan, and replace the cornmeal, the bowl of water, and the thyme. Do this for about 2 weeks. You'll know the purge is working when you see little yellow and green dried poop trails in the pan.\n\n**5. Salt** Put the snails in a small bowl and sprinkle them with the 2 tablespoons salt. This kills them and also helps to pull the slime from them. Cover the bowl with aluminum foil and poke a few holes in the foil. Let sit for about 12 hours.\n\nFill the bowl with water and then drain. Repeat as needed, rinsing off the salt and mucus each time, until the water runs clear.\n\n**6. Boil** In a large saucepan, bring 4 cups water and the \u00bd cup white wine to a boil. Add a few herb sprigs, such as thyme and flat-leaf parsley. Then chop the onion, carrot, and celery and add them to the pan. Simmer for 30 minutes to create a flavorful broth. Drop the snails into the broth and simmer them, skimming off any green, slimy foam that appears on the surface (this is the science-project part), until the meat releases easily from the shell when prodded with a toothpick, about 15 minutes (longer if you have larger snails). Lift the snails out with a slotted spoon, letting any slime and mucus drip off the spoon, and transfer to a plate. Then use the toothpick to pluck the snails from their shells. The standard instruction is to cut the tough \"foot\" off the snail. Our snails were so small that the cut was more like a scrape, but we did it anyway.\n\nYou can save the shells, dry them completely, and serve the cooked snails in them for a lovely presentation. Our shells were too small and not worth the trouble.\n\n**7. Cook: Garlic Butter Escargots** At this point, the snails can be used in any recipe you like (we've seen recipes for everything from baked escargots to spaghetti with escargots). We went the traditional French route and tossed them in a little garlic, parsley, lemon, white wine, and, of course, butter\u2014lots of melted butter. We ate them in a little dish with a side of warm crusty bread and were instantly transported to a sidewalk cafe on the Champs-\u00c9lys\u00e9es.\n\n#### HELPFUL INFORMATION\n\n##### BOOKS\n\n\u2022 _The Food and Flavors of Haute Provence_ , by Georgeanne Brennan (Chronicle Books, 1997).\n\n\u2022 \"Fifty Million Snails,\" from _Serve It Forth_ , by M. F. K. Fisher (Harper & Brothers, 1937; reprinted by North Point Press, 1989).\n\n##### OTHER RESOURCES\n\n\u2022 \"Snails as Food: Escargot\" by Robert Hawthorne (8-page pamphlet from the University of California, Davis; publication #2222; revised 1975; order through <http:\/\/anrcatalog.ucdavis.edu\/snails>)\n\n\u2022 \"The Snail Eaters,\" a reminiscence by Joyce Hanson on Leite's Culinaria, <http:\/\/leitesculinaria.com\/47375\/writings-snail-eaters.html>.\n\n\u2022 For general information about snails and about cooking them, visit www.en.wikipedia.org\/wiki\/Heliciculture#Turning_snails_into_escargots.\n\n_\u2014Amy Machnak_\n\n##    \nHOW TO MAKE  \nMead (HONEY WINE)\n\nMost people think of mead as an overly spiced and unbearably sweet beverage found only at Renaissance faires, but there is a whole world of delicious, easy-to-drink mead, both sweet and dry. Along with beer and wine, it is one of our most ancient drinks, thought to have been made as early as 7000 BCE. We tend to associate mead with the Vikings and the Celts of northern Europe, but it's been quaffed in many other places around the globe, including China, India, Greece, and Africa (it is still popular in Ethiopia, where it's called _tej_ ). In places where grapes could not be grown, mead offered a different way to make wine. Dozens of different styles of mead exist, from morat (made with mulberries) to cyser (honey and apple juice fermented together) to metheglin (a traditional Welsh brew involving herbs and spices).\n\nWe were inspired to have a crack at it ourselves after accompanying our local beekeepers' guild to Rabbit's Foot Meadery, in Sunnyvale, California. We chatted with the owner and acclaimed mead maker, Michael Faul, and realized that basic mead was not hard to make: Honey, water, and yeast are all it takes.\n\nAfter doing some research, we came up with a stream-lined recipe that is easy to re-create. We left out all spices and refrained from boiling the honey to preserve more of its character. This gentle treatment also retains more of the nutritional benefits of the raw honey.\n\nOur mead still needs a few years of aging to mellow fully, but even after eight months, it already tastes better to us than many of the professionally made meads we have tried. The flavor of the honey shines through, undisguised by fruit flavors or excessive spices. Follow Team Mead's blog (oneblockdiet.sunset.com\/team-mead) to watch our progress as we embark on future batches of dry mead and of melomel, mead flavored with fruit.\n\n###    \nTRUE MEAD\n\nSweet, crisp, unspiced honey wine, showcasing the floral and faint eucalyptus flavors of our one-block honey.\n\nMAKES 5 gallons\n\nTIME at least 6 months\n\n#### WHAT TO USE\n\nUnless otherwise noted, all of our materials came from More Beer in Los Altos, California (www.morebeer.com or 800\/600-0033).\n\n**_Saniclean_** For sanitizing all equipment, including containers, tubing, and bottles. Safe for septic systems and doesn't stain. Use 2 ounces for 5 gallons of water. About $13 for a 1-quart bottle from Williams Brewing Company, www.williamsbrewing.com.\n\n**_5-gallon plastic bucket_** For mixing up batches of Saniclean solution. About $7 at a hardware store.\n\n**_Water_** Room-temperature tap water is fine. If your water contains heavy chlorine or minerals, use bottled water (not distilled).\n\n**_6-gallon, food-grade plastic bucket with spigot_** Used for mixing the must and for fermenting and bottling. About $13. We actually used a 5-gallon glass carboy (see photo) since we happened to have a few on hand, but this is much cheaper.\n\n**_About 12 pounds honey_** From our own hives.\n\n**_Hydrometer_** A probe-like tool that measures the specific gravity (density) of the must relative to water. Dissolved sugars make up the density of the must, and sugars are what ferment into alcohol, so the beginning hydrometer measurement is a good indicator of your mead's potential alcohol level. (The higher the specific gravity, the higher the potential alcohol level.) The MT300 hydrometer has a potential alcohol scale included. About $6 from morebeer.com.\n\n**_Hydrometer jar_** A plastic tube with a flat base, sized to fit the hydrometer; for holding the must and mead samples. Some hydrometers come with their own jars. An 11\u00bd-inch jar is about $5.\n\n**_Yeast_** We used 1 vial of White Labs Sweet Mead liquid yeast. About $6.25.\n\n**_Stirring paddle or spoon_** Any sort of long-handled spoon or spatula will work.\n\n**_5-gallon glass carboy_** The main fermentation container. From $20 to $30 at a home wine-making or home-brewing shop.\n\n**_Rubber stopper_** You want a no. 7 stopper with a small hole (to accommodate the airlock) for sealing the opening at the top of the carboy. $1.50.\n\n**_Airlock_** You fill this small plastic cylinder with water and insert it into the rubber stopper on top of the carboy. This keeps bacteria and other airborne impurities from entering the mead, which is highly susceptible to contamination in its early stages. It also allows carbon dioxide to escape, rather than build up inside the carboy. About $1.25.\n\n**_Blanket or a large, dark cloth_** For wrapping the mead as it ferments. It blocks sunlight, which can stimulate the growth of bacteria.\n\n**_Racking cane_** This cane-shaped stiff plastic tube (\u00be inch in diameter by 21 inches long) attaches to the vinyl tubing (below) used to rack the must. $2.50.\n\n**_4-foot length of food-grade vinyl tubing_** Made of clear vinyl, and with a \u00be-inch interior diameter, the tubing is used to both rack the mead (siphon it off its sediment to another container) and bottle it. Cut it into a 3-foot section and a 1-foot section. About 30\u00a2 per foot online or at a home wine-making or plumbing-supply store.\n\n**_Bottles_** You'll need 48 pry-top bottles (screw-top bottles are harder to seal) in a dark green or brown glass (sunlight shining through clear glass can stimulate growth of bacteria). We got ours from friends, family, and colleagues. Free.\n\n**_Jet bottle washer_** This fits on any outdoor hose thread faucet, like those on an outdoor or garage sink. About $12.\n\n**_Bottle tree_** Invert your newly washed and sterilized bottles on this multipronged \"tree\" for easy drying of lots of bottles at once. We like the 81-bottle model from Williams Brewing Company (www.williamsbrewing.com or 800\/759-6025; it's the same one we used for our beer). About $30.\n\n**_Beer caps_** A pack of 50 pry-type caps costs about $1.50.\n\n**_Capper_** The only way to cap your bottles. We like the double-armed, easy-to-use Emily capper from Williams Brewing Company (above). About $14.\n\n#### HOW TO DO IT\n\n**1. Sterilize your equipment** Sterilize everything with a Saniclean solution in the 5-gallon plastic bucket. Rinse the equipment well and set on clean dish towels to dry.\n\n**2. Make the must (honey water)** Add 4\u00bd gallons tap water to the 6-gallon bucket. Add enough honey to give the must your target specific gravity, which predicts potential alcohol content. For example, for a potential alcohol content of 10.74 percent, the beginning specific gravity needs to be 1.08. To get a specific gravity reading, insert the hydrometer in its jar, drizzle in enough must from the bucket's spigot to make the hydrometer float, and read off the original specific gravity (OG). Make a note of the OG. If your hydrometer does not include a potential alcohol scale, you can use a handy online potential alcohol calculator (see Helpful Information) to figure out the corresponding specific gravity.\n\nThe thickness of the honey you use, not the amount, will determine the specific gravity of the must. We recommend first adding about 2 cups honey to the water, then stirring in more, \u00bd cup at a time, measuring the specific gravity with your hydrometer after each addition. Be sure there is enough liquid in the bucket to fill a 5-gallon carboy. If it is looking short, add more water and honey, paying close attention to the specific gravity.\n\n**3. Pitch the yeast** Add the entire vial of liquid yeast to the must and stir for 5 minutes.\n\n**4. Primary fermentation** Transfer the liquid from the bucket (through the spigot attached to the 1-foot tubing) into the clean glass carboy, leaving 2 inches of headspace at the top. Seal the carboy with the rubber stopper and insert the airlock into it. Store the carboy in a warm room (70\u00b0 to 80\u00b0F) and cover it with a blanket or dark cloth to keep out the light. Within a week, fermentation will begin.\n\nWhen the mead stops bubbling and the dead yeast particles have sunk to the bottom, it will be time to rack the mead. This typically takes between 1 and 3 months. (It took our mead 2\u00bd months.)\n\n**5. Secondary fermentation and racking** To rack your mead _,_ put the carboy on a counter and the plastic bucket with the spigot on the floor below. Remove the airlock and stopper from the carboy. Attach the 3-foot length of vinyl tubing to the racking cane and insert the tip of the cane into the carboy. Start gently sucking on the end of the tubing to get the mead flowing; when the mead begins to move down the tube, pinch the end, set it in the bucket, and let the mead flow down. Stop when you see that you're getting close to the sediment. Remove the siphoning tubing and racking cane. Clean and sterilize your carboy and siphon the mead back into the carboy (switch positions with the bucket). Replace the rubber stopper and airlock and store in a cool, dark place (60\u00ba to 70\u00baF) for 3 months. Re-rack the mead every 2 to 4 months until it is clear (this may take up to a year).\n\nWhen your mead is clear, it is ready to bottle. Take one more specific gravity reading. As the sugars in the must convert to alcohol, the mixture becomes less dense, and the reading goes down. The reading won't tell you what the alcohol content is. The point, rather, is to let you know whether fermentation has worked. Our specific gravity sank from 1.08 to .998, so we knew we had been successful.\n\n_Racking the mead_\n\n**6. Bottle the mead** Mix up a plastic bucketful of Saniclean, put a batch of bottles into the solution, and let them sit there for a few minutes. Make sure the solution fills the bottles completely. Then empty the solution out of the bottles back into the bucket and rinse out the bottles with hot water using your jet bottle washer. Be sure to rinse the lip and neck of the bottles, too, to wash off any excess sanitizer. Invert the bottles on the bottle tree to drain.\n\nTo bottle the mead, siphon the mead from the carboy into the 6-gallon bucket with the spigot. Set the bucket on a counter and attach the 1-foot length of vinyl tubing to the spigot. Put the other end of the tubing in the neck of your first empty bottle. Open the spigot and fill the bottle about halfway up the neck. Cap each bottle as soon as it's filled.\n\n**7. Cap the bottles** Put a cap on the bottle, place the capper over it, and push down on the capper's arms to seal.\n\n**8. Let the mead age** Your mead will be fine for drinking once you have bottled it, but we recommend you let it age in a cool, dark place (60\u00b0 to 70\u00b0F) for a minimum of 2 to 3 years. From everything we've heard, it only gets better.\n\n#### HELPFUL INFORMATION\n\n\u2022 For recipes, supplies, discussion boards, and information about the art of mead making, visit www.gotmead.com.\n\n\u2022 For a potential alcohol calculator, visit www.gotmead.com\/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=745&Itemid=16.\n\n\u2022 The Web site of the National Honey Board, www.honey.com, offers a handy backgrounder on mead, including recipes and a great resources guide, at www.honey.com\/images\/downloads\/makingmead.pdf#search='mead'.\n\n_\u2014Brianne McElhiney_\n\n_Arugula and Red Butterhead Lettuce Salad with Tangerines and Hard-Cooked Eggs_\n\n# THE WINTER RECIPES\n\n  ARUGULA AND RED BUTTERHEAD LETTUCE SALAD WITH TANGERINES AND HARD-COOKED EGGS\n\nWe wanted a hearty salad for our winter menu, with lots of different textures and flavors. The core idea was eggs on toast\u2014which we translated into wedges of hard-cooked egg and crunchy, garlicky croutons. The lettuces lighten everything up and the tangerines are nuggets of juicy sweetness.\n\nIf you use eggs from your own chickens, or are buying eggs from the farmers' market, let them sit in the fridge for at least a week before you cook them (if eggs are too fresh, they're hard to peel).\n\nMAKES 6 to 8 servings\n\nTIME about 1 hour\n\n6 to 8 large eggs (not super-fresh)\n\n2 teaspoons freshly squeezed tangerine juice\n\n\u00bd teaspoon finely grated tangerine zest\n\n\u00be teaspoon fine sea salt\n\n\u00bd cup extra virgin olive oil\n\n2 cloves garlic\n\n3 thin slices Wheat Berry Ciabatta, cut into \u00bd-inch cubes (about 1\u00bd cups)\n\n5 cups loosely packed arugula leaves\n\n6 cups loosely packed red butterhead lettuce leaves (about \u00bd small head)\n\n2 large or 4 small tangerines\n\n1. Preheat the oven to 400\u00b0F. Put the eggs in a small pot and cover with water by about 1 inch. Bring to a boil, immediately reduce the heat to a simmer, and cook, uncovered, for 10 minutes. Remove from the heat, immerse the eggs in ice water to cover, and let cool for 1 minute. On the countertop, crack each egg all over and return to the ice water for 5 minutes. Peel under cold water. Quarter eggs lengthwise and set aside.\n\n2. Meanwhile, in a small bowl, whisk together the tangerine juice, zest, and \u00bd teaspoon salt. Whisk in \u00bc cup of the oil to make a dressing and set aside. Mince the garlic, sprinkle it with the remaining \u00bc teaspoon salt, and mash to a paste with the flat side of a chef's knife.\n\n3. In a heatproof measuring cup, combine the remaining \u00bc cup olive oil and the garlic paste and microwave it for 10 seconds. Put the bread cubes on a rimmed baking sheet, drizzle with the garlic oil, and toss to coat evenly. Spread in a single layer and bake, stirring once or twice, until crisp, about 15 minutes. Set aside.\n\n4. Rinse the greens and dry twice in a salad spinner. Peel the tangerines and remove the thready white pith. Cut the tangerines crosswise, and separate into chunks, discarding any seeds.\n\n5. In a large bowl, toss the greens gently but thoroughly with just enough of the dressing to coat. Add the tangerines and the croutons and toss gently. Divide the salad among individual plates. Add a quartered egg to each and drizzle the eggs with a little more dressing.\n\n_PER 2-CUP SERVING 288 cal., 64% (184 cal.) from fat; 9.7 g protein; 21 g fat (3.9 g sat.); 17 g carbo (2.9 g fiber); 359 mg sodium; 212 mg chol._\n\n##    \n  WHEAT BERRY CIABATTA\n\nWe ate this shaggy-crumbed, chewy, steamy loaf slathered with homemade butter and sprinkled with sea salt. Although you will need to start it the day before, it requires very little effort that first day. We used sweet buttermilk left over from making Homemade Butter, and 'Expresso' (hard red) wheat berries and whole-wheat flour (for more on local flours, see the Allure of Local Wheat). Hard red wheat berries are the most common type sold in stores, and any brand will work; any regular whole-wheat flour will work, too.\n\nMAKES two 1\u00bd-pound loaves (about 22 slices per loaf)\n\nTIME 7 to 8 hours (mainly unattended time), plus overnight to chill starter\n\n1 cup wheat berries\n\n4\u00bd cups whole-wheat flour, plus more for dusting and sprinkling\n\n\u00be teaspoon active dry yeast\n\n\u00bc cup honey\n\n\u00bc cup Homemade Buttermilk, or whole milk\n\nAbout \u2153 cup extra virgin olive oil\n\n2 teaspoons fine sea salt\n\n3 cups ice cubes or ice-cold water\n\n1. In a saucepan, combine the wheat berries and 4\u00bd cups water and bring to a boil over high heat. Reduce the heat to a simmer, cover, and cook until the berries are very tender and at least half of them have burst, 1 to 1\u00bd hours. Remove from the heat and let cool in the pan to room temperature. Drain the berries; you should have about 3 cups. (They can be cooked up to 3 days in advance and stored, tightly covered, in the refrigerator.)\n\n2. In a bowl, stir together 1 cup of the flour, \u00bc teaspoon of the yeast, and 1 cup cold water to make the starter. Cover and refrigerate overnight.\n\n3. The next day, let the starter sit at room temperature for 1 hour; then scrape it into the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a dough hook. Add the remaining 3\u00bd cups flour, 1 cup cold water, the honey, the buttermilk, and \u00bc cup of the oil. Knead the mixture on low speed until just combined but still shaggy, about 2 minutes. Turn off the mixer and let the dough sit for 45 minutes to allow the flour to absorb the moisture.\n\n4. Sprinkle the remaining \u00bd teaspoon yeast over the dough and knead on low speed until a smooth dough forms, about 4 minutes. Add the salt and knead for 1 minute more. Add the reserved wheat berries and continue to mix on low speed just until most of the berries are incorporated.\n\n5. Use about 1 tablespoon of the oil to grease a large deep baking dish. Transfer the dough to the dish along with any loose wheat berries and cover the pan with oiled plastic wrap. Let the dough sit in the dish in a warm spot until almost doubled in size, about 1\u00bd hours.\n\n6. Line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper and set aside. Turn the dough out onto a floured work surface and divide it in half. Flour your hands; then, using your palms, press each portion flat to release any air. Fold both long sides of each piece of dough into the center, forming 2 rectangular loaves each 10 to 12 inches long. Place each loaf seam side down on a baking sheet.\n\n7. Loosely cover the loaves with oiled plastic wrap and let them sit in a warm spot until doubled in size and very puffy, 1 to 1\u00bd hours.\n\n8. Set 2 oven racks in the oven with 4 inches between them. Put a large rimmed baking pan on the oven floor. Preheat the oven to 500\u00b0F.\n\n9. Peel the plastic wrap from the loaves, being careful not to tear their surfaces. Lightly sprinkle the loaves with whole-wheat flour and put them, still on the baking sheets, on the center racks in the oven. Before closing the oven door, pour about 3 cups ice cubes into the baking pan on the oven floor, then quickly close the oven door to trap steam. Reduce the oven temperature to 450\u00b0F.\n\n10. Bake the loaves, switching the positions of the baking sheets once, until an instant-read thermometer inserted into the center of a loaf registers 190\u00baF, 20 to 25 minutes.\n\n11. Transfer the loaves to racks and let cool to room temperature. You can eat the bread right away, but if you rip into a loaf while it's still hot, it will be gluey when it cools. We usually eat one hot and let the other one cool.\n\n_PER \u00bd-INCH SLICE 160 cal., 22% (35 cal.) from fat; 5.2 g protein; 4.1 g fat (0.61 g sat.); 28 g carbo (4 g fiber); 213 mg sodium; 1 mg chol._\n\n##    \nEGG CLOUD ( _NUVOLONE_ )\n\nA dish from the Italian Alps, _nuvolone_ \u2014the word means \"big cloud\"\u2014is like a deconstructed souffl\u00e9, with the whites piled in a fluffy peak above the liquid yolk. This recipe is based on one in Manuela Darling-Gansser's _Winter in the Alps: Food by the Fireside_. It's great for a weekend breakfast.\n\nIf you want to make multiple egg clouds, beat all the egg whites together, but put each yolk in a separate little bowl (or in its eggshell) until using, which makes it easier to keep them intact. Prep all of your ingredients before you whip the egg whites\u2014and reduce the cooking time to 9 minutes.\n\nMAKES 1 serving\n\nTIME about 20 minutes\n\n1 teaspoon unsalted butter, homemade or store-bought, plus more for greasing\n\n1 large egg, separated (keep the yolk intact)\n\nPinch of fine sea salt\n\n1\u00bd tablespoons coarsely shredded aged Gouda, homemade or store-bought\n\n2 teaspoons heavy cream\n\n\u00bc teaspoon dried or \u00bd teaspoon fresh minced marjoram\n\n1. Preheat the oven to 375\u00b0F. Generously butter a ramekin 3 inches in diameter and 1\u00bd inches deep.\n\n2. In a small bowl, beat the egg white until soft peaks form. Add the salt and beat into stiff peaks. Quickly and gently fold in 1 tablespoon of the Gouda. Spoon the beaten white into the ramekin, pushing it up the sides of the dish and leaving a well in the center.\n\n3. Ease the egg yolk into the well. Top the yolk with the cream, marjoram, butter, and the remaining \u00bd tablespoon Gouda. Smooth the white over the yolk and build it up into a frothy pile. Put the ramekin on a rimmed baking sheet.\n\n4. Bake until the top is pale gold and the white is set around the rim of the ramekin, 9 to 10 minutes. Inside, the yolk will be liquidy and the white will be cooked. Serve immediately.\n\n_PER SERVING 164 cal., 75% (123 cal.) from fat; 9.3 g protein; 14 g fat (7.1 g sat.); 1.1 g carbo (0.06 g fiber); 324 mg sodium; 241 mg chol._\n\n##    \nFEATHERLIGHT PANCAKES\n\nThese are based on a recipe _Sunset_ published years ago for German \"egg cakes\" ( _Eierkuchen_ ) from the Elk Cove Inn, in the Northern California coastal town of Elk. They are good with whipped cream and berries, too.\n\nMAKES 8 pancakes, or 4 servings\n\nTIME about 30 minutes\n\nUnsalted butter for cooking and serving\n\n1 cup whole-wheat pastry flour*\n\n\u00bd cup whole milk\n\n\u00bc teaspoon fine sea salt\n\n1 tablespoon honey\n\n6 large egg yolks\n\n4 large egg whites\n\n1 teaspoon freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\nWarmed honey for serving\n\n1. Preheat an electric griddle to 300\u00b0F or a nonstick frying pan over medium-low heat. Preheat the oven to 200\u00b0F. Butter a rimmed baking sheet.\n\n2. In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, milk, salt, honey, and egg yolks until well blended. In a large bowl, beat the egg whites with the lemon juice until moist, soft peaks form. Gently fold the whites into the yolk mixture.\n\n3. When the griddle is ready, butter it and spoon on \u00bd-cup portions of the batter. Cook until golden on the bottom and slightly puffed, about 3 minutes. Flip and cook until golden on the other side and cooked through (break into one to check), 1 to 2 minutes more. As they are cooked, put the pancakes on the buttered baking sheet, cover with aluminum foil, and keep warm in the oven.\n\n4. Serve hot, with butter and honey.\n\n_PER 2-PANCAKE SERVING 267 cal., 37% (100 cal.) from fat; 12 g protein; 11 g fat (4.8 g sat.); 30 g carbo (4 g fiber); 241 mg sodium; 325 mg chol._\n\n* _We used finely milled local 'Sonora' soft white whole-wheat flour, which behaves like commercial whole-wheat pastry flour in recipes. SeeThe Allure of Local Wheat for more on local flours._\n\n##    \nEGG AND GOUDA CREPES\n\nSimple yet elegant, these egg-topped crepes make an excellent brunch or a light dinner. The nuttiness of the whole-wheat crepes pairs well with the butterscotch notes in the Gouda.\n\nMAKES 4 servings\n\nTIME about 35 minutes\n\n4 large Whole-Wheat Crepes, made in a 12-inch pan (recipe follows)\n\n1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil\n\n\u00bd cup finely chopped white onion\n\n1 cup finely shredded Gouda, homemade or store-bought\n\n1 teaspoon unsalted butter, homemade or store-bought\n\n4 large eggs\n\nFine sea salt\n\nAbout \u00bd cup small arugula leaves\n\n1. Preheat the oven to 250\u00b0F and warm the crepes in the oven while it is heating. In a large nonstick frying pan, heat the oil over medium heat. Add the onion and cook, stirring often, until translucent, 4 to 5 minutes.\n\n2. Working with 1 crepe at a time, evenly spread about 1 heaping tablespoon of the onion in the center of the crepe. Sprinkle \u00bc cup of the cheese over the onion. Fold the sides of the crepe over the filling, overlapping to form a square, and press to seal. Put the crepe on a rimmed baking sheet, folded side down. Cover with aluminum foil and keep warm in the oven. Repeat with the remaining crepes, onion, and cheese.\n\n3. In the same pan, melt the butter over medium heat and swirl to coat the bottom. Crack the eggs into the pan, trying to keep them from touching. Cook, turning once, until the whites are set but the yolks are still runny.\n\n4. Place each crepe on a plate and top with an egg. Sprinkle each egg with a pinch of salt and then scatter a few arugula leaves on top.\n\n_PER CREPE 367 cal., 61% (224 cal.) from fat; 19 g protein; 25 g fat (12 g sat.); 17 g carbo (2.4 g fiber); 770 mg sodium; 342 mg chol._\n\n### WHOLE-WHEAT CREPES\n\nThese crepes have a delicately nutty flavor and supremely tender texture.\n\nMAKES 8 large (12-inch), 10 thickish medium (8-inch), or 16 small (6-inch) crepes\n\nTIME about 30 minutes\n\n1\u00bd cups whole milk\n\nAbout 3 tablespoons unsalted butter, homemade or store-bought, melted\n\n3 large eggs\n\n1 cup whole-wheat pastry flour*\n\n\u00bd teaspoon fine sea salt\n\n1. In a saucepan, combine the milk and 2 tablespoons of the butter and heat over low heat until warm.\n\n2. Put the eggs in a blender and pulse just to mix. Add the flour, salt, and \u00bc cup of the warm milk mixture and whirl to combine. With the blender running, slowly pour the remaining milk mixture into the blender through the lid opening. Strain the batter into a bowl.\n\n3. Heat a 12-inch, 8-inch, or 6-inch nonstick frying pan over medium heat. Brush the pan with a little of the remaining 1 tablespoon butter, then pour about \u2153 cup batter into the largest pan, \u00bc cup batter into the medium-size pan, or 2 tablespoons into the smallest pan and swirl to coat the bottom of the pan evenly. Cook, turning once, until set and starting to brown, about 2 minutes total. Transfer the crepe to a plate or a baking sheet. Repeat with the remaining batter, brushing the pan with more butter as needed and stacking the crepes as you go.\n\n**MAKE AHEAD** Crepes can be made up to 4 days ahead, wrapped in plastic wrap, and chilled, they can also be frozen, stored between layers of wax paper, for 1 month.\n\n_PER LARGE CREPE 148 cal., 48% (71 cal.) from fat; 5.3 g protein; 7.9 g fat (4.2 g sat.); 14 g carbo (2 g fiber); 187 mg sodium; 95 mg chol._\n\n_PER MEDIUM CREPE 118 cal., 48% (57 cal.) from fat; 4.3 g protein; 6.3 g fat (3.3 g sat.); 11 g carbo (1.6 g fiber); 149 mg sodium; 76 mg chol._\n\n_PER SMALL CREPE 74 cal., 47% (35 cal.) from fat; 2.7 g protein; 4 g fat (2.1 g sat.); 6.9 g carbo (1 g fiber); 93 mg sodium; 48 mg chol._\n\n* _We used finely milled local 'Sonora' soft white whole-wheat flour, which behaves like commercial whole-wheat pastry flour in recipes. SeeThe Allure of Local Wheat for more on local flours._\n\n##    \nKALE COLCANNON\n\nColcannon is one of the genius ways that the Irish have with potatoes\u2014mashing them up with milk, good butter, and cooked kale or cabbage. It is simple but delicious.\n\nMAKES 4 to 6 servings\n\nTIME about 40 minutes\n\n1\u00bd pounds Yukon Gold potatoes, unpeeled, cut into large, evenly sized chunks\n\n\u00bd pound Tuscan kale, tough ribs removed and leaves coarsely chopped\n\n\u2153 cup whole milk, or as needed, warmed\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter, homemade or store-bought, plus more for serving (optional)\n\n\u00be teaspoon fine sea salt\n\n1. In a saucepan, combine the potatoes with cold water to cover by 1 inch and bring to a boil over high heat. Reduce the heat and simmer, covered, until the potatoes are tender, about 20 minutes.\n\n2. Meanwhile, pour water to a depth of \u00bd inch in another saucepan, insert a steamer basket, cover, and bring to a boil over high heat. Add the kale to the basket and cook, covered, turning the kale occasionally with tongs, until tender, about 20 minutes.\n\n3. Drain the potatoes, return them to the pan, and add the milk, butter, and salt. Mash with a potato masher, keeping the potatoes slightly chunky. Add the kale and stir to combine. Stir in a little more milk if the mixture seems too thick.\n\n4. Serve the colcannon with a pat of butter if you like.\n\n_PER \u00be-CUP SERVING 145 cal., 27% (39 cal.) from fat; 3.8 g protein; 4.4 g fat (2.7 g sat.); 23 g carbo (1.7 g fiber); 309 mg sodium; 12 mg chol._\n\n##    \nVEGETABLE SHEPHERD'S PIE\n\nCreating a hearty shepherd's pie without meat was challenging, but meaty mushrooms and hearty greens and beans did the trick.\n\nMAKES 4 to 6 servings\n\nTIME about 1\u00be hours\n\n1\u00bd pounds Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled and quartered\n\n1 tablespoon plus 2 teaspoons extra virgin olive oil\n\n\u00bd white onion, cut into slivers\n\n1\u00bc teaspoons fine sea salt\n\n1 clove garlic, finely chopped\n\n2 tablespoons plus 2 teaspoons whole-wheat flour*\n\n\u00bc cup Chardonnay\n\n2 cups Herb Vegetable Broth\n\n\u00bc pound Tuscan kale, tough ribs removed and leaves chopped\n\n\u00bd pound Swiss chard, ribs removed and leaves chopped\n\n6 ounces oyster mushrooms, halved if large\n\n1 cup drained cooked flageolet beans (see method)\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter, homemade or store-bought\n\n3 tablespoons whole milk\n\n1 large egg plus 1 large egg yolk\n\n1. In a saucepan, combine the potatoes with cold water to cover by 1 inch and bring to a boil over high heat. Reduce the heat, cover, and simmer until the potatoes are tender, about 20 minutes. Drain the potatoes, return them to the pan, and cook over low heat, stirring occasionally, until dry and floury, about 5 minutes.\n\n2. While the potatoes are cooking, in a large pot, heat the oil over medium heat. Add the onion and \u00be teaspoon of the salt and cook, stirring often, until the onion is softened and lightly golden, about 7 minutes. Add the garlic and cook until fragrant, about 1 minute.\n\n3. Whisk the flour into the onion mixture and cook, whisking, for 1 to 2 minutes. Gradually whisk in the wine and continue whisking to break up any lumps. Then gradually whisk in the broth and bring the mixture to a simmer. Preheat the oven to 425\u00b0F.\n\n4. Add the kale and chard to the broth mixture, cover, and cook over medium heat until the greens are tender, about 10 minutes. Stir in the mushrooms and cook, covered, until the mushrooms are almost tender, about 6 minutes.\n\n5. Add the flageolets, return the mixture to a simmer, and cook until the consistency of thick but pourable gravy, about 5 minutes.\n\n6. Meanwhile, press the potatoes through a ricer into a bowl (or mash with a potato masher). Mash the butter and milk into the potatoes, then stir in the egg, egg yolk, and the remaining \u00bd teaspoon salt.\n\n7. Transfer the vegetable mixture to an 8-inch square baking pan, patting it into an even layer. Carefully spread the potato mixture on top, covering the vegetable mixture evenly. If you like, using a spoon, sculpt the top into freeform peaks or waves.\n\n8. Bake until the potatoes are lightly golden and slightly puffed, about 25 minutes. Let stand for 5 to 10 minutes to thicken and cool slightly before serving.\n\n_PER SERVING 248 cal., 40% (98 cal.) from fat; 10 g protein; 11 g fat (3.9 g sat.); 36 g carbo (6.8 g fiber); 924 mg sodium; 81 mg chol._\n\n* _We used 'Expresso' whole-wheat flour, a hard red winter wheat. SeeThe Allure of Local Wheat for more about local flours. Any regular whole-wheat flour will work in this recipe._\n\n##    \nRICOTTA MANICOTTI\n\nMaria Helm Sinskey, author of _The Vineyard Kitchen: Menus Inspired by the Seasons_ , makes her manicotti with crepes instead of dried pasta\u2014just like her great-grandmother did. Ethereal and rustic at the same time, they were the inspiration for this recipe.\n\nIf you prefer crisp-edged manicotti, put the filled crepes on an oiled rimmed baking sheet in pairs (no tomato sauce beneath), leaving about an inch of space between the pairs. Top with two-thirds of the tomato sauce (leave the ends of manicotti bare) and bake in a 450\u00b0F oven until the edges are nicely browned, about 10 minutes, rotating the pan back to front halfway through so the manicotti brown evenly.\n\nMAKES 10 manicotti or 4 to 6 servings\n\nTIME about 40 minutes\n\n3 cups 'Sweet Million' Tomato Sauce or other tomato-based pasta sauce\n\n\u00bc cup Chardonnay\n\n3\u00bd cups ricotta, homemade or store-bought\n\n\u00bd cup chopped fresh basil\n\n2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n1 teaspoon crushed dried red serrano or \u00e1rbol chile\n\n1 teaspoon fine sea salt\n\n10 medium Whole-Wheat Crepes, made in an 8-inch pan (they will be quite thick)\n\n\u00bd cup finely shredded Gouda, homemade or store-bought\n\n1. Preheat the oven to 450\u00b0F. In a small bowl, mix together the tomato sauce and wine. Spread some of the sauce in the bottom of a 9-by-13-inch baking dish.\n\n2. In a bowl, mix together the ricotta, basil, lemon juice, chile, and salt. Spoon about \u2153 cup of the filling over each crepe, leaving a \u00bd-inch border around the edges. Roll up the crepes and place them seam sides down in the baking dish. Spread the remaining tomato sauce evenly over the filled crepes.\n\n3. Bake the crepes until hot and bubbling, about 15 minutes. Sprinkle the Gouda evenly over the top and continue to bake until the cheese melts, about 2 minutes more.\n\n_PER MANICOTTO 343 cal., 57% (197 cal.) from fat; 17 g protein; 22 g fat (12 g sat.); 20 g carbo (3 g fiber); 691 mg sodium; 127 mg chol._\n\n_Winter Vegetable Chowder_\n\n  WINTER VEGETABLE CHOWDER\n\nCold rain hits the San Francisco Bay Area in January and February. A big bowl of this creamy chowder gives lasting, delicious warmth. To make it pretty, we sprinkled it with broccoli rabe and rosemary flowers.\n\nMAKES 12 cups, or 6 main-course servings\n\nTIME about 1\u00bd hours\n\n2 pounds 'Yukon Gold' potatoes, unpeeled, cut into \u00be-inch chunks (about 6 cups)\n\n1 head cauliflower, about 2\u00bd pounds, cut into florets\n\n1 head broccoli romanesco, about 1\u00bc pounds, cut into florets\n\n4 cups (about 1 bunch) chopped broccoli rabe plus any flowers\n\n3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil, plus more for serving\n\n1 tablespoon fine sea salt\n\n3 tablespoons chopped garlic\n\n1 cup chopped white onion\n\n\u00bd cup heavy cream (optional)\n\nChopped fresh rosemary, plus any flowers, for garnish\n\n1. Preheat the oven to 350\u00b0F. Put half the potatoes on a rimmed baking sheet. Pick out 3 cups bite-size cauliflower florets and combine them with the broccoli romanesco and broccoli rabe on another rimmed baking sheet (set aside any broccoli rabe flowers). Chop the remaining cauliflower and set aside. Drizzle 1 tablespoon of the oil and sprinkle 1 teaspoon of the salt over each baking sheet.\n\n2. Roast the vegetables, stirring often, until golden brown and tender when pierced with a fork, about 20 minutes for the mixed vegetables and 25 minutes for the potatoes.\n\n3. Meanwhile, heat the remaining 1 tablespoon oil in a large pot over medium heat. Add the garlic and onion and cook, stirring often, until translucent, about 5 minutes. Add the remaining potatoes, the chopped cauliflower, and 6 cups water and bring to a simmer. Cover and cook until the vegetables are tender, about 15 minutes. Remove from the heat and let cool slightly.\n\n4. Working in batches, ladle about 2 cups of the liquid and vegetables into a blender and process until smooth. Pour through a fine-mesh strainer set over a large bowl, using the back of the ladle to push the soup through.\n\n5. Pour the puree back into the pot and bring to a simmer over low heat. Stir in the cream and the remaining 1 teaspoon salt, then add the roasted vegetables and heat through.\n\n6. Serve the chowder into deep soup bowls, drizzled with oil and sprinkled with chopped rosemary and broccoli rabe and rosemary flowers.\n\n_PER 2-CUP SERVING 273 cal., 23% (64 cal.) from fat; 11 g protein; 7.5 g fat (1.1 g sat.); 43 g carbo (5.3 g fiber); 1,205 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n##    \nWHEAT BERRY \"RISOTTO\" WITH ROASTED TOMATOES AND BROCCOLI RABE\n\nMany grains other than rice can be cooked like risotto, and wheat berries from soft winter wheat are one of them. As you stir them, they drink in hot liquid and their starchy outer hulls dissolve into delectable creaminess. We used local 'Sonora' soft white wheat berries from Pie Ranch in Pescadero, California. Despite the name, they are actually pale yellow, and have a lovely, fresh, slightly corny flavor. Hard red wheat berries are what you are likely to find in the grocery store, and while they won't become as creamy, their earthier, deeper flavor is good in this recipe, too.\n\nWe ate this as a main course, with a chunk of homemade feta and some hot bread on the side.\n\nMAKES 8 cups or 4 to 6 servings\n\nTIME about 3 hours\n\n2 cups wheat berries, preferably soft white wheat such as 'Sonora'\n\n5 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil\n\n1 bunch broccoli rabe, about 1 pound, tough ribs removed and leaves chopped into 1-inch pieces\n\n1 teaspoon fine sea salt\n\n4 large cloves garlic, finely chopped\n\n1 white onion, chopped (about 1\u00bd cups)\n\n\u00be cup Slow-Roasted Tomatoes for the Freezer, thawed; or sun-dried tomatoes packed in oil\n\n1 cup chopped walnuts\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter, homemade or store-bought\n\n1. In a large pot, combine the wheat berries and 2\u00bd quarts water, cover, and bring to a boil over high heat. Remove from the heat and let sit, covered, for 1 hour. Bring back to a boil, then reduce the heat to a simmer. If using soft white wheat berries, simmer until about half of the berries have just burst, about 30 minutes. If using hard red wheat berries, simmer until about half of the berries have burst wide open, 2 to 2\u00bd hours. Drain the wheat berries and set aside.\n\n2. In a large nonstick frying pan, heat 3 tablespoons of the oil over medium heat. Add the broccoli rabe and cook, stirring occasionally, until wilted, about 4 minutes. Sprinkle \u00bd teaspoon of the salt over the greens, cover, reduce the heat to low, and cook until just tender, about 15 minutes more. Add the garlic, raise the heat to medium, and cook, stirring occasionally, for 3 minutes. Remove from the heat, cover, and set aside.\n\n3. In a saucepan, bring 6 cups water to a simmer. Cover and keep at a simmer over low heat.\n\n4. In a heavy-bottomed 8-quart pot, heat the remaining 2 tablespoons oil over medium heat. Add the onion and cook, stirring occasionally, until translucent, about 10 minutes. Add the wheat berries and the remaining \u00bd teaspoon salt and cook, stirring often, until hot, about 3 minutes.\n\n5. Add \u00bd cup of the simmering water and cook, stirring, until completely absorbed by the wheat berries. Continue adding water, \u00bd cup at a time, stirring until each addition is absorbed before adding the next, until the berries look creamy, 15 to 30 minutes. You will have water left over. Keep the pot at a steady simmer throughout, reducing the heat to medium-low if the mixture starts to boil.\n\n6. Chop the tomatoes and add them and the cooked broccoli rabe to the wheat berries. Heat, stirring, until heated through, 2 to 4 minutes.\n\n7. Remove the pot from the heat and stir in the walnuts and butter. For a looser risotto, stir in \u00bd to 1 cup of the remaining simmering water. Serve immediately.\n\n_PER SERVING 535 cal., 52% (277 cal.) from fat; 15 g protein; 32 g fat (5.6 g sat.); 56 g carbo (11 g fiber); 490 mg sodium; 10 mg chol._\n\n##    \nBRAISED WINTER GREENS WITH PRESERVED LEMON AND RED CHILE\n\nIf you have a jar of preserved lemons and some dried chiles on hand, you can make these supremely satisfying greens quickly. We especially like the combination of sweet Savoy cabbage with mildly pungent mustard greens, but you can use any greens in your garden.\n\nMAKES 4 to 6 servings\n\nTIME about 25 minutes\n\n3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil\n\n\u2154 cup finely chopped white onion\n\n2 tablespoons chopped preserved lemon peel\n\n\u00bc to \u00bd teaspoon crushed dried red serrano chiles or \u00e1rbol chiles\n\n3\u00bd quarts loosely packed whole leaves of mixed greens such as Savoy cabbage, mustard, Swiss chard, and\/or kale that have had the tough stems and ribs removed\n\nFine sea salt (optional)\n\n1. In a 5- to 6-quart saucepan, heat 1\u00bd tablespoons of the oil over medium heat. Add the onion and cook, stirring often, until translucent, 4 to 5 minutes. Stir in the preserved lemon and chile and cook, stirring, for about 1 minute.\n\n2. Add half the greens and \u00be cup water and raise the heat to medium-high. Cover the pan and cook until the greens have wilted, 2 to 3 minutes. Add the remaining greens and cook, covered, until all are wilted, about 5 minutes more. Stir, reduce the heat to low, and cook, covered, until the greens are tender, about 5 minutes more.\n\n3. If there is too much liquid in the pan, uncover and boil over high heat for a few minutes to evaporate most of it. Stir in the remaining 1\u00bd tablespoons oil and season to taste with salt.\n\n_PER \u2154-CUP SERVING 118 cal., 53% (63 cal.) from fat; 4.6 g protein; 7.3 g fat (1 g sat.); 13 g carbo (6.5 g fiber); 401 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n##    \nCARAMELIZED TANGERINE AND RICOTTA TART\n\nBellwether Farms, in Sonoma, California, produces some of America's finest ricotta, and head cheese maker Liam Callahan taught us how to make ricotta at home (see here). It is terrific in this tart, which was inspired by one that Liam and his mother, Cindy, serve to guests at Bellwether. Their version is based on a tart by chef Emeril Lagasse, who invented it using Bellwether cheeses.\n\nIf you make the rectangular tart, you'll have enough pastry dough, filling, and topping left over for a 4- to 5-inch mini tart. Instead of the caramelized tangerines, you can top the tart with any ripe, in-season fruit and glaze it with some warmed jam.\n\nMAKES 1 round 9- or 10-inch tart, or 1 rectangular 4\u00bd- by-14-inch tart plus 1 round 4- to 5-inch mini tart\n\nTIME about 4 hours, plus at least 2 hours to chill\n\n**TOPPING**\n\n\u2153 pounds small, firm tangerines (avoid the loose \"zipper-skin\" type)\n\n7 tablespoons honey\n\n1 cup freshly squeezed tangerine juice, plus more if needed\n\n**CRUST**\n\n1\u00bd cups 'Sonora' whole wheat flour* or whole-wheat pastry flour, plus more for dusting\n\n\u00bc teaspoon fine sea salt\n\n\u00bd cup cold unsalted butter, homemade or store-bought, cut into cubes\n\n1 tablespoon honey\n\n3 to 4 tablespoons ice water\n\n**FILLING**\n\n1 cup ricotta, homemade or store-bought\n\n\u00be cup fromage blanc, homemade or store-bought**\n\n\u00bd cup cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche, homemade or store-bought\n\n2 tablespoons honey\n\n2 tablespoons Sticky Chewy Tangerine Marmalade or store-bought tangerine or orange marmalade\n\n1. To make the topping, preheat the oven to 275\u00b0F. Wash the tangerines well, but don't peel them. Slice them very thinly crosswise. Arrange half the slices in an 8-inch square baking dish, keeping them more or less in a single layer. Drizzle the slices with 1\u00bd tablespoons of the honey. Top with the remaining tangerine slices and drizzle with another 1\u00bd tablespoons honey. Pour the tangerine juice over the layered slices. It should almost cover the fruit; if it doesn't, add more as needed. Cover the dish with aluminum foil and cook until the peels are very soft, 2 to 2\u00bd hours.\n\n2. Meanwhile, make the dough for the crust. Sift the flour and salt into a food processor and whirl briefly to blend. Scatter the butter cubes over the top and pulse until the mixture looks like shaggy fresh bread crumbs. Drizzle the honey over the mixture. With the motor running, drizzle in the ice water, adding just enough for the dough to come together. Turn the dough out onto a work surface and press together into a rectangle or disk, depending on the shape of the tart you are making. Wrap the dough in plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least 1 hour or up to 2 days.\n\n3. While the dough is chilling, make the filling. In a bowl, beat the ricotta, fromage blanc, cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche, and honey until smooth with a wooden spoon. Then beat in the marmalade. Cover and refrigerate until needed.\n\n4. When the tangerine slices are ready, drizzle with another 2 tablespoons honey and raise the oven temperature to 350\u00b0F. Roast the slices, uncovered, until they start to brown, about 50 minutes. Remove from the oven and drizzle with the remaining 2 tablespoons honey.\n\n5. While the tangerines are roasting, bake the crust. Lightly dust a work surface with flour. Unwrap the dough, set it on the floured surface, and let it warm up for 10 minutes. With a lightly floured rolling pin, roll out the dough about \u215b inch thick to fit a 9- or 10-inch round tart pan with a removable bottom or a 4-by-14-inch rectangular tart pan with a removable bottom. Using a pastry scraper or a thin metal spatula, scoot the dough off the surface and gently ease it into the tart pan. Trim the dough even with the pan edge. If you are making a rectangular tart, gather up the scraps and reroll to a line a 4- or 5-inch tartlet pan.\n\n6. Prick the bottom of the crust all over with a fork. Line the crust with parchment paper and fill with pie weights or dried beans. Slide the crust into the oven alongside the tangerines and bake until golden, 30 to 40 minutes. Remove from the oven, remove the pie weights and parchment, and bake the crust until deep golden, 10 to 15 minutes more. Let cool on a rack.\n\n7. Spread the filling in the cooled crust to within \u00bd inch of the rim. Arrange the warm or cooled tangerines over the filling and drizzle with any accumulated juices. Chill for at least 2 hours before serving.\n\n**MAKE AHEAD** The tart can be made up to 1 day ahead and refrigerated. You can also make the crust, filling, and topping up to 1 day ahead (keep the crust at room temperature; refrigerate the filling and topping), then assemble and chill for 2 hours before serving.\n\n_PER SLICE OF ROUND TART 342 cal., 44% (152 cal.) from fat; 6.5 g protein; 17 g fat (10 g sat.); 42 g carbo (3.8 g fiber); 236 mg sodium; 49 mg chol._\n\n* _We used local 'Sonora' soft white wheat flour because it behaves like commercial whole-wheat pastry flour. SeeThe Allure of Local Wheat for more about local flours._\n\n** _Store-bought fromage blanc is often much drier than homemade fromage blanc. If you use it, stir in enough heavy cream (at least 3 tablespoons) to give it the consistency of softened cream cheese._\n\n_Tangerine Honey Flan_\n\n##    \n  TANGERINE HONEY FLAN\n\nWithout baking soda or baking powder, we couldn't make cakes. But we could make this fantastic flan\u2014smooth, rich, cool, and creamy.\n\nMAKES 1 (9-inch) flan\n\nTIME about 2 hours, plus 2 hours to chill\n\n\u2153 cup plus \u00bd cup honey\n\n2\u00bd cups whole milk\n\n1 tablespoon finely shredded tangerine zest\n\n4 large eggs plus 2 large egg yolks\n\nThinly sliced tangerine peel for garnish (optional)\n\n1. Preheat the broiler and position the rack 5 inches from the heating element.\n\n2. Spread \u2153 cup honey in an ovenproof 9-inch quiche dish or pie pan.\n\n3. Broil the honey until bubbly and medium amber, 5 to 10 minutes. Watch closely to make sure it doesn't burn. Remove from the oven and swirl gently if unevenly colored, then let the honey cool (it will solidify and become fairly hard). Reduce the oven temperature to 325\u00b0F and reposition the rack in the center of the oven.\n\n4. In a small saucepan, combine the milk and tangerine zest and heat over medium-low heat until steaming. Meanwhile, whisk together the remaining \u00bd cup honey, the whole eggs, and the egg yolks in a bowl.\n\n5. Slowly drizzle the warm milk mixture into the egg mixture while whisking constantly. Strain the custard through a cheesecloth-lined strainer into a clean bowl. Put the quiche dish of honey in a roasting pan and pour the custard into the dish.\n\n6. Pull out the center oven rack halfway and put the roasting pan on the rack. Pour hot water into the pan to come halfway up the sides of the quiche dish. Carefully slide the rack into place. Bake until the custard jiggles only slightly when the dish is gently shaken, about 1 hour.\n\n7. Carefully remove the roasting pan from the oven. Let stand for 10 minutes, then transfer the custard dish to a rack to cool to room temperature.\n\n8. Cover the custard and chill for at least 2 hours or up to overnight. To serve, carefully run a knife along the inside edge of the dish to release the custard. Invert a large rimmed plate over the custard, carefully invert the dish and plate together, and then lift off the dish. Top with the tangerine peel.\n\n_PER SERVING (1\/12th OF FLAN) 135 cal., 27% (37 cal.) from fat; 4.2 g protein; 4.1 g fat (1.7 g sat.); 22 g carbo (0.1 g fiber); 48 mg sodium; 111 mg chol._\n\n##    \nSTICKY CHEWY TANGERINE MARMALADE\n\nThis Scottish-style marmalade is based on a recipe from my family's friend Mary Latker, whose relatives owned the R. & W. Scott jam factory in Carluke, near Glasgow. It's thick and delectably chewy, with a pleasantly bitter edge.\n\nThe recipe has three stages: an overnight soak, a first boil, and a second boil in small batches, with sugar added (we used honey instead). Preserves made this \"small-batch\" way have a better consistency and a fresher, brighter taste. You can double the recipe if you like, but you must still do the second boil in small batches.\n\nWe don't process the marmalade jars in boiling water, and have had no trouble (the jars seal properly and the marmalade keeps for several months at room temperature). That said, water-bath processing has the advantage of driving out every last bit of air from the jars, and marmalade or preserves that are processed this way keep their color longer. If you'd like to try it, follow the instructions that come with canning jars, or download directions from the National Center for Home Food Preservation at www.homefoodpreservation.com; look under Make Jam & Jelly, then go to Processing Jams and Jellies.\n\nMAKES 3 half-pint jars, plus a little extra\n\nTIME about 3 hours, plus overnight to soak\n\n2 pounds firm tangerines (9 to 15, depending on size)\n\n\u00bd lemon\n\n2\u00bc cups honey\n\n1. Wash 2 or 3 tangerines, then score their peels into quarters and remove them. Slice the peels into thin slivers (you should have about \u00bd cup) and put the slivers in a large, wide heavy-bottomed pot.\n\n2. Peel the remaining tangerines and remove most of the thready white pith from all the tangerines, including those from step 1. Separate the tangerines into segments, cut the segments in half crosswise, and remove any seeds. Put the segments in the pot.\n\n3. Wash the lemon half, then cut it, peel and all, into \u00bc-inch dice and remove any seeds. Add to the pot. Measure the contents of the pot. You should have about 5 cups (add a little extra peel or fruit if you are short.) Return the fruit to the pot and add 1\u00bd cups water for every 1 cup fruit. Cover and refrigerate overnight.\n\n4. The hard boil: Cover the pot and bring to a boil over high heat. Boil rapidly until the peels are very soft and cooked through, 25 to 30 minutes. The tangerine peels can toughen after seeming soft, so cook them well.\n\n5. Meanwhile, put 3 half-pint canning jars on a rack (or on several cookie cutters) in a stockpot and fill with hot water. Bring to a boil, then boil for 10 minutes to sterilize. Wash canning lids and rings for the jars with hot, soapy water.\n\n6. The small-batch boil: Measure the fruit pulp, including the liquid; you should have about 6 cups. Working in batches, put 2 cups pulp in a heavy-bottomed medium saucepan (plain steel, no dark coating inside; this helps you see the true color of the marmalade as it darkens). Stir in \u00be cup of the honey. You can do more than one batch at a time if you have enough equipment.\n\n7. Put a small plate in the freezer to chill. Bring the fruit mixture to a boil over medium-high heat and cook, uncovered, at a hard, foaming boil, stirring occasionally with a wooden spoon, until the mixture starts to thicken, about 20 minutes. To test, spoon a dollop onto the chilled plate. If the dollop has rounded \"shoulders\" instead of flattening out, and nearly holds its shape when you run a finger through it, the marmalade is ready. (It will thicken as it cools.) If it seems too thin, continue to boil, watching carefully (honey burns easily) and testing periodically the same way. If the marmalade begins to burn, reduce the heat and simmer until it is thick enough to set.\n\n8. Empty the jars of hot water and set them on a counter. Ladle in the marmalade to within \u00bc inch of the rims and skim any foam from the surface. Wipe the rim edges clean with a damp kitchen towel. Set the inner lids on the jars, then screw on the bands. Transfer the jars to a cooling rack until they self-seal (they give off an audible \"snick\" as the lid is sucked in toward the surface of the jam). Test a seal by pushing on the center of the lid. If it doesn't spring back, it is sealed.\n\n9. If you have not been making batches simultaneously, repeat steps 6, 7, and 8 with the remaining fruit pulp. The marmalade will keep in a cool, dark place for several months. If a jar did not seal properly, store it in the refrigerator and use within a month. If you have leftover marmalade, or if the final batch failed to make a full jar, store that in the refrigerator too.\n\n_PER TABLESPOON 56 cal., 1% (0.42 cal.) from fat; 0.18 g protein; 0.05 g fat (0.01 g sat.); 15 g carbo (0.41 g fiber); 0.95 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n##    \nPRESERVED LEMONS\n\nMost preserved lemons take a good month to cure. Freezing them overnight speeds up the softening of the lemons' cells, and they are ready in about a week. Slice or chop the peel and put in salads, cooked greens, or quinoa, or puree with cooked vegetables for soup\u2014carrot is especially good. We used 'Eureka' lemons, because it's what we grew; but if you have Meyer lemons, by all means use them.\n\nMAKES 2 cups\n\nTIME about 10 minutes, plus at least 1 week to stand\n\n5 to 7 lemons\n\n5 tablespoons fine sea salt\n\n1. Rinse the lemons well. Quarter 5 lemons lengthwise, put in a bowl, and sprinkle with the salt. Mix with your hands to coat the lemons evenly with the salt, then crush them with your hands or a potato masher until the juices seep out. Pack the lemons into a 1-pint widemouthed jar with a clamp lid. The lemon quarters should be immersed in the juice. If not, squeeze the juice from the remaining 2 lemons and add as needed to cover the lemon pieces.\n\n2. Cover the jar with plastic wrap, roll a rubber band down around the rim to hold the wrap in place, and freeze for at least 8 hours or up to overnight.\n\n3. Let the lemons thaw at room temperature. Remove the plastic wrap and close the jar lid. Let stand at room temperature until the peels have softened, 7 to 8 days. Invert the jar twice a day to make sure the lemon pieces are evenly moistened.\n\n4. The lemons are now ready to use. They can be stored in the refrigerator for up to 1 year (they will turn a deeper yellow). To use them, scrape the pulp from the peel and discard the pulp. If you want a less salty flavor, rinse the peel under cold running water. Cut the peel as directed in individual recipes.\n\n_PER \u00bc LEMON 3.8 cal., 0% from fat; 0 g protein; 0 g fat (0 g sat.); 1.3 g carbo (0.5 g fiber); 1,680 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n# SPRING\n\n_The One-Block Spring Feast_\n\nRadishes, Fresh Homemade Butter, and Salt  \nFavas and Ricotta on Buttermilk Crackers\n\nMesclun Salad with Spring Beets and Dill  \nGrilled Carrot Salad  \nFava Leaf and Parsley Quiche\n\nStrawberries with Fromage Blanc and Lemon Honey\n\nChardonnay, Belgian Abbey Ale, Strawberry Lemonade\n\nSpring starts early in the San Francisco Bay Area. In February, stone-fruit trees puff out in popcornlike balls of pink and white. With every passing week, new flowers open on trees and from bushes and beds: mock orange and rose and lilac vine, sending out a sweet blended perfume.\n\nAround the beginning of the month, our bees began pouring from the hives. We saw them everywhere, dancing over the flowers and herbs, their golden bodies glinting in the sun. Despite the pleasure of watching them and anticipating the honey to come, Team Bee braced itself. Spring is swarm season.\n\nSwarming typically happens because the hive is overcrowded. The crammed-in bees will raise a new queen (or several), and then she and up to half of the colony will fly away. It can seriously deplete the hive, and beekeepers try to prevent this by stacking on another box to give their bees more room.\n\nWe had added boxes to both hives a few weeks earlier, but it wasn't enough to keep Betty from swarming. One morning, we spotted a big, buzzing clump of bees up in a nearby tree\u2014and more bees cascading thickly down the front of Betty. Luckily, bees are gentle when swarming; their goal is to protect the queen (hidden in the buzzing ball) and find a new home, not attack, so even though we had rushed out without suits or veils, we had little to worry about. But we were helpless to intervene.\n\nTwo days later, Betty (now ex-Betty, most likely) swarmed again. An \"afterswarm\" is rare, but does happen when the bees raise more than one queen. The air was thick with darting, roaring bees, and Kimberley and Margaret stood in the middle of it, engulfed by the tornado. \"It felt like being encompassed by the Other,\" said Margaret later. \"You could feel their weird, humming, crackling energy.\" Even for those of us standing at the edge, it was an awesome sight. We watched for half an hour, and the bees kept flying crazily back and forth. By the end of day, they still hadn't managed to locate a new place to live and were pooled forlornly under the hive.\n\nThe next morning, Brianne found the swarm clustered on some empty clay pots nearby. She had just been to a lecture on swarm catching, and without hesitation gently slid an empty box under the bees while brushing them in with a bee brush (kind of like a duster). We gave the swarm to the head of our local beekeeper's guild. And we left the twice-swarmed hive alone for a while to settle down with, we hoped, a new resident queen.\n\nWe had been excited about all of our menus. But spring seemed especially wonderful, because the contrast between the dense, minerally, sulfurous vegetables of winter\u2014kales, cabbages, cauliflowers\u2014and the light, fresh crops of spring\u2014strawberries, peas, carrots\u2014was so dramatic. With the sun came sunny, sweet-tasting food.\n\nAfter our now-customary Food and Garden meeting to figure out what we would like to grow versus what we actually could grow, Johanna began the planting. She started the more tender herbs\u2014like dill (even though it's more of a summer herb, it would still grow in our spring), tarragon, and feathery chervil\u2014in the greenhouse, since the ground wasn't quite warm enough yet. She planted carrots, strawberries, and soft mixed lettuces that we would be able to snip when barely formed and toss into salads. Green onions went in, and radishes, and three kinds of beets. We craved peas, preferably English peas or sugar snaps, but if planted now, in March, they wouldn't be ready for a feast in May.\n\nThis was terribly disappointing. What is a spring menu without peas? Then we spotted some distinctly legume-like plants climbing up the side of the greenhouse. Johanna reluctantly revealed that they were fava beans, which she had planted specifically as a cover crop back in October to deliver nitrogen to a spot that needed it. Ah! Fava beans could be just as good, if not better, in our spring menu. Maybe the test garden could spare a few? \"Please let us eat some. They're so delicious,\" I wheedled. \"And we have no peas.\" Johanna graciously gave in. Team Kitchen lucked out, and next year, we will plan ahead for peas.\n\nChickens are tamer than bees, but they care less about the good of the collective. Honey\u2014the henpecked chicken for whom we had built her own separate protective enclosure the year before\u2014was again being tormented by the rest of the flock: more bleeding comb, more hiding in the nest box, serious wasting away of plump chicken body. We fretted. This could not go on.\n\nFinally, we realized that Honey was just being broody. This is common among chickens, and we felt a bit silly that it had taken so long for us to recognize it. Poor Honey was trying to hatch eggs; that was why she refused to leave the box, not because she was avoiding the sorority from hell down in the yard. However, non-brooding hens, we learned, do typically attack a brooder whenever she's off the nest. It's as though they're telling her to get back on the job.\n\nOur tactic was to haul Honey out of the nest box, plop her down next to the food, and stand guard long enough so she could eat and drink. She would puff up her feathers until she looked like a big yellow dandelion, and she'd make wet, squelchy clucks that sounded as though she were babbling. This completely enraged the other chickens. We'd fend them off with menacing foot thrusts while Honey chowed down. Within several days, she was back to her usual sleek self, and Team Chicken was able to relax.\n\nAt last, Team Beer attempted its most ambitious brew, using our own hops and our own agonizingly threshed and winnowed wheat and barley. Now we had to malt the grains\u2014that is, make them sprout, which naturally converts their starches to sugars. Malted grain, once ground up and soaked in warm water, produces wort, the sweet liquid that yeast feed on and convert to beer.\n\nTeam Beer's leader, Rick LaFrentz, is also Sunset's head gardener and has a knack for making seeds sprout. He soaked our wheat and barley for hours and then enclosed the seeds in plastic bags to keep them moist. Within days, fine little root hairs and shoots appeared. A bit of drying and rubbing off of roots and shoots, and the malted grain was ready.\n\nFor help on brewing day, we enlisted a friend with lots of experience in home brewing from grain: Chuck Schwalbach, husband of Diane, who works in manufacturing at Sunset. Chuck brought in some very useful tools, including a plate chiller, which cools the hot wort almost instantly. As the ripe smell of wort filled the kitchen, we hoped that the grains had fully converted their starches to sugars. Without sugars, our beer would bomb. So it was a big relief when, at the end of the day, Chuck measured the new brew's density and found that it had plenty of sugar: enough, he predicted, to give our beer 7 percent alcohol. We toasted our success with mugs of the grainy, sweet wort, tinged with bitterness from the hops.\n\nBeer wasn't the only thing we planned to brew for the spring feast. Months earlier, Chris Ryan, our executive editor and a dedicated tea drinker, had observed that our project lacked caffeine. We had assumed that growing coffee and tea would be impossible, that the plants needed to be shrouded in tropical mists. But no! Tea could survive our climate, apparently, if coddled. Back in the fall, Chris had tracked down some plants at a South Carolina nursery that were mature enough to yield leaves in spring, and sent away for three of them.\n\nThey survived the winter, and as soon as the weather warmed up, they began to unfurl small, shiny green leaves. It only took about a week and a half to wither, roll, ferment, and dry our minuscule harvest. To celebrate, it seemed fitting to have a tea party. We summoned up our inner Britons and made dainty tea sandwiches\u2014and, not having the ingredients for scones, little tarts filled with clotted cream and preserves.\n\n_Picking tea_\n\nTeam Cow was celebrating, too. We'd finally found a new cow. It had taken months of calling all over the area and beyond\u2014to 4-H clubs, farms and ranches, even backyard cow owners. Our cow lived about one hundred miles to the south, at Claravale Farm, a raw-milk dairy near Pinnacles National Monument. It was a beautiful place set in a remote, grassy valley framed by mountains, with chickens clucking in the bushes, a pistachio orchard, several century-old buildings from the town that once stood there, and a milking herd of fifty-five Jersey cows.\n\nRon Garthwaite and his partner, Collette Cassidy, let us pick out a young, good-looking, chocolate brown Jersey, No. 64. We named her Holly, after Hollister, the nearest big town, and arranged to buy her (she would continue to live at Claravale, though.). We got to milk her by hand, which is much harder than you might think: milk shoots sideways, down your sleeve, or refuses to come out at all. It is, however, extremely relaxing to put your shoulder against a big warm animal and (once you get the hang of it) rhythmically squirt milk from soft, stretchy teats into a bucket. Mainly, though, we used an individual milking machine, with tubes that attach to each teat and pipe the milk straight into an enclosed container. This is more efficient (the cow is milked in ten minutes, versus up to forty-five), more comfortable for the cow, and more sanitary, since the milk is never exposed to the air, flies, or whatever might happen to fall into an open bucket.\n\nAnd Holly's milk was a revelation. It tasted sweet and pure, with an indescribable lightness of texture and the slightest hint of grass. \"It hasn't been homogenized, pasteurized, standardized, or fortified,\" said Ron. He'd just described the milk we'd all taken for granted as the real thing\u2014until now.\n\n_Ron Garthwaite and Collette Cassidy with their Jerseys_\n\nAfter each visit, we took Holly's milk home in one-gallon canning jars that we buried in a giant cooler full of ice. At Sunset, we drank it as it was, from the jars. If we felt we hadn't kept the milk cold enough, or if anyone at Sunset requested it, we gently pasteurized some. So far, we've used the milk to make rich, delicious, sweet-tasting ricotta with a much higher yield than from store-bought milk\u2014doubtless because Jersey milk has more butterfat and proteins than the milk of any other breed. We'll be trying out all kinds of other cheeses, too, in the months ahead\u2014and yogurt, butter, and ice cream.\n\nBy March, our spring garden had sprouted in a neat rectangle of green leaves of various hues and textures. Johanna had broadcast the herb seeds\u2014meaning she scattered them the way nature would\u2014and sowed the other crops in rows, so we had a combination of soft masses and orderly lines. The carrots had been heavily seeded in case some refused to germinate, but most of them had sprouted, forming a dense patch. Johanna carefully pulled out more than half to make some growing space for the rest. The thinnings were delicious in salad.\n\nWhile out in the garden one day, we noticed that Alana, layer of pretty green eggs, was not her perky self. Her tail was drooping and she had a sad, lethargic look in her eyes, as though something very bad were going on internally.\n\nElizabeth read up on droopiness and lethargy. She concluded that it was most likely egg binding, which is when an egg gets stuck in the oviduct; it can be fatal if not fixed. The home remedy involves helping the chicken relax. So, following the standard advice, we massaged Alana's vent with mineral oil (not as bad as it sounds) and gave her a warm bath. We also massaged her stomach in the direction of the vent to coax the egg out, but felt nothing.\n\nAlana got worse and worse. After about five days, she was nearly unable to stand, and kept her eyes closed most of the time. By this point in our chicken keeping, we had decided we would limit veterinary care. We didn't want to be cruel to our chickens, but they were, after all, farm animals, and if they were in pain we would give them a quick, merciful end. Also, their diseases were often not treatable. That said, we did want to know whether Alana had something that could harm the rest of the flock.\n\nSo Elizabeth took Alana to an avian vet in nearby Mountain View. He was stumped, too, but he came up with many untreatable possibilities, from Marek's disease (a deadly contagious virus) to botulism to heavy-metal poisoning. \"Her prognosis doesn't look good,\" he told her. The choice was pretty clear. We decided to put her out of her misery and send her body to the state lab, to understand what had happened to her.\n\nThis was the first death in our one-block project. Okay, it was the first warm-blooded death\u2014we'd had hundreds, if not thousands, of dead bees. After investing a lot of time and concern in one chicken, Elizabeth found the death difficult, not only because she was present for it but also because she had made a real effort not to get attached to any of the hens. Plus, she had always tried to keep in mind that she (like the rest of us on Team Chicken) enjoyed a good chicken curry and that our own chickens were perfectly edible. So her sadness took her by surprise.\n\nWe each ended up feeling differently about Alana's end. Jim, an animal lover to his core, sensed even more acutely the innocence and vulnerability of animals that come under the care of humans. \"It lays superiority and responsibility at your feet, even when you don't want them,\" he said. Elizabeth said it gave her some insight into empathy and how it should be directed. \"The chickens are not pets. They're animals that have a job to do. I had to ask myself, how sad do I feel about this? And I had to control my empathy, which was an eye-opening experience. I might not give them human names next time.\" Other people on staff (not on Team Chicken, however) had no qualms about killing one of our flock, whether to end suffering or to put meat on the table. As for me and where I stood on the detachment scale, well, probably near Elizabeth. Mostly, I felt gratitude for that chicken and her beautiful, delicious eggs, which she had so generously produced day after day.\n\nSeveral weeks after Alana's body went off to the lab, we got the results back. She didn't die of anything infectious, but of kidney failure, and she had some inflammation around the heart. Also, a lot of internal fat. We were probably overfeeding the chickens. No more enchiladas, girls! We cut back on kitchen scraps and started giving them only greens, with a few other fruit and vegetable bits. And Johanna put together a movable garden enclosure for them out of chicken wire and rebar, so they could run around a little more and scarf up slugs at the same time. Unfortunately, we couldn't give them free rein of the garden because they would also eat our vegetables, which we were coaxing toward maturity for our spring feast.\n\nWe had had phenomenal luck getting our winter garden to ripen all at once. That was not going to happen with this one. The favas were ready now, in April (right on schedule for favas), and so were the radishes, but everything else needed a few more weeks of grow time. We weren't worried: Favas keep well layered between damp paper towels or newspaper, and we quickly replanted the radishes (they grow fast). We harvested twenty-five pounds of big, meaty pods from those fava vines in about half an hour and packed them away, along with their entirely edible greens, in the fridge.\n\nBeverage-wise, we were moving right on schedule. Our beer had taken a couple of days for fermentation to kick in, but when it did, it blew the airlock clean off the carboy. Now, after six weeks of racking it and letting it percolate, Team Beer filled and capped a grand total of fifty-one bottles. We tasted it expectantly. Even though it wasn't yet carbonated, it seemed balanced, with a nice graininess and fragrant hops. After all that work, we had probably made some decent beer.\n\nThree weeks later, when carbonation was complete, we popped a few caps for a group taste. Maybe we hadn't cleaned our bottles quite well enough, or maybe something had crept into the brew while we were bottling, but the beer was undeniably funky. At first we tried to deny it, saying things like, \"It has a zingy, citrusy edge,\" and \"Boy, is that blond.\" The more honest among us noticed flavors of plastic jug and bathroom cleanser, and then we all did. Team Beer drew on its inner Buddhist and tried to think about the journey, not the end.\n\nNothing we seemed to do could keep the mites from swarming all over our bees. At best, we kept them at bay. Our newest tactic was to bring in an alternative hive called a top-bar. So far, we'd been using traditional Langstroth hives, which have stacked boxes and frames with preexisting foundation on which the bees build honeycomb and brood cells. The top-bar is a long single-story box you build yourself, with strips of wood (the bars) running across the top. The bees build their own comb, as they do in the wild, and anchor it to the bars. The top-bar was reputed to reduce disease and pests, and we were willing to try anything.\n\nFor this hive, we installed bees for the first time. We had purchased our first two hives as nucs (new colonies complete with queens). We built this one from scratch. The bees had arrived by mail, in a very buzzy shoebox-size box, with the queen in a small, separate capsule inside. During the trip, she had been emitting the powerful pheromones that were gradually bonding the other bees to her, but without her own traveling compartment, they might have killed her first. We named her Califia, after the queen of the mythical island of California. She was a beautiful bee, the color of a ripe apricot.\n\nWe removed the cork from the bottom of the queen's capsule and stuffed in a marshmallow instead, which the other bees would chew through in a few days, giving the queen time to fully cast her scent-spell over her subjects before they released her. We hung the little cage inside the hive. Kimberley shook the box of bees over the open hive, and they fell in with the sound of rice pouring from a box. After a couple of hours, they were already out on scouting flights. Three weeks later, fourteen of the fifteen bars had comb descending from them in snowy white lobes. Our new bees were busy and capable. Now we hoped they would stay healthy, too.\n\nA couple of days before our spring dinner, we checked out the favas. The pods were fine, and enough of the greens had lasted to give us a filling for two big quiches, which together formed the centerpiece of our menu. Then we went into the garden with Johanna and harvested our crops, pulling up golden and red beets and dusty pink ones\u2014the amazing 'Chioggias' that, when sliced crosswise, looked like swirly peppermint lollipops. The carrots were just a matter of pulling, too, and all the herbs were easy\u2014we just snipped. Pull on a green onion, though, and it snaps off. You have to dig around each one and then tug to get the whole thing.\n\n_Harvesting fava beans_\n\nIn the kitchen, we tasted our vegetables so we would know how best to cook them. With a bowl of water for swishing and a knife for root trimming, we chomped straight from the basket. Everything was sweet and juicy, especially the radishes, which were as crisp and mild as apples, and the green onions, which had only a hint of heat sneaking in toward the end of the chew. The frilly little chervil had a clean, good flavor. French tarragon numbed our tongues with a hit of potent licorice, like it was supposed to. The strawberries were best of all\u2014dead ripe and supersweet. We were glad our plan for them was simple: We wouldn't get in their way.\n\nA breeze kicked up on the day of our feast, so we ate inside, next to sliding doors open to the garden. The beer was there for the curious, and we still had plenty of Chardonnay to sip as we stood around eating freshly baked buttermilk crackers with sweet ricotta, mint, and fava beans. We had a platter of radishes, too, with fresh butter and salt\u2014it was all they needed.\n\nWe covered the table with pink roses that Johanna had picked, and bottles of wine and pitchers of strawberry lemonade. Everything was served on platters: mesclun salad with paper-thin circles of red, golden, and lollipop-swirled beets; tall, custardy quiches laced with saut\u00e9ed fava leaves; and a warm salad of grilled carrots with tarragon. Elaine was in charge of dessert, and she had been experimenting with our strawberries for several days. In the end, she turned away from strawberry fromage blanc cheesecake (because we already had a crusty dish, the quiche) and strawberries simmered in wine syrup (it tasted wintry). Instead, she spooned homemade fromage blanc into bowls, added the strawberries, and drizzled warm lemon-infused honey on top. It was so simple, and it was just right.\n\nThe dinner looked like a garden in full bloom, and it tasted wonderful, too. And yet the real triumph\u2014as with each of the feasts that preceded it\u2014happened on the way to the table.\n\nWe had coaxed food from pure nature, and that had required forming a relationship with it. We'd been moved to tears and totally frustrated; we'd been overjoyed and awestruck. We'd seen into the microscopic heart of cheese, beer, and wine; worked with bees, chickens, and a cow; and made gardens that grew like green symphonies, each little plant playing its part, contributing its flavor and beauty to the whole. Our project had taken place, more or less, on one block, but what we learned from it went far beyond.\n\n# THE SPRING GARDEN\n\nTender greens, crisp green onions, and plump radishes are cool-season crops, meaning they grow best in cooler temperatures. Long periods of hot weather can cause them to turn bitter and to bolt (set seed) before they produce edible parts. In mild-winter climates, plant them in very early spring so they will mature before summer heat settles in, or in late summer for a fall or winter crop. Because growing conditions vary by region (and even within neighborhoods), check the planting times for your area \"One-Block Feasts Across the Country.\" Many of the crops we planted thrive in full sun in cooler areas, which means the planting location needs at least 6 hours of sun per day. In hot climates, give them part shade. Some crops, such as mesclun and radishes, are easy to grow from seeds. Others on our spring menu, including strawberries, are easier if you start with bare-root plants or nursery seedlings. For seed-starting and planting tips, see here.\n\n_10 feet_\n\n**SPRING GARDEN PLAN**\n\n1. Tea\n\n2. Nasturtiums\n\n3. Peppermint\n\n4. Chervil\n\n5. Dill\n\n6. Fava beans\n\n7. Carrots\n\n8. Beets\n\n9. Arugula\n\n10. Mesclun\n\n11. Radishes\n\n12. Strawberries\n\n13. Green onions\n\n14. Tarragon\n\n15. Thyme\n\n16. Parsley\n\n17. Lemon tree\n\n18. Tangerine tree\n\n### Arugula\n\nSee the Winter Garden.\n\n### Beets\n\nBest known for their edible roots, beets also send up leaves that are tasty in soups and salads if picked when they are young and tender. The plump, heart-shaped bulbs come in various colors, from red and deep plum to golden. We chose three heirlooms: 'Bull's Blood', with blood red foliage that adds color to salads; golden, which forms sweet, mild-tasting globes; and supersweet 'Chioggia', whose roots reveal alternating rings of white and pink when sliced.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and fertile, well-drained soil enriched with compost.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 40 to 52 days for 'Bull's Blood', 55 days for golden, and 54 days for 'Chioggia' from seed.\n\n**Planting and Care** In mild climates, sow seeds in early spring or late summer so plants will mature in mild weather. Space them 1 inch apart, then cover with \u00bc inch of compost. (To prolong the harvest, sow at monthly intervals.) When the plants are small, thin them to 3 inches apart. Keep the soil evenly moist, and apply a dilute fish emulsion after the tops are up.\n\n**How to Harvest** Pull up the roots when they are about 3 inches wide (the bigger they grow, the woodier they get).\n\n**Seed Sources** Burpee, www.burpee.com, and Ed Hume Seeds, www.humeseeds.com.\n\n### Carrot 'Nantes'\n\nPulled straight from the earth and showered at the sink, homegrown carrots taste sweeter than any you can buy at the grocery store. But flavor, even among homegrown types, differs by variety. We grew 'Nantes', which forms blunt-tipped orange carrots about 7 inches long\u2014great for munching raw. They are also delicious roasted with other root vegetables or grilled with thyme (see recipe).\n\n**Best Site** Full sun with light, deep, well-drained soil free of clods and stones. Raised beds filled with planting mix are nearly perfect.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 70 days from seed.\n\n**Planting and Care** In mild-winter climates, sow seeds in early spring when the soil is warm (carrots are at their sweetest when the last few weeks of growth occurs in cool weather). Or, sow in early fall. Soak the bed, then scatter the seeds thinly on top, in rows 15 inches apart. Cover with \u00bc inch of compost to keep the soil surface from crusting. When the tops are 1 to 2 inches tall and have two or three leaves, thin the seedlings to 2 inches apart (eat the thinnings in salads or steam them in butter). Keep the soil evenly moist throughout the growing season. After the first thinning, work a narrow band of complete fertilizer into the soil about 2 inches beyond the row.\n\n**How to Harvest** Begin to harvest when the carrots are fully grown (about 7 inches long; pull one up to check) and the tops are green and full.\n\n**Seed Source** Burpee, www.burpee.com.\n\n### Chervil\n\nThis lacy annual herb\u2014one of French cooking's four classic fines herbes, along with tarragon, parsley, and chives\u2014resembles parsley, but is paler green and more delicate. It tastes like parsley, too, but with overtones of anise. We like to add the fragile whole leaves to salads, fold them into omelets, or float them on soups. As the plant matures, 1- to 2-foot-tall flower stems topped with white blossoms will rise above the low mound of ferny foliage. Cut those off\u2014ideally before they open\u2014to keep the tasty leaves coming (flowering causes the foliage to lose its flavor and aroma). Spring crops bolt (flower and set seed) quicker than fall crops, because they mature in warmer weather.\n\n**Best Site** Part shade and well-drained soil.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 6 to 8 weeks from seed.\n\n**Planting and Care** Plant seeds in early spring or in fall (where winters are mild), sowing them about \u00bc inch deep and 2 inches apart. When the seedlings are up (they germinate in 10 to 14 days), thin them to about 4 inches apart. Keep the soil evenly moist, and don't let the plants dry out completely between waterings or they will set seed. Feed every 3 weeks or so with liquid fish emulsion.\n\n**How to Harvest** Snip off tender young leaves as needed and use them immediately. The delicate flavor of chervil is volatile and can dissipate soon after harvest (add it to cooked dishes at the last minute).\n\n**Seed Sources** Renee's Garden, www.reneesgarden.com, and John Scheepers Kitchen Garden Seeds, www.kitchengardenseeds.com.\n\n### Dill\n\nBig, umbrella-like clusters of yellow flowers and soft, feathery foliage make dill as pretty as a spring wildflower. The blooms that poke above the stately 3- to 5-foot-tall plant provide nectar for butterflies and beneficial insects. But the most compelling reason to grow dill is the pungent aroma of its seeds and leaves, which can flavor so many dishes. You can use the seeds in pickling and in vinegar and the leaves to flavor sauces and soups.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and well-drained soil; protect from the wind.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 40 to 50 days to harvest leaves, 85 to 105 days to harvest seed.\n\n**Planting and Care** In early spring, sow seeds directly in the ground, \u00bd inch deep and 1 to 2 inches apart in rows 6 inches apart. (Once the plants' deep tap roots get growing, transplanting will be difficult.) Thin the seedlings to 12 inches apart when they are 2 to 3 inches tall. Water regularly\u2014about once a week during dry periods. If you don't want plants to resow (which they will, vigorously), shear off the heads before they set seed, or watch the seeds carefully and harvest them promptly (see below).\n\n**How to Harvest** Snip off leaves as you need them. To collect the seeds, tie small paper bags or tightly woven cheesecloth (double or triple layers if necessary) over the seedheads when the seeds begin to turn brown, and leave the bags in place for a week or so. Then snip the stems below the bags, bring the heads into the kitchen, and shake the seeds out onto a tray. Store them in airtight containers.\n\n**Seed Source** Renee's Garden, www.reneesgarden.com.\n\n### Fava Bean\n\nNot a true bean, the fava is actually a giant vetch (an ancient type of legume). Unlike true beans, it is cold hardy, which means gardeners in mild climates can plant it in the fall for harvest in late winter or early spring (as we did). As long as the weather stays cool, the plants can last into midspring. You can cook and eat the immature pods like edible-pod peas, or let the pods hang on the plant to ripen into dry shelling beans. One caveat: Some people of Mediterranean, Asian, and African ancestry have an enzyme deficiency that can cause severe reactions to these beans and their pollen.\n\n**Best Site** A mild, sunny location with loose, fast-draining soil.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 65 days from seed.\n\n**Planting and Care** Sow seeds as soon as the soil is warm. Heavy leaves must push through the soil, so be sure the soil is loose and open. For a bush type of fava, which is what we grew, plant seeds 1 inch deep and 1 to 3 inches apart, allowing 24 to 36 inches between rows. Moisten the soil thoroughly before planting, then do not water again until seedlings have emerged. Keep the soil evenly moist throughout the growing season. Fertilize the soil after the plants are in active growth and again when the pods start to form, working a complete fertilizer into the soil along the row.\n\n**How to Harvest** To eat the pods, pick them when they are small (about 3 inches long), plump, and deep green. To eat the fresh beans inside (but not the pod), wait until the pod and beans are larger but are still bright green. For dry yellow shelling beans, wait until the pods have blackened and drooped.\n\n**Seed Source** John Scheepers Kitchen Garden Seeds, www.kitchengardenseeds.com.\n\n_Fava beans_\n\n### Green Onion 'White Lisbon'\n\nSometimes called scallions, green onions are either bulbing onions that you harvest young (before the bulbs grow), or bulbless bunching onions. We grew 'White Lisbon', a green bunching type with delicate stems and sweet, juicy tops.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and loose, fertile, well-drained soil.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 60 to 65 days from seed.\n\n**Planting and Care** Plant green onions from seed or nursery seedlings. Sow seeds \u00bc inch deep and \u00bd inch apart in rows 12 to 15 inches apart. Plant seedlings 4 to 5 inches apart. Keep the soil evenly moist and feed plants regularly with a dilute liquid fish emulsion.\n\n**How to Harvest** Pull up green onions when the tops are 12 to 18 inches tall.\n\n**Seed Source** Botanical Interests, www.botanicalinterests.com.\n\n_'White Lisbon' green onions_\n\n### Lemon 'Eureka'\n\nSee the Summer Garden.\n\n### Mesclun\n\nThe word _mesclun_ , from a southern French word for \"mixture,\" refers to an assortment of greens picked when young and tender. Sweet red and green lettuces, piquant green arugula, spicy mustard, peppery red Komatsuna, tender Swiss chard leaves\u2014some or all might turn up in one of these colorful mixes. Succulent \"weeds\" such as purslane and tender m\u00e2che might be included, too. You can choose a mix that contains the greens you like.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun in fall, winter, and spring in mild climates, and well-drained soil enriched with plenty of compost.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 35 days from seed.\n\n**Planting and Care** Scatter seeds over the prepared seedbed in spring. To prolong the harvest, sow seeds every 2 or 3 weeks. Thin seedlings to about 3 inches apart. Keep the soil evenly moist, and apply half-strength liquid fish emulsion after the first fully formed leaves appear.\n\n**How to Harvest** Snip off the young plants above ground level. Most will produce new leaves for your next harvest.\n\n**Seed Source** Burpee, www.burpee.com.\n\n### Nasturtium\n\nRound, bright green leaves of this pretty annual ( _Tropaeolum majus_ ) have a refreshing herbal fragrance. When young and tender, they also have an appealing, dewy sweetness and a peppery flavor (as do the buds and flowers) that adds zip to salads. You can grow vining nasturtiums to trail over the ground or climb (to 6 feet), or you can plant bushy dwarf types that top out at 18 inches. Either way, they will reseed themselves: We still have offspring of 'Copper Sunset' popping up here and there, even though we haven't planted it for years.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun or part shade and well-drained or sandy soil.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 45 to 60 days from seed.\n\n**Planting and Care** For an early summer harvest, sow seeds in March or April, or for a spring harvest, sow in October in mild-winter or hot-summer areas. Plant the large seeds 10 to 12 inches part and 1 inch deep. Keep the soil well watered throughout the growing season. Dig a little compost into the soil before planting and your nasturtiums won't need fertilizer.\n\n**How to Harvest** Pick leaves and flowers as you need them. For the best flavor, harvest them early in the morning when temperatures are cool.\n\n**Seed Source** Renee's Garden, www.reneesgarden.com.\n\n### Parsley 'Gigante Italian'\n\nSee the Summer Garden.\n\n### Peppermint\n\nSee the Summer Garden.\n\n### Radish 'Easter Egg II'\n\nAmong the easiest vegetables to grow, radishes are also fast to mature. We especially like 'Easter Egg II', a feast for the eyes that blends pink, rose, purple, and white radishes in one colorful mix. All have crisp, juicy white flesh. The best part: You can harvest from 2 to 5 pounds per 10-foot row!\n\n**Best Site** Full sun in mild climates and part shade where it is hot; fast-draining soil that's been well amended with compost.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 25 days from seed.\n\n**Planting and Care** Sow seeds as soon as the soil is workable in spring, then at weekly intervals until warm weather approaches (plants go to seed when temperatures rise). In mild climates, you can also sow seeds at regular intervals in fall and winter. Plant the seeds \u00bd inch deep and 1 inch apart in rows 1 to 1\u00bd inches apart. Keep the soil evenly moist from seed to harvest. Ten days after planting, feed with a dry or liquid fertilizer (any kind), applying it alongside the rows.\n\n**How to Harvest** Pick as soon as radishes reach full size (about 3 weeks after sowing, as noted above, but longer for slower varieties). If you leave them in the ground too long, they will turn woody and too pungent to eat.\n\n**Seed Source** Burpee, www.burpee.com.\n\n### Strawberry 'Sequoia'\n\nNothing tastes sweeter than a plump, sun-warmed strawberry picked at the peak of ripeness. It is nature's best dessert\u2014divinely succulent and juicy, low in calories (about 50 per cup), and high in vitamin C. If you only have room for growing one crop, we suggest this one, since many commercial harvests are treated with chemicals.\n\nWe chose 'Sequoia', a locally adapted variety that bears its entire crop once a year. (It is called a \"June bearer,\" but we had berries in May.) The plants reach 6 to 8 inches tall and spread by runners about 12 inches across. The berries are large and luscious.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and loose, well drained, well-amended soil.\n\n**Days to Harvest** 90 to 104 days from January-started bare-root plants.\n\n**Planting and Care** Set out bare-root plants in January or February (trim their roots back to about 6 inches and soak them in water for about 30 minutes before planting). You can also set out plants in late summer or fall for a spring harvest. Plant seedlings from small pots in late February or March. Plant with the crown (the point where the leaves come together at the stem base) slightly above the soil level (a buried crown will rot); the topmost roots should be about \u00bc inch below the soil. Mulch to deter weeds (we used straw, which did a good job of keeping ripening fruit clean). Keep birds from stealing your berries by covering the bed with netting or floating row covers. Water regularly (at least once a week) during the bearing season. Feed June-bearers twice a year\u2014lightly when new growth starts, and more heavily after fruiting. Give ever-bearing types regular light feedings throughout the growing season, and alpine strawberries once in early spring and once after fruiting begins. For all strawberries, use a complete fertilizer.\n\n**How to Harvest** After a fruit has colored up, pinch through the stem with your thumbnail to detach it.\n\n**Plant\/Seedling Sources** Bare-root plants and seedlings are sold at nurseries.\n\n_'Sequoia' strawberry_\n\n### Tangerine 'Dancy'\n\nSee the Winter Garden.\n\n### Tarragon, French\n\nThis sprawling, largely flowerless woody perennial ( _Artemisia dracunculus sativa_ ) has dark green, aromatic leaves with an anise flavor and grows to less than 2 feet tall. The leaves are a classic seasoning for chicken dishes, sauces, and vegetables. Be careful not to plant plain old Russian tarragon\u2014 _A. dracunculus_ \u2014by mistake; it has tougher, narrower leaves and a pungent, bitter flavor.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun and rich, well-drained soil.\n\n**Days to Harvest** Leaves can be harvested any time.\n\n**Planting and Care** In early spring, as soon as the soil starts to warm up, set plants about 24 inches apart in garden beds or put a single plant in an 8-inch-deep container. Water regularly and let the plants dry out between irrigations. Apply a complete fertilizer during spring growth and again after major harvests. To keep a fresh supply coming, cut plants almost at the ground during the growing season. Divide the plants every other year during early fall.\n\n**How to Harvest** Pinch off leaves.\n\n**Seedling Source** Mountain Valley Growers, www.mountainvalleygrowers.com.\n\n_French tarragon_\n\n### Tea\n\n_Camellia sinensis_ is the tropical shrub grown commercially in Asia for making green, black, and oolong teas. It is rare in the United States, and we couldn't find mature plants at nurseries or growers on the West Coast, so we ordered them from a source in North Carolina (Camellia Forest Nursery, www.camforest.com or 919\/968-0504). But if you are patient, you can order seedlings from the two sources listed at right.\n\nOur three pretty, round tea shrubs have leathery, dark green leaves and fragrant white fall blooms. Initially we planted them in big pots so we could move them under the eaves in winter (the plants are frost tender), but they weren't happy, so now they are in the ground (we will cover them when frost hits). The plants will eventually grow to 15 feet tall.\n\n**Best Site** Full sun, or light shade inland, and well-drained soil enriched with plenty of compost, or use potting soil. Protect from wind and from winter frost.\n\n**Days to Harvest** Plants must be at least 3 years old.\n\n**Planting and Care** Set the plant in the soil so its base is above soil level, then keep the roots cool by applying a \u00bd-inch-thick layer of mulch (keep it away from the stem's base). Young plants are best in light shade under tall trees. Water your tea plant regularly, at least weekly during the April to October growing season for the first few years; older plants can get by with less water. Feed occasionally with an acid plant food formulated especially for camellias.\n\n**WHEN TO HARVEST** In spring, pick the two uppermost new leaves and the new buds. To prepare them for making tea, see How to Make Tea.\n\n**SEEDLING SOURCES** Greer Gardens, www.greergardens.com, and Nichols Garden Nursery, www.nichols gardennursery.com.\n\n### Thyme, French\n\nSee the Summer Garden.\n\n_\u2014Kathleen N. Brenzel_\n\nTHE \"IMPORTS\"\n\n**We went outside our garden for these local foods:** Milk, whole and unhomogenized, from our own cow; active dry yeast; whole-wheat flour ('Sonora' and 'Expresso'), garlic (ours ran out); 'Spanish White' onions (ditto)\n\n_Ron Garthwaite and Holly, our cow, at Claravale Farm (top); Pouring Holly's milk into bottles at Claravale Farm (bottom right)_\n\n# THE SPRING PROJECTS\n\n##    \nHOW TO OWN (OR CO-OWN)  \nA DAIRY COW\n\nGetting a cow might seem like a large leap for us office-working suburbanites. (Like jumping over the moon, you say?) We had good reasons. Milk had been an integral part of our one-block feasts from the start, giving our vegetarian menus protein and making cooking more interesting; like eggs, milk is one of those building-block ingredients that open up all sorts of possibilities for recipes. We had been \"importing\" unhomogenized, pasteurized bottled milk from Straus Family Creamery (by buying it at the store). But if we could have a cow\u2014especially a Jersey, a breed that gives particularly rich, delicious milk\u2014we could make a key ingredient our own.\n\nWith a cow of our own, we'd see firsthand the fluctuations in milk from season to season. We'd be able to try fresh, unprocessed milk, a food that most of us, in our age of mass-produced dairy products, had never tasted\u2014even though humans have been consuming it since at least 5000 BCE. And we'd understand more about how this taken-for-granted substance is made.\n\nAlso, several of us happened to really like cows, the way some people like horses. We wanted to get to know one of these patient, generous animals whose relationship with humans has profoundly shaped our culture.\n\nTo our amazement, our city, Menlo Park, allows backyard cows. We imagined what it might be like to have a brown Jersey hanging around the office, contentedly grazing on Sunset's lawn. For many reasons, including our complete and utter lack of experience, we quickly decided our cow would be better off living on a farm and being taken care of by people who knew what they were doing\u2014and could teach us.\n\nThe rewards so far include learning to milk by hand (well, sort of); the pleasure of wandering around a beautiful and well-managed farm with healthy cows; the incomparable flavor of sweet, fresh Jersey milk; and the richness and nuance of the cheeses we've made. Because this is our newest project, what is written here reflects only our first steps. We'll be describing our continuing experiences on our blog, <http:\/\/oneblockdiet.sunset.com\/team-cow>.\n\n###    \nONE DAIRY COW\n\nHolly is an 800-pound, 2\u00bd-year-old Jersey. She gives between 5 and 6 gallons of milk a day.\n\n#### HOW TO DO IT\n\nYou can own a cow three ways:\n\n**1. Buy the cow and keep her at home** This is a serious commitment, involving twice-daily milkings and learning how to keep lactation going (by having your cow impregnated every 12 to 18 months; a cow has to have a calf in order to produce milk). It also involves figuring out what to do with the calves (sell or use them for beef? Occasionally keep a female calf to raise as another milk cow?). You also need to have enough space for a cow and her calf and be sure you can properly feed them (a lactating cow eats a lot) and keep them healthy (see Raising Dairy Cows for helpful resources that will tell you more). And a cow is expensive: A good adult dairy cow costs as much as $2,500, a calf around $500. That said, she will give you wonderful milk, enough to share, if you like; meat, if you choose (her calves); and manure for the garden and pasture. Keeping a single cow at home is also the safest way to have raw milk, because one cow is easier to keep clean than a herd, and you have more control over the milk.\n\nCheck with your city to see whether local rules let you keep a cow, and then start learning everything you can about cows, including differences between breeds. Jerseys are often suggested as ideal backyard cows because they are gentle and friendly, smaller than other breeds and thus easier to handle, and also produce richer milk but less of it\u2014a volume that is easier to deal with than the 14-gallon-a-day flow of, say, a Holstein. You might also consider sharing your cow with neighbors to offset the expenses and to divide up the milk.\n\nMost sources say that beginners should look for a cow pregnant for the second or third time. She'll be \"trained\" in milking, and you won't have to deal with the impregnation aspect of owning a cow for at least a year.\n\n**2. Co-own or share a cow who lives on a farm** Cow-sharing is most common in states where the sale of raw milk is banned, because it gives the owners legal access to their cow's fresh milk. The ownership fee, paid to the farmer, covers the cost of the cow's care and board. A cow-share contract can also be set up as a share in an entire herd. For more on how to find or set up a cow-share (or goat-share), see Helpful Information.\n\nPerhaps you are wondering whether cow-shares exist at regular (non-raw-milk) dairies. To the best of our knowledge, they don't, and for two reasons: Most commercial dairies aren't set up to capture the milk of a single cow. They are very large operations that pump milk straight from the entire herd into refrigerated trucks, which then drive the milk to a separate facility\u2014the creamery\u2014for pasteurizing and processing. Also, their contract with the creamery is usually exclusive, which means they can't do business with outside parties. In any case, it might not be a good idea to share a cow from one of these dairies. Since the milk is destined for pasteurization, the allowable pathogen count is higher than at a raw-milk dairy. In other words, it would be risky to drink the milk unless it was pasteurized.\n\n**3. Own a cow who lives on a farm** Like cow-sharing, this arrangement isn't common in California, because the sale of raw milk is legal in our state. However, Ron Garthwaite of Claravale Farm, a raw-milk dairy near Paicines, California, was willing to make a one-time arrangement with us to own one of his cows and board her at his farm. He has also agreed to manage her care and give us lessons in the art of cow keeping.\n\nAlthough we did not set out to find a cow at a raw-milk dairy, we've since learned that the legal requirements for cleanliness at such an operation are much more stringent than for a pasteurized-milk dairy, since the milk will be leaving the premises raw. We also see how healthy Ron's cows are and notice the care with which he handles them. His farm is inspected regularly and has never been cited. He doesn't pool the milk with that of any other herd, he supervises every step of its (minimal) production, and he distributes it only in California. All this reassures us that the milk we're getting is of the highest quality.\n\n#### WHAT TO USE\n\nClaravale Farm supplied most of the equipment we needed, as part of our boarding contract. We've included prices anyway, should you be interested in keeping a cow at home. The source, unless otherwise mentioned, is Nasco dairy supply, 800\/558-9595 or www.enasco.com\/farmandranch\/Dairy+Supplies.\n\n**_Teat Dip_** An iodine-based sanitizing solution for the teats. About $23 for a 1-gallon jug.\n\n**_Plastic teat dipper_** A cup, filled with teat dip, that makes dipping each teat easier. About $3.\n\n**_Individual cow milker_** Commercial dairies use a system of tubes to carry the milk of several (or more) cows at once into a large chilling tank. For one cow, you need a self-contained setup; this one includes a vacuum pump, an electronic pulsator, the \"claw\" (suction cups that attach to the teats), the tubing, and the milking pail. $1,749 from Hoegger Supply Co., 800\/221-4628 or www.hoeggergoatsupply.com\n\n**_Stainless-steel milk strainer_** Right after we collect the milk, we pour it through this to separate out any dirt. Includes a steel mesh strainer disk. $199.\n\n**_6\u00bd-inch round milk filter disks (non-gauze)_** Thin, paperlike disks that fit into the strainer, on top of the steel mesh strainer disk. $6.25 per box of 100.\n\n**_Aluminum milk pail or jug_** To hold the strained milk. $40.\n\n**_1-quart widemouthed canning jars_** We like this size for transporting milk, because the jars are small enough for the milk to cool quickly when immersed in ice water. Also, they are easy to clean, and the wide top allows us to skim the cream without effort. From about $18 for a case of 12 jars (enough for Holly's afternoon-milk yield of 2\u00bd to 3 gallons) at a well-stocked grocery store, hardware store, or cookware store.\n\n**_A big cooler (about 2\u00bd feet long), full of ice_** For rapid cooling and transporting of the milk in the trunk of our car. From about $75 for a 75-quart cooler at a hardware store.\n\n**_Dairy thermometer_** For keeping tabs on the temperature of the milk during transport, and to measure the temperature of the milk if you pasteurize. Get the kind that you can clip onto the side of the pot, and make sure it's accurate (see here for calibrating instructions). About $25 from the Beverage People, www.thebeveragepeople.com or 800\/544-1867.\n\n**_21-quart boiling-water canner with canning rack_** If you want to pasteurize (see opposite). When filled with hot water, the canner makes a great water bath for your milk pot. From $16 on www.amazon.com.\n\n**_8-gallon heavy stockpot_** If you opt to pasteurize, you'll need this, too.\n\n**_Stainless-steel perforated cheese ladle or large slotted spoon_** For pasteurizing. We like the large, flat surface of the cheese ladle because it's more efficient for stirring the milk. From $7 for the ladle at www.thebeveragepeople.com.\n\nHOW TO BATCH-PASTEURIZE MILK\n\n1. For equipment details, see opposite. Fill the stockpot with water and bring to a boil. Add the thermometer (submerging only the stem) and the ladle; boil for 10 minutes. Transfer the ladle and the thermometer to a sanitized work surface and pour the hot water into the boiling-water canner. Add enough water to fill to within 1 inch below the top ring, insert the canning rack upside down (handles down and folded under), cover, and bring water to a boil over high heat. Meanwhile, fill a sink with cold water (your emergency cool-down spot).\n\n2. Pour the milk into the stockpot. Attach the dairy thermometer to the side of the pot, and ease the pot into the hot-water bath until it rests on the canning rack. The water should come 2\u00bd inches up the sides of the pot; add more boiling water if you need to. Keep the burner on high.\n\n3. Stir the milk with the ladle 20 times, using a slow surface-to-bottom circular motion to distribute the heat evenly. Watch the thermometer; when it hits 140\u00b0F, turn off the burner and let the milk rise to 145\u00b0F. Hold it at 145\u00b0F or just above, covered, for 30 minutes, boosting with a blast of heat from the burner if necessary, or removing the pot from the canner if the temperature gets above 150\u00b0F (you can also put the pot in the sink to cool down rapidly).\n\n4. Add plenty of ice to the sink of water and immerse the milk pot in the ice water. Let the milk cool, stirring with a slow surface-to-bottom circular motion every now and then. If you're making cheese, let it cool to the temperature specified in the recipe, then use immediately. Otherwise, cool the milk to room temperature, then pour it into the cleaned canning jars and refrigerate.\n\n#### HOW TO DO IT\n\n**1. Find the cow** For our best general advice, see see here.\n\nCows are few and far between on the San Francisco Peninsula. Educational farms near us had cows, but they were already being milked to their limits. 4-H clubs focus on raising younger animals, not adult dairy cows. The backyard cow owners we tracked down had all decided to let their animals \"dry off\" for a while, meaning they weren't producing milk.\n\nWe finally found Claravale Farm, and Holly, through another farm (the owners had bought their cow from Claravale), and through a state brand inspector, who handles documentation when cows are sold and who pointed us in Claravale's direction. With the free assistance of the Farm-to-Consumer Legal Defense Fund (see Helpful Information: Cow-Shares), we drew up an initial bill of sale and a cow-boarding agreement. Holly's price was $2,500, but we sold most of her milk in advance back to Claravale, since we knew we wouldn't be able to use it and the Claravale owners definitely could. The cost per year worked out to be $270.\n\n**2. Milk the cow** She ambles into the milking barn, ideally 12 hours after the last milking, lowers her head to the trough, and starts chewing grain\u2014the treat that puts her in a good mood and encourages the \"letting down\" of her milk. Meanwhile, a stanchion holds her head in place just in case she tries to back out.\n\nBefore milking starts, we dip each of her four teats in a bright red iodine sanitizing solution. The first few squirts go onto the ground, to clear the ducts of any dirt and also the iodine once it has done its job. Then we wipe off the iodine with a clean damp paper towel.\n\nWe tried hand milking, and it's quite a bit harder than you might think. Each teat fills up with milk when the cow \"lets down.\" To keep it from shooting back up into the udder instead of into the pail, you have to close off the teat right where it meets the udder, using your thumb and forefinger; then you squeeze the milk in the teat down and out with your remaining fingers. Ron demonstrated on Holly and a thick stream of milk shot into the pail. When we tried, we got little dribbles. Well, room for improvement! The truth is that cows are usually milked with a milking machine, which gets the job done in a fraction of the time and keeps the milk cleaner than a set of hands squirting into an open pail. It hooks up to the cow by means of a \"claw,\" a configuration of four cylindrical suction cups, each of which attaches to a teat and rhythmically draws the milk off through pipes to a central chilling tank. So we could keep Holly's milk separate, Ron showed us how to attach a small, individual milking unit whose pipes end up in a portable canister. The claw goes on with a little _swooosh_ of pressurized air and, when the milk flow slows, pops off easily. After milking, we again dip each teat in sanitizer, and Holly saunters back out to pasture.\n\n_The \"claw\"_\n\n**3. Filter the milk** We immediately lug the milk canister to the cool milk-tank room, where we pour it into the strainer, set atop a sanitized steel jug. The milk is quite warm\u2014it's 102\u00b0F\u2014and sweet-smelling steam rises from it as we pour.\n\n_Filtering milk into a sanitized jug_\n\n**4. Bottle the milk** We've lined up our jars in a long stainless-steel sink. Now two of us lift the jug and pour the milk as accurately as possible into the jars, trying not to spill. Another Team Cow member screws the lids on the jars as soon as they are filled and plunges the jars into the ice-filled cooler. There's always one jar that ends up only partly filled. We insert the dairy thermometer into this jar and fit it into the cooler too, covering it with foil as best we can to prevent sloshing; it is our temperature gauge. Fresh milk should be cooled right away to at least 40\u00b0F. At Claravale, the pipes take the milk directly to the chiller tank, which drops its temperature to 36\u00b0F within minutes after it has been in the cow. We're not as fast, but we're not far behind.\n\n**5. Transport the milk (and taste)** We drive back to Sunset and put the milk in the refrigerator. Usually we have a glassful first, because it is absolutely delicious.\n\n**6. Store the milk** Chilled at 40\u00b0F or below, it stays fresh and sweet for a week or so. Whenever we haven't been certain that we've kept the milk cool enough on its long ride back to Menlo Park, we've pasteurized it using the low-heat, long-time \"batch\" method, which destroys any harmful organisms but interferes least with the milk's light, fresh flavor. Most commercial dairies use what is known as the high- temperature, short-time (HTST) method, which means that the milk is heated to 162\u00b0F (sometimes up to 171\u00b0F) for 15 seconds, or the ultrahigh temperature (UHT) method, which blasts the milk at or above 265\u00b0F for 2 seconds.\n\n**7. Cook with the milk** Jersey milk has more butterfat by weight than Holstein milk, the grocery-store standard, does (over 5 percent versus 3.6 percent), and more protein, too. This, and the fact that it's not homogenized or high-temperature pasteurized\u2014both of which alter the structure of the milk\u2014means it coagulates more readily and the cheese yield is higher. We made terrific, fluffy ricotta with Holly's milk, because the whey forms many more and fatter curds than whey from Holstein milk. When we made Gouda, though, it set so quickly and firmly that it turned into a sort of cheese superball. Our friends at Cowgirl Creamery, in Point Reyes, California (see How to Make Cheese), advised us to reduce the rennet by 40 percent when using Jersey milk. We'll try that next time.\n\nMILK: THE FRESH AND THE COOKED\n\nIn the world of food and drink, few controversies generate as much passionate outrage as the debate over raw milk. If you want to own a cow and drink her milk, you will have to decide where you stand. This is a simplified overview; to learn more, see Helpful Information.\n\nThe argument for fresh (raw)\n\nSupporters say raw milk is a pure, healthful food that is not only nutritious, but also capable of curing such chronic conditions as eczema, asthma, and even hepatitis. They also claim that pasteurization destroys vitamins and beneficial bacteria.\n\nThe argument for cooked (pasteurized)\n\nDetractors, which include the U.S. Department of Agriculture and the U.S. Food and Drug Administration, insist that raw milk should be universally avoided, and rules in many states ban the sale of it. They contend that pasteurization\u2014heating the milk to kill harmful microbes\u2014leaves the nutritional value of the milk intact.\n\nOur opinion so far\n\nRaw milk is not inherently harmful. It has to be invaded by bad bacteria to be unsafe, and if that doesn't happen, it's perfectly fine to drink. (Interestingly, if left to sour naturally, raw milk is inhospitable to those bad bacteria\u2014but we'd rather drink the milk when it's sweet.) That said, bacteria love raw milk, and can quickly contaminate it if the cow is diseased or dirty or the milk is mishandled. Many outbreaks of foodborne illness have been connected to raw milk. (As they have to a range of other foods, from hamburger to spinach.)\n\nUnfortunately, it seems pretty clear that our current system of mass production and distribution can't keep bacteria at bay. Raw milk needs to come from healthy cows, be checked vigilantly for pathogens, and be kept cold and very clean in order to be safe. It has to be handled as the fragile, fresh substance that it is, and requires a different and more careful (and more localized) way of selling.\n\nWe know our cow and how she is cared for, and how her milk is treated. We love how her milk tastes. So, when we know we've chilled it right and kept it cold, we drink it raw. And when we're in doubt, we pasteurize\u2014gently.\n\n#### HELPFUL INFORMATION\n\n##### BUYING DAIRY COWS\n\n\u2022 Your county's agricultural extension office; see www.csrees.usda.gov\/Extension\/index.html for a nationwide listing.\n\n\u2022 Small dairy farms, which periodically have cows for sale. Claravale Farm, in Paicines, California, where we bought our cow, Holly (and where we keep her), sells cows occasionally. Contact owner Ron Garthwaite through www.claravaledairy.com or 831\/628-3219.\n\n\u2022 Large-animal veterinarians often have clients who will sell a dairy cow.\n\n\u2022 Livestock brand inspectors in your state, who handle the paperwork whenever a cow is sold or moved, often know of cows for sale.\n\n##### RAISING DAIRY COWS\n\n\u2022 Your county's agricultural extension office may know of workshops near you. See www.csrees.usda.gov\/Extension\/index.html for a listing of offices nationwide.\n\n\u2022 _The Backyard Cow_ , by Ann Williams (Prism Press, 1979). A sweet, little British book that covers the basics of cow rearing.\n\n\u2022 _Chore Time_ , by Tim Wightman (Farm-to-Consumer Legal Defense Fund, 2008). Two DVDs take you through the ABCs of small-scale milk production.\n\n\u2022 _The Encyclopedia of Country Living_ (10th edition), by Carla Emery (Sasquatch Books, 2008). An invaluable resource for anyone interested in learning to live off the land, this personable, comprehensive guide (more than 900 pages long) covers everything from calculating harvest yields to stocking a fish pond to making your own furniture polish. The chapter on raising dairy cattle is an encouraging and friendly introduction, and it supplies a guide to breeds and where to find them, plus a handy list of questions to ask when buying a family milk cow.\n\n\u2022 _The Family Cow_ , by Dirk van Loon (Garden Way Publishing, 1976). A very good introduction to the dairy cow, complete with taking care of the land that feeds her and building fences to keep her in.\n\n\u2022 www.motherearthnews.com offers a mother lode of articles, many dating back to the 1970s but others current, on keeping cows. Search under \"Keep a Family Cow\" for the most comprehensive listing.\n\n\u2022 _Raw Milk Production Handbook_ , by Tim Wightman (Farm-to-Consumer Legal Defense Fund in association with the Weston A. Price Foundation, 2008). A beginner's guide to buying, raising, and milking a healthy, happy cow; it's the most current resource we've found.\n\n\u2022 _The Self-Sufficient Life and How to Live It: The Complete Back-to-Basics Guide_ , by John Seymour (DK Publishing, 2009). Written in 1976 by Britain's \"Father of Self-Sufficiency,\" this is an expanded edition. Like many DK books, it is beautifully illustrated, and the chapter on cows is inspirational.\n\n##### COW-SHARES\n\n\u2022 Farm-to-Consumer Legal Defense Fund, (703) 208-3276 or www.farmtoconsumer.org\/cow-shares.html\n\n\u2022 The Weston A. Price Foundation, a nonprofit devoted to promoting whole, unprocessed foods, has a list of state-by-state chapters that can help locate a share in your area, www.westonaprice.org\/chapters and also www.realmilk.com\/cowfarmshare.html.\n\n##### RAW MILK\n\n\u2022 www.realmilk.com (a branch of the Weston A. Price Foundation)\n\n\u2022 www.fda.gov\/Food\/ResourcesForYou\/Consumers\/ucm079516.htm\n\n\u2022 \"The Udder Truth,\" by Hannah Wallace; www.salon.com, January 19, 2007.\n\n\u2022 _Safe Handling: Consumers' Guide_ , by Peggy Beals (MI Fresh Milk Council, 2009). A guide to raw-milk handling from an advocate's perspective.\n\n\u2022 \"Should This Milk Be Legal?\" by Joe Drape; www.nytimes.com, August 8, 2007.\n\n\u2022 _The Untold Story of Milk\u2014The History, Politics and Science of Nature's Perfect Food: Raw Milk from Pasture-Fed Cows_ , by Ron Schmid, ND (NewTrends Publishing, 2009).\n\n##### MILK HISTORY AND SCIENCE\n\n\u2022 _Milk: The Surprising Story of Milk Through the Ages, with 120 Adventurous Recipes That Explore the Riches of Our First Food_ , by Anne Mendelson (Alfred A. Knopf, 2008). One of America's finest food historians offers a well-researched, beautifully written exploration of milk as used by cultures over the globe, from ancient times to the present day. The book includes an extensive, worldly, and fascinating collection of recipes.\n\n\u2022 _Nature's Perfect Food: How Milk Became America's Drink_ , by E. Melanie DuPuis (New York University Press, 2002). A history of milk in the United States that does a good job of puncturing myths.\n\n\u2022 _On Food and Cooking: The Science and Lore of the Kitchen_ , by Harold McGee (Scribner, 2004). Chapter 1, \"Milk and Dairy Products,\" is a compelling read that makes the science of milk a page-turner.\n\n##    \nHOW TO MAKE  \nTEA\n\nWith all due respect to Teams Salt and Escargot, Team Tea submits that attempting to grow, here in Menlo Park, _Camellia sinensis_ \u2014a crop that's happiest in, say, the rain forests of Yunnan or the hill stations of Darjeeling\u2014is _the_ most far-fetched One-Block project.\n\nAs far as we can tell, only two tea plantations are currently operating in the western United States, and neither of them is in California. What's more, these two farms (one is in Hawaii, the other is in Washington) produce only Japanese-style green teas, not black tea. (Although green and black teas all come from the same kind of plant, they are processed in different ways.) Since some of us on the team are hopelessly addicted to the black stuff, that's what we had our hearts set on.\n\nThe first hurdle was finding mature tea bushes and figuring out where they would grow best on the Sunset grounds. After that, the actual processing of the tea turned out to be pretty simple.\n\nWe are still in the early days of tea growing. So far, we've had one very small harvest from our three bushes, which resulted in a single pot of pale yellow, very delicate, distinctly tea-flavored brew. But we're looking forward to learning, and drinking, more.\n\n###    \nBLACK TEA\n\nOur first harvest: 1 heaping tablespoonful of dried tea leaves, rolled into needles like Asia's finest.\n\n#### WHAT TO USE\n\n**_Tea bushes_** When we first started looking for tea bushes, we thought we'd be able to buy them from Forest Farm Nursery up in Williams, Oregon (www.forestfarm.com). But the nursery only had seedlings at the time, and a bush generally needs to be 3 years old before you can start plucking its leaves. Further research led us to Google Answers and a reference to the Camellia Forest Nursery, in North Carolina, which sells both seedlings and mature tea plants. There are hundreds of subvarieties and cultivars of _C. sinensis_ , but we figured we could at least see which of the three main types\u2014large leaf (Assam bush), medium leaf (Java bush), and small leaf (China bush)\u2014does best in our climate, so we ordered one of each, in late fall. Kind of a splurge, as they were $50 each. Camellia Forest Nursery, www.camforest.com or 919\/968-0504.\n\n**_Rimmed baking sheet_** Perfect for all stages of the leaf processing. About $7 at a cookware store.\n\n**_Wine cellar or other cool, damp place_** We invaded the Sunset wine cellar, commandeering a side table where we left our tea leaves to oxidize. A regular cellar would work just as well, or even a garage. (But maybe park the car outside while your tea is oxidizing, to avoid adding the fine aroma of car exhaust.)\n\n**_Reliable oven thermometer_**\n\n**_Metal tin with an airtight lid_** Tea lasts much longer if kept in one of these. You can buy a fancy tea caddy, or you can reuse an old Peet's tin, which is what we do.\n\n#### HOW TO DO IT\n\n**1. Have the tea bushes inspected** One wrinkle we failed to foresee was that because our plants were coming from outside California, they needed to be inspected by our county's Office of Weights and Measures (California's title for its county agriculture departments) before we could put them outside. (They were also examined, en route, by California state inspectors, which added a few days to the estimated shipping time.) After a brief scare involving a mystery beetle (which turned out to be benign), the county guy lifted the quarantine. To find out whether your plants need to be inspected, contact your county's agriculture department.\n\n**2. Acclimate the plants** After being shipped cross-country, the bushes were looking bedraggled. Our garden-department friends helped move them out into the test garden and then repotted them in three lovely green ceramic pots, staking them, too. The people at Camellia Forest told us that in our region, we wouldn't start seeing new growth (or picking leaves) until April. With winter coming on, we decided to leave them in the sun for the time being.\n\n**3. Transplant the plants** By early spring, it was becoming clear that the bushes weren't loving the full sun, or being in pots: The leaves were spotty and blemished and the plants weren't thriving. We found a spot in dappled shade and dug three relatively shallow holes, maybe 16 inches deep. Like citrus trees, tea bushes don't like their crowns (where the stem meets the roots) covered with earth, so we were careful not to plant them too deep. According to what we had read, tea plants do best at higher elevations, where the summers are warm and wet and the winters dry and moderately cold\u2014the opposite of our weather. But we also had read that they can \"prosper surprisingly well in a range of adverse climatic conditions, tolerating dry summers and wet winters.\" And we had seen plenty of healthy, happy ornamental camellias growing in Northern California. So we crossed our fingers and waited. (For more on how to grow _C. sinensis_ , see the tea entry under the Spring Garden).\n\n_Newly transplated Camellia sinensis_\n\n_Transplanting the young tea bushes_\n\n**4. Harvest the leaves (April)** According to the people at Camellia Forest, we were supposed to pick 1 or 2 of the newly growing leaves _and_ the leaf bud on each stem. At this early stage of the bush's life, the idea is to leave a couple new leaves on the stem unpicked, so some growing gets done. Then, after a week or two, you can go back and pick from that stem again. We played it safe: On our first sweep, we ended up with only about 25 leaves or buds. (We had to combine the leaves from all three plants to get that total; someday, we're hoping to have enough leaves from each bush so that we can try making single-variety teas.) We picked them in the morning, having read that tea leaves picked in the afternoon can have unpleasantly higher levels of tannin.\n\n_Picking tender new leaves_\n\n**5. Wither the leaves** Basically, the first step in making black tea from our leaves was simple: Just spread the leaves out on the baking sheet for the rest of the day to let them wilt. Keep checking them\u2014if the room is too dry or you leave them too long, some of the smaller leaves might dry to a crisp. You want them sad and wilty looking, like salad that's been left out too long. For us, that took from about ten in the morning until six that night.\n\n**6. Roll the leaves** Roll the wilted leaves firmly, one at a time, between your fingers and thumbs. You're supposed to be bruising the leaves to release their enzymes, and you'll know you're doing it hard enough if you can feel the juices in the leaves being released. Then spread out the needle-shaped rolled leaves on the baking sheet.\n\n**7. Ferment the leaves** This just means letting the leaves sit for a few hours or days to oxidize until all the green color is gone and they're completely brown. We let our first batch sit for 3 full days in the wine cellar, and by the end of that time, there were still patches of green amid the brown. At that point, since it was a Friday, we moved on to the next step. With our second batch of leaves (which we picked a couple weeks later), we gave them 5 days. Even so, we still saw a few hints of green.\n\n**8. Dry the leaves** Although the tea looked plenty dry to us, we decided to follow Camellia Forest's instructions to dry the tea, still on its baking sheet, in a 250\u00b0F oven for 20 to 25 minutes. We let it cool thoroughly (for a few hours) and transferred the leaves carefully into our metal tin.\n\n**9. Brew the tea** The finished product, once we poured briskly boiling water into a teapot with our precious tablespoonful of tea leaves and let it steep for 5 minutes, was more delicate than we had hoped, though it definitely had a tealike scent and a tannic afterbite. At this point, milk would probably have overwhelmed it. For our next harvest, we'll try picking the leaves in the afternoon\u2014maybe that extra tannin will help add some body\u2014and we'll let them oxidize for however long it takes for the leaves to turn entirely brown. And Team Cow will provide the milk.\n\n#### HELPFUL INFORMATION\n\n##### BOOKS\n\n\u2022 In _For All the Tea in China: How England Stole the World's Favorite Drink and Changed History_ (Viking, 2010), journalist Sarah Rose tells the tale of how Robert Fortune (he was kind of a nineteenth-century botanical equivalent to Indiana Jones) smuggled tea plants from China to India on behalf of the British East India Company.\n\n\u2022 Sadly out of print but worth looking for used, _A Time for Tea_ (Knopf, 1991), by British writer Jason Goodwin, is a beautifully and quirkily written history of tea through the ages.\n\n\u2022 _The Tea Enthusiast's Handbook_ , Mary Lou Heiss and Robert J. Heiss (Ten Speed Press, 2010), gives a good overall introduction to the topic of tea, with in-depth descriptions of the most famous types.\n\n##### OTHER RESOURCES\n\n\u2022 This link to the University of Florida IFAS Extension page leads to growing information aimed, of course, at gardeners living in Florida, but has helpful advice even for those living elsewhere: www.edis.ifas.ufl.edu\/hs308.\n\n\u2022 Here is the link to the Google Answers page that led us to Camellia Forest Nursery and provided lots of useful (albeit undocumented) information: www.answers.google.com\/answers\/threadview\/id\/566527.html.\n\n\u2022 On Google Books, we found a scanned copy of a classic prewar work on tea production that we're looking forward to reading, called _Indian Tea: Its Culture and Manufacture of Tea_ , written by Claud Bald and published in Calcutta in 1903.\n\n_\u2014Christine Ryan_\n\n_Radishes, Fresh Homemade Butter, and Salt_\n\n# THE SPRING RECIPES\n\n  RADISHES, FRESH HOMEMADE BUTTER, AND SALT\n\nThis classic country French hors d'oeuvre could not be easier. And when both the radishes and butter are very fresh, it is delicious.\n\nMAKES 6 servings\n\nTIME about 5 minutes\n\n24 juicy, just-picked radishes\n\nUnsalted butter, homemade or store-bought\n\nFine sea salt\n\nCut the bigger radishes in half and leave smaller ones whole. Serve with butter, salt, and a butter knife or two.\n\n_PER SERVING (4 RADISHES AND \u00be TEASPOON BUTTER) 28 cal., 93% (26 cal.) from fat; 0.15 g protein; 2.9 g fat (1.8 g sat.); 0.61 g carbo (0.28 g fiber); 7.4 mg sodium; 7.6 mg chol._\n\n##    \n  FAVAS AND RICOTTA ON BUTTERMILK CRACKERS\n\nPlump fava beans and milky-sweet ricotta are as springy as spring gets. A little bit of mint adds an extra spark. We used true peppermint, which is more mentholated than regular grocery-store spearmint, but spearmint works, too (use a little more of it).\n\nUnless they are very small, when you can eat them pod and all, favas need to be shelled, and then each bean popped out of its tough skin. This takes a little time, but it is easy to do and strangely relaxing, like knitting. Do it while you're watching TV.\n\nMAKES 8 servings (16 crackers)\n\nTIME about 45 minutes\n\nFine sea salt\n\n3 pounds fava beans in the pod\n\n16 Buttermilk Crackers (recipe follows) or store-bought crackers\n\n1 cup ricotta cheese, homemade or store-bought\n\nAbout \u00bd cup finely sliced fresh peppermint leaves\n\nAbout \u00bc cup extra virgin olive oil\n\n1. Bring a small pot of salted water to a boil. Meanwhile, shell the fava beans (you will have about 2 cups beans). Boil the beans for 2 minutes. Drain into a colander and rinse with cold running water until cool.\n\n2. To peel the tough skin from each bean, tear it open at the bean's round end with your fingernail or a paring knife and then pop out the bean.\n\n3. Spread the crackers with a thin layer of ricotta and top with the mint and then the favas. Arrange on a platter, sprinkle with salt and drizzle with the oil.\n\n**MAKE AHEAD** You can prepare the favas up to 1 day ahead and store them in an airtight container in the refrigerator.\n\n_PER SERVING 496 cal., 45% (226 cal.) from fat; 22 g protein; 26 g fat (8.7 g sat.); 57 g carbo (4.4 g fiber); 1,213 mg sodium; 32 mg chol._\n\n### BUTTERMILK CRACKERS\n\nHomemade crackers are surprisingly easy to make and taste much fresher than the average store-bought cracker. If you have made your own butter, use the leftover buttermilk to make these crackers.\n\nMAKES 16 crackers, each 2 by 4 inches\n\nTIME about 40 minutes\n\n2 cups whole-wheat flour* or whole-wheat pastry flour, plus more for dusting\n\n2 teaspoons fine sea salt, plus more for sprinkling (optional)\n\n1\u00bd teaspoons crushed dried red serrano or \u00e1rbol chiles (about 2 chiles)\n\n4 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, homemade or store-bought, cut into small cubes\n\n\u2154 cup Homemade Buttermilk (154) or whole milk\n\n1 tablespoon honey\n\nAbout \u00bc cup extra-virgin olive oil\n\n1. Preheat oven to 375\u00b0F. In a food processor, whirl together the flour, salt, and chile. Add the butter and pulse until the mixture looks like fine cornmeal. Pour in the buttermilk and honey and pulse just until incorporated.\n\n2. Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured work surface, form into a ball, and then divide the ball in half. Set half of the dough aside and cover it with a damp kitchen towel to keep it from drying out.\n\n3. Pat the remaining dough half into a rough rectangle, dust with flour, and roll out into a paper-thin rectangle. Trim off any ragged edges. (You can save the scraps and reroll them, though the resulting crackers will be a little tough.) Gently roll the dough around the rolling pin, and then unroll it onto a rimmed baking sheet. Using the tip of a sharp knife, score it into eight 2-by-4-inch rectangles. Brush with half of the oil and sprinkle very lightly with salt. Repeat with the remaining dough half. Poke both dough sheets all over with a fork.\n\n4. Bake for 8 minutes, then switch the pan positions and rotate the pans back to front. Continue to bake until the dough is a pale brown with some slightly darker edges, about 3 minutes longer. Let cool on the pans on racks, then break into individual crackers along the scored lines.\n\n**MAKE AHEAD** The crackers will keep for up to 1 week in an airtight container at room temperature.\n\n_PER CRACKER 118 cal., 50% (59 cal.) from fat; 2.6 g protein; 6.8 g fat (2.4 g sat.); 13.3 g carbo (2 g fiber); 292 mg sodium; 8 mg chol._\n\n* _We used 'Sonora' soft white wheat flour because it's local and because we like its delicate flavor and slightly_ nubbly _texture in these crackers. But regular whole-wheat flour or whole-wheat pastry flour will work too. SeeThe Allure of Local Wheat for more on local flours._\n\n##    \nGOUDA GOUG\u00c8RES\n\nChoux pastry, made with just eggs, salt, butter, and flour, is the basis for all kinds of rich treats\u2014\u00e9clairs, profiteroles, cream puffs, and these tasty, cheesy morsels.\n\nMAKES 25 to 30 small puffs\n\nTIME about 40 minutes\n\n4 tablespoons unsalted butter, homemade or store-bought, cut into cubes\n\n\u00bc teaspoon fine sea salt\n\n\u00bd cup whole-wheat pastry flour* mixed with \u00bc cup whole-wheat flour\n\n2 large eggs\n\n2 ounces aged Gouda, homemade or store-bought, coarsely shredded (about \u00bd cup)\n\n\u00bd teaspoon minced fresh rosemary\n\n1. Preheat the oven to 425\u00b0F. Line 2 rimmed baking sheets with parchment paper.\n\n2. In a heavy-bottomed medium saucepan, combine the butter, salt, and \u00bd cup water and bring to a rolling boil over high heat. Remove from the heat, add the flour all at once, and vigorously stir with a wooden spoon until smooth and shiny. Stir in the eggs, one at a time, mixing in the first egg completely before adding the second one. Stir in the cheese and then the rosemary.\n\n3. Spoon the dough into a pastry bag fitted with a \u00bd-inch plain tip. Pipe the dough onto the prepared baking sheets in 1 tablespoon mounds, spacing them about 1 inch apart. Or, snip a \u00bd-inch hole in one corner of a resealable plastic bag, fill the bag with the dough, and use it to pipe the dough.\n\n4. Bake for 10 minutes, then switch pan positions and rotate the pans back to front. Reduce the heat to 300\u00b0F and continue to bake until the puffs are golden brown, 10 to 12 minutes more. Serve warm.\n\n**MAKE AHEAD** You can freeze the puffs for up to 2 weeks. Let cool, then put in a resealable plastic bag and freeze. To serve, reheat in a 350\u00b0F oven for 8 minutes.\n\n_PER GOUG\u00c8RE 36 cal., 61% (22 cal.) from fat; 1.2 g protein; 2.4 g fat (1.4 g sat.); 2.4 g carbo (0.4 g fiber); 39 mg sodium; 20 mg chol._\n\n* _We used freshly milled 'Sonora' soft white wheat flour because it is the closest local substitute for commercial whole-wheat pastry flour. SeeThe Allure of Local Wheat for more about local flours._\n\n##    \nCARROT AND BEET CHIPS\n\nWhy not go beyond the potato and make seasonal chips? We love how colorful and flavorful these are. We used extra virgin olive oil to stay within our One-Block pantry, but it would be a waste otherwise, since the oil is expensive and high heat destroys its nuances. Several other cheaper, more neutral-flavored oils, such as safflower or canola, have a higher smoke point and would be ideal.\n\nMAKES about 2 ounces carrot chips (2 cups) and about 1 ounce (1\u00bd cups) for each kind of beet chip\n\nTIME about 1 hour\n\n3 very large carrots, at least 1\u00bd inches in diameter, peeled and cut into 4-inch lengths\n\n3 beets of any variety, about 5 ounces each, trimmed and peeled\n\nExtra virgin olive oil for deep-frying\n\n1\u00bd to 2 teaspoons fine sea salt\n\n1. Using a mandoline or other handheld slicer, slice the carrots paper-thin lengthwise. Thinly slice the beets, slicing any red beets last so they don't stain the others.\n\n2. Pour the oil to a depth of \u00bd inch into a large frying pan and heat over medium-high heat to 375\u00b0F on a deep-frying thermometer. (Some olive oils have lower smoke points; if your oil starts smoking, reduce the heat until the thermometer registers 360\u00b0F).\n\n3. Working in small batches, fry the carrot chips first, then the beet chips, stirring occasionally with a slotted spoon, until they are crisp, 1 to 2 minutes. Transfer to a double thickness of paper towels laid over a paper bag to drain. Return the oil to 375\u00baF before frying each batch.\n\n4. Sprinkle the chips with salt while they're hot.\n\n**MAKE AHEAD** You can fry the chips up to 2 days ahead and store them in an airtight container at room temperature. If they get soggy, spread them in a single layer on a rimmed baking sheet and reheat in a 250\u00b0F oven for 10 minutes. Let them cool for at least 10 minutes in a single layer before serving.\n\n_PER \u00bc CUP CARROTS 51 cal., 61% (31 cal.) from fat; 0.47 g protein; 3.6 g fat (0.52 g sat.); 4.8 g carbo (1.4 g fiber); 401 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n_PER \u00bc CUP BEETS 50 cal., 62% (31 cal.) from fat; 0.76 g protein; 3.6 g fat (0.51 g sat.); 4.5 g carbo (1.3 g fiber); 403 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n##    \nGARDEN BORSCHT\n\nThis is a gentle, fabulous soup that owes its subtle grace to fennel seeds that we harvested from our plants at the end of their cycle, when they stood nearly six feet tall.\n\nMAKES 6 servings\n\nTIME about 1\u00bd hours\n\nAbout 2 pounds large beets, with tops intact\n\n1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil\n\n1 white onion, chopped\n\n1 carrot, peeled and chopped\n\n1 clove garlic, minced\n\n1 tablespoon crushed fennel seeds (see see here for details on how to harvest)\n\n4 cups Herb Vegetable Broth\n\n\u00bc cup plus 4 teaspoons coarsely chopped fresh dill\n\n2 teaspoons fine sea salt\n\nCr\u00e9me fra\u00eeche, homemade or store-bought, for serving\n\n1. Trim the leafy tops from the beets and chop them, including the stems. Peel the beets, quarter them through the stem end, and then thinly slice each quarter crosswise. Set the tops and beets aside.\n\n2. In a large pot, heat the oil over medium heat. Add the onion, carrot, garlic, and fennel seeds and cook, stirring often, until the vegetables have softened, about 4 minutes. Add the beet tops, then pour in the broth, 3\u00bd cups water, and the \u00bc cup dill. Cover, bring to a simmer, and cook, stirring occasionally, until the beets have softened and the flavors have blended, about 1 hour.\n\n3. Season the soup with the salt, then serve dolloped with cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche and some of the remaining dill.\n\n_PER SERVING 112 cal., 39% (44 cal.) from fat; 2.6 g protein; 5.1 g fat (0.73 g sat.); 16 g carbo (4.4 g fiber); 1,396 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n  MESCLUN SALAD WITH SPRING BEETS AND DILL\n\nLettuces are one of the most rewarding crops in the back-yard garden. They are easy to grow, and you can harvest the young, tender leaves right before dinner to make a salad that is as fresh as it gets.\n\nMAKES 4 to 6 generous servings\n\nTIME about 20 minutes\n\n\u00bd teaspoon finely shredded lemon zest\n\n2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n\u00bd teaspoon sea salt\n\n\u00bc cup extra virgin olive oil\n\n3 small to medium red and golden beets ('Chioggia', 'Bull's Blood', or other red beet, and golden), trimmed and peeled\n\n8 cups loosely packed mesclun (baby lettuces)\n\n\u00bd cup small sprigs dill\n\n1. In a small bowl, whisk together the lemon zest, lemon juice, and salt, then whisk in the oil.\n\n2. Slice the beets into paper-thin rounds, preferably with a mandoline or other handheld slicer. Slice red beets last so they don't stain the others. Put the red beet slices in a medium bowl and toss with 1 tablespoon of the dressing to coat evenly.\n\n3. In a large shallow bowl, toss together the mesclun, dill, and any light-colored beet slices. Drizzle on the remaining dressing and toss to coat evenly. Tuck in the red beet slices.\n\n_PER SERVING 110 cal., 74% (81 cal.) from fat; 1.8 g protein; 9.4 g fat (1.3 g sat.); 7.8 g carbo (2.3 g fiber); 230 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n##    \nNASTURTIUM SALAD WITH OMELET RIBBONS\n\nNasturtiums have been self-seeding at random in the Sunset garden for several years. They are at their peak in spring and early summer, blooming in billowy clusters of orange and yellow\u2014and were hard to ignore when we were snipping lettuces for this salad.\n\nMAKES 4 to 6 servings\n\nTIME about 20 minutes\n\n1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n1\u00bd teaspoons honey\n\n\u215b teaspoon plus \u00bc teaspoon fine sea salt\n\n2 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon extra virgin olive oil\n\n3 large eggs\n\n3 cups loosely packed nasturtium leaves, stems removed\n\n3 cups loosely packed mesclun (baby lettuces)\n\n1 to 2 cups nasturtium blossoms, stems removed\n\n1. In a small bowl, whisk together the lemon juice, honey, and \u215b teaspoon salt. Whisk in 2 tablespoons of the oil.\n\n2. In a 10-inch nonstick frying pan, heat the remaining 1 teaspoon oil over medium heat. Meanwhile, in another small bowl, whisk together the eggs and the remaining \u00bc teaspoon salt until well blended.\n\n3. When the oil is hot, pour the eggs into the pan. As the eggs begin to set, lift the edge with a spatula and tilt the pan to let the uncooked mixture on top flow underneath. Work your way around the omelet, lifting one section of the edge at a time and tilting the pan, until the omelet is set underneath. Continue to cook until the top is only slightly moist, 1 to 2 minutes.\n\n4. Slide the omelet onto a heatproof plate. Invert the pan over the plate and, holding the pan and plate together with pot holders, flip them over together so the omelet falls back into the pan. Return the omelet to the heat until the underneath is just set, 1 to 2 minutes more. Slide the omelet onto a cutting board and cut into ribbons \u00bc inch wide.\n\n5. In a serving bowl, combine the nasturtium leaves, mesclun, and omelet ribbons and toss gently to mix. Drizzle on the dressing and toss again. Sprinkle with the nasturtium blossoms and serve.\n\n_PER SERVING 92 cal., 75% (69 cal.) from fat; 3.6 g protein; 8 g fat (1.6 g sat.); 2.4 g carbo (0.25 g fiber); 184 mg sodium; 106 mg chol._\n\n##    \nWHOLE-LEAF RADISH AND HERB SALAD\n\nInstead of lettuces, this salad has lots of just-picked herbs plus radish leaves, which have a lovely, fresh, \"green\" taste.\n\nMAKES 4 to 6 servings\n\nTIME about 20 minutes, plus 30 minutes to chill\n\n3 cups loosely packed small, tender radish leaves (or use larger, tender leaves torn into pieces)\n\n2 cups quartered radishes\n\n2 cups loosely packed small fresh flat-leaf parsley leaves\n\n\u00be cup loosely packed small sprigs dill\n\n\u00be cup loosely packed sprigs chervil\n\n\u00be cup loosely packed fresh tarragon leaves\n\n1 teaspoon Syrah Vinegar or 1\u00bd teaspoons other red-wine vinegar\n\n\u00bd teaspoon fine sea salt\n\n3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil\n\n1. In a large serving bowl, combine the radish leaves, radishes, parsley, dill, chervil, and tarragon. Cover and chill for about 30 minutes to crisp the leaves.\n\n2. In a small bowl, whisk together the vinegar and salt, then whisk in the oil to make a dressing. Drizzle the dressing over the salad and toss gently to coat evenly. Season with salt to taste.\n\n_PER SERVING 99 cal., 67% (66 cal.) from fat; 3 g protein; 7.7 g fat (1.1 g sat.); 6 g carbo (1.8 g fiber); 234 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n_Grilled Carrot Salad (bottom); Mesclun Salad with Spring Beets and Dill_\n\n##    \n  GRILLED CARROT SALAD\n\nWe grew 'Nantes' carrots, an exceptionally sweet and juicy French variety with rounded tips. You can often find them at farmers' markets, too.\n\nMAKES 6 servings\n\nTIME about 30 minutes, plus 1 hour to marinate\n\n\u2153 cup extra virgin olive oil\n\n3 tablespoons Syrah Vinegar or 4 tablespoons other red-wine vinegar\n\n\u00bd teaspoon fine sea salt\n\n3 tablespoons fresh thyme leaves\n\n1\u00bd pounds carrots\n\n3 green onions, ends trimmed and halved crosswise\n\n1. In a large bowl, whisk together the oil, vinegar, salt, and 2 tablespoons of the thyme leaves. Add the carrots and green onions, turn to coat evenly, and marinate at room temperature for about 1 hour.\n\n2. Prepare a grill for medium heat (350\u00b0 to 450\u00b0F; you should be able to hold your hand above the cooking grate for only 5 to 7 seconds).\n\n3. Lift the carrots out of the marinade onto the grill and cook, turning often with tongs, until charred on all sides and tender when poked with a paring knife, about 10 minutes for smaller carrots and 15 minutes for larger ones. About 5 minutes before the carrots have finished cooking, lift the green onions out of the marinade, reserving the marinade, and cook them, turning once, until charred and softened on both sides, about 5 minutes total. As the carrots and green onions are done, return them to the marinade.\n\n4. Transfer the carrots to a cutting board and cut each carrot on the diagonal into 3 equal pieces. Return the carrot pieces to the marinade and toss with the onions.\n\n5. Arrange the carrots and green onions on a large serving platter (discard the marinade) and sprinkle with the remaining 2 tablespoons thyme leaves.\n\n_PER SERVING 157 cal., 69% (108 cal.) from fat; 1.3 g protein; 13 g fat (1.8 g sat.); 12 g carbo (3.5 g fiber); 267 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n##    \nROASTED BEETS AND TOPS WITH TARRAGON\n\nWe especially like the deep, earthy sweetness of red beets in this recipe, but you can use any kind of beet.\n\nMAKES 4 to 6 servings\n\nTIME about 1\u00bc hours\n\nAbout 3 pounds large beets, with tops intact\n\n4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil\n\n\u00bc cup fresh tarragon leaves\n\n\u00bc teaspoon fine sea salt\n\n1. Preheat the oven to 350\u00b0F. Trim the leafy tops, including stems, from the beets, rinse thoroughly, and set aside. Arrange the beets in a roasting pan just large enough to hold them in a single layer. Drizzle the beets with 1 tablespoon of the olive oil and cover the pan with aluminum foil.\n\n2. Bake the beets until tender when pierced with a knife, about 50 minutes. Set aside until cool enough to handle.\n\n3. While the beets are cooking, roughly chop the reserved beet tops, including the stems. Heat 1 tablespoon of the olive oil in a large pot over medium-low heat. Add the chopped beet tops and stems and pour in \u00be cup water. Cover and cook, stirring often, until they are wilted and tender, about 30 minutes.\n\n4. Peel the beets, cut into large chunks, and add them to the beet tops in the pot. Stir in the tarragon and salt.\n\n5. Turn the mixture into a serving dish and drizzle with the remaining 2 tablespoons oil.\n\n_PER SERVING 164 cal., 51% (84 cal.) from fat; 4.2 g protein; 9.7 g fat (1.4 g sat.); 18 g carbo (7 g fiber); 382 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n##    \nFRESH PICKLED BEETS\n\nThis super-easy small-batch pickle is stored in the refrigerator (no canning required). We used our homemade Syrah Vinegar, which gives the pickles a tart, fruity depth.\n\nIf you want to can your own pickles using homemade vinegar, you'll need a recipe designed for canning, because proportions of ingredients are important for safety; for details, see the \"USDA Complete Guide to Home Canning,\" (www.uga.edu\/nchfp\/index.html), and also follow their directions for water bath processing. Also, homemade vinegars can vary in acidity, so you'll need to measure the percent of acidity (acetic acid) in your vinegar to be sure it's the same as what's listed on the bottle of commercial vinegar called for in the canning recipe. You can do a quick check with a Country Acid Test Kit ($8.95) from the Beverage People (www.thebeveragepeople.com or 800\/544-1867); ask to have the instructions for titrating vinegar included.\n\nMAKES about 1\u00be cups beets, plus pickling liquid\n\nTIME about 1 hour, plus at least 3 hours to chill\n\n1 pound red beets\n\n3 tablespoons honey\n\n1\u00bd teaspoons fine sea salt\n\n\u2153 cup Syrah Vinegar or \u00bd cup other red-wine vinegar\n\n1. Trim the leafy tops off the beets, leaving about 1 inch of the stem intact. (Reserve the tops for another use.) Put the beets in a saucepan with just enough water to cover, cover the pan, and bring to a boil over high heat. Reduce the heat to a simmer and cook until the beets are just tender when pierced with the tip of a sharp knife, about 20 minutes.\n\n2. Drain the beets and let them cool until they can be handled. Peel, slice into \u00bd-inch-thick rounds or wedges, and put the pieces into a heatproof bowl.\n\n3. Meanwhile, in another saucepan, bring the honey, salt, and 2 cups water to a boil over high heat. Reduce the heat to a simmer and cook until the honey dissolves. Add the vinegar and stir well; pour over the beets.\n\n4. Let cool, then cover and chill for at least 3 hours to let the flavors develop.\n\n**MAKE AHEAD** The pickled beets will keep in the refrigerator for up to 2 weeks.\n\n_PER \u00bd-CUP SERVING 58 cal., 0% (1 cal.) from fat; 1.1 g protein; 0.11 g fat (0.02 g sat.); 14 g carbo (1.3 g fiber); 530 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n### PICKLED EGGS\n\nYou can also put a few peeled hard-cooked eggs in with your beets, if you like. Add the whole eggs to the bowl of beets before you pour in the hot vinegar mixture. After 2 to 3 days of pickling, the whites will have acquired a brilliant outer ring of fuchsia, the yolks will have remained a vivid yellow, and the eggs will taste pleasantly pickled. They are best eaten right away. After 4 days or more, they will start to get rubbery.\n\n_PER EGG 78 cal., 62% (48 cal.) from fat; 6.3 g protein; 5.3 g fat (1.6 g sat.); 0.56 g carbo (0 g fiber); 62 mg sodium; 212 mg chol._\n\n##    \nFIVE WAYS WITH FRESH EGGS\n\nWhen your backyard hens are just starting to lay eggs, it's nice to get to know them in the simplest possible recipes\u2014you'll immediately see (and taste) how different they are from industrial eggs. For the following methods, we are assuming that your eggs are standard large (2 ounces in the shell). If they are small or jumbo, adjust the timings by a minute in either direction.\n\n### 1. FRIED, OVER EASY\n\nUse your most slick-surfaced, well-seasoned frying pan. It should be large enough to allow a bit of space around each egg so you can turn them easily. Heat the pan over medium-low heat until hot, then add a bit of unsalted butter, homemade or store-bought. When the butter has foamed up and settled back and is just beginning to brown, crack an egg on your countertop, hold it close to the pan's surface, and open it into the pan. Repeat with another egg, being careful not to crowd them. Sprinkle with fine sea salt and let cook until the white is almost set (touch it to test). Gently turn each egg over (we like to use a spatula in each hand) and remove the pan from the heat. Let the eggs sit in the pan for 30 seconds, then serve.\n\n### 2. SCRAMBLED\n\nUse the same well-seasoned frying pan you would use for frying eggs, above, and heat it over medium heat until hot. Meanwhile, crack the eggs into a bowl and sprinkle them with fine sea salt (and fresh minced herbs, if you like), but don't mix them. Add some unsalted butter, homemade or store-bought, to the hot pan, let it foam up and settle back, and then pour in the eggs. When the whites are just starting to set, stir the eggs with a wooden spoon to mix the whites with the yolks. Keep stirring until they are almost but not quite as set as you like (they will continue to cook off the heat). Serve right away.\n\n### 3. POACHED\n\nFill a saucepan with enough water to cover the eggs you are cooking and bring to a gentle simmer. At the same time, pour water to a depth of about 1\u00bd inches into a large frying pan and bring to a gentle simmer. Gently lower the eggs, still in their shells, no more than two at a time, into the saucepan of water. Simmer for 15 seconds to set the outermost layer of egg white, then lift out. Crack 1 egg into a spouted measuring cup, then touch the spout to the surface of the simmering water in the frying pan and slip the egg into the water. Repeat with the remaining eggs. Cook the eggs until they look softly set, 2 to 3 minutes. Lift them out with a slotted spoon, slide them onto warmed plates, and serve right away.\n\n**MAKE AHEAD** You can poach the eggs as directed, then arrange them in a single layer in a glass or ceramic baking dish, cover the dish, and refrigerate for up to 2 days (yes, really). To reheat, pour water to a depth of 1\u00bd inches into a large frying pan and heat until steaming hot (but not quite boiling). Gently lower the eggs into the water and let stand until they feel hot to the touch, about 5 minutes. Lift out the eggs with a slotted spoon and serve right away.\n\n### 4. SOFT COOKED\n\nThis method produces tender but completely cooked whites and yolks that are still liquid in the center. They are not boiled, so we don't use this word to describe them. (To hard-cook eggs for use in salads or sandwiches, see here.) If the eggs are chilled, first bring them to room temperature, which helps keep them from cracking. Put the eggs into a saucepan just big enough to hold them, add warm water to cover by 1 inch, and let sit for about 5 minutes. Remove them from the water and bring the water to a boil. Gently lower the room-temperature eggs into the water, turning down the heat until it is at a barely bubbling simmer (a few bubbles rise from the bottom of the pan but don't break the surface). Simmer the eggs, uncovered, for 6 minutes. Remove from the water and let sit for 3 to 4 minutes before eating.\n\n### 5. OMELET\n\nHeat a 10-inch nonstick frying pan over medium heat. Whisk together 6 eggs, \u00bd teaspoon fine sea salt, and about 2 tablespoons minced fresh herbs (fines herbes\u2014a mix of chervil, parsley, chives, and tarragon\u2014is especially good). Add 2 teaspoons unsalted butter, homemade or store-bought, to the pan. Once the butter is foaming but before it starts to brown, pour in the eggs and reduce the heat to low. As the eggs begin to set, lift one edge with a spatula and tilt the pan to let the uncooked mixture on top flow underneath. Work your way around the omelet, lifting one section of the edge at a time and tilting the pan, until the omelet is set underneath. Cover and cook until the top is set but still quite moist, 1 to 2 minutes. If you like, spoon some ricotta, homemade or store-bought, over one-half of the omelet, and gently fold the other half on top. Slide onto a warmed plate and serve right away.\n\n**SERVES 3 TO 4.**\n\n_Whisking eggs for an omelet_\n\n_Fava Leaf and Parsley Quiche_\n\n  FAVA LEAF AND PARSLEY QUICHE\n\nWe like growing fava plants not only for their tasty beans, but also for their broad, abundant, easy-to-pick leaves, which have an earthy-sweet, faintly grassy flavor and can be cooked and eaten as you would spinach.\n\nWe borrowed our method for the quiche from a wonderful recipe in Thomas Keller's _Bouchon_.\n\nMAKES one 10-inch quiche, or 8 servings\n\nTIME about 1 hour, plus 1\u00bd hours to chill and about 1 hour to cool\n\n**CRUST**\n\n1\u00bd cups whole-wheat flour,* plus more for dusting\n\n\u00bd teaspoon fine sea salt\n\n\u00be cup cold unsalted butter, homemade or store-bought, cut into small cubes\n\n\u00bc cup ice water\n\n**FILLING**\n\n2 teaspoons extra virgin olive oil\n\n1\u00bd teaspoons minced garlic\n\n6 ounces baby fava or spinach leaves\n\n\u2153 cup chopped green onions\n\n1 cup fresh flat-leaf parsley leaves\n\n\u00bd teaspoon fine sea salt\n\n**CUSTARD**\n\n1\u00be cups whole milk\n\n1\u00be cups heavy cream\n\n5 large eggs\n\n1 teaspoon fine sea salt\n\n1. To make the dough for the crust, put the flour and salt in a food processor and whirl briefly to blend. Add the butter and pulse until the mixture looks like cornmeal. Add the ice water and pulse again until the dough comes together, about 30 seconds. Turn the dough out onto a work surface and press into a disk. Wrap in plastic wrap and chill for at least 1 hour and up to 1 day.\n\n2. Lightly dust a work surface with flour. Unwrap the dough, place it on the floured surface, and let it warm up for 15 minutes. With a floured rolling pin, roll out the dough into a 12-inch round. Roll the round gently around the rolling pin, then unroll over a 10-inch deep-dish pie pan. Press the dough evenly onto the bottom and up the sides of the pan, fold the overhang under itself to create a high edge on the pan rim, and crimp or flute the edge. Chill for at least 30 minutes. Meanwhile, position an oven rack on the lowest rung in the oven and preheat the oven to 325\u00b0F.\n\n3. Line the chilled crust with parchment paper and fill with pie weights or dried beans. Bake the crust on the bottom oven rack for 25 minutes. Remove the pie weights and parchment and continue to bake until the crust is slightly browned and looks dry, about 10 minutes more. Remove the crust from the oven and set it on a rimmed baking sheet. Raise the oven temperature to 375\u00b0F.\n\n4. While the oven is heating, make the filling. In a large frying pan, heat the oil over medium heat. Add the garlic, fava leaves, green onions, parsley, and salt and cook, stirring often, until the leaves are wilted, about 4 minutes. Transfer the mixture to a cutting board and chop the leaves coarsely, then arrange evenly over the bottom of the warm crust.\n\n5. To make the custard, heat the milk and cream in a large heavy-bottomed saucepan over high heat, just until the mixture begins to simmer. Remove from the heat. Put the eggs in a blender, add half of the hot milk mixture, and whirl for a few seconds to combine. Add the salt and the remaining hot milk mixture and whirl again just to combine. Pour the mixture into the crust, being careful to keep the greens evenly distributed.\n\n6. Bake the quiche on the lowest rack until slightly browned around the edges and beginning to puff in the center, about 25 minutes. Let cool to warm or room temperature before serving.\n\n_PER SERVING 512 cal., 75% (386 cal.) from fat; 11 g protein; 43 g fat (25 g sat.); 24 g carbo (4 g fiber); 688 mg sodium; 255 mg chol._\n\n* _We used freshly milled 'Sonora' soft white wheat flour because it is the closest local substitute for commercial whole-wheat pastry flour. SeeThe Allure of Local Wheat for more about local flours._\n\nARE BACKYARD EGGS BETTER FOR YOU?\n\nIn 2007, _Mother Earth News_ magazine, using an accredited, independent lab, tested eggs from fourteen different pasture-raised flocks around the United States for their nutritional content. Here is how the figures compare to data on commercial eggs, supplied by the U.S. Department of Agriculture.\n\nPastured eggs versus commercial eggs\n\n  * one-third less cholesterol\n  * one-third less saturated fat\n  * two-thirds more vitamin A\n  * two times more omega-3 fatty acids\n  * three times more vitamin E\n  * three times more beta-carotene\n  * at least three times more vitamin D\n\nThe _Mother Earth_ hens roamed around all day, pecking up green plants, seeds, insects, worms, and some grain supplement. Our Sunset flock doesn't have free range of the garden (they tend to eat our tender seedlings to the nub), so they can't qualify as \"pasture raised.\" We feed them organic layer pellets and greens from our kitchen, with occasional fruit and a few snails, and they do have the occasional (supervised) outing.\n\nWe were curious to see how eggs like ours\u2014from average, not-very-cooped-up but not-pastured-either hens\u2014would stack up nutritionally, since many backyard chicken owners have a similar setup. We sent off a dozen eggs to Columbia Food Laboratories in Corbett, Oregon, for testing, focusing on four nutrients: cholesterol and saturated fat (the \"bad\" stuff), and omega-3s and vitamin D (two of the \"good\" elements). Current research suggests that vitamin D in particular may have all kinds of health benefits, including helping build bones, boost muscle strength, and reduce inflammation.\n\nThe results? Unimpressive when it comes to cholesterol and omega-3s (we were quite sad about this, but science doesn't lie). We are happy to report, however, that our eggs have _half_ the saturated fat of commercial eggs\u2014even less than pastured!\u2014and _three times_ the amount of vitamin D. If you are interested in getting your eggs tested, contact Columbia Food Laboratories, www.columbiafoodlab.com. or 503\/695-2287.\n\n  STRAWBERRIES WITH FROMAGE BLANC AND LEMON HONEY\n\nAlthough technically a fresh cheese, fromage blanc tastes like a thicker, silkier version of sour cream, and is terrific with strawberries.\n\nMAKES 6 servings\n\nTIME about 30 minutes\n\n1\u00bc cups (about 9 ounces) fromage blanc, homemade or store-bought*\n\n\u00bc cup heavy cream\n\n2 pints strawberries, preferably small\n\n\u00bd cup honey\n\nFinely shredded zest of 1\u00bd lemons\n\n1. In a bowl, whisk together the fromage blanc and cream until very smooth. Divide the mixture among 6 shallow bowls.\n\n2. Set aside 6 to 12 small, perfect berries. Hull the remaining berries and halve or quarter lengthwise if large. Scatter the berries over the bowls of fromage blanc.\n\n3. In a glass measuring cup, combine the honey and lemon zest and microwave until beginning to bubble, about 30 seconds. Let cool about 5 minutes.\n\n4. Drizzle the warm honey over the berries and fromage blanc. Top each bowl with 1 or 2 of the reserved berries.\n\n_PER SERVING 263 cal., 39% (103 cal.) from fat; 5.3 g protein; 11 g fat (6.8 g sat.); 36 g carbo (1.6 g fiber); 351 mg sodium; 44 mg chol._\n\n* _Store-bought fromage blanc is often much drier than homemade fromage blanc. If you use it, stir in enough heavy cream (at least 3 tablespoons) to give it the consistency of softened cream cheese._\n\n##    \nSTRAWBERRY CREPES\n\nAlthough supremely easy, these breakfast crepes are elegant, too.\n\nMAKES 6 servings\n\nTIME about 25 minutes\n\n\u00bd cup unsalted butter, homemade or store-bought\n\n\u00bd cup honey\n\n4 cups hulled and quartered strawberries\n\n12 small Whole-Wheat Crepes, made in a 6-inch pan\n\n1. In a large frying pan, melt the butter over medium heat. Add the honey and strawberries and cook until the strawberries have begun to release their juices, about 2 minutes. Remove from the heat.\n\n2. Fold each crepe in half and then in half again to form a triangle. On each of 6 plates, arrange 2 triangles, overlapping them. Spoon the strawberries and their sauce over the crepes.\n\n_PER SERVING 475 cal., 51% (244 cal.) from fat; 8.9 g protein; 28 g fat (16 g sat.); 52 g carbo (5.1 g fiber); 284 mg sodium; 184 mg chol._\n\n##    \nSTRAWBERRY CR\u00c8ME FRA\u00ceCHE SHERBET\n\nRich, tangy cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche takes the place of milk in this smooth, refreshing dessert.\n\nMAKES 4 cups\n\nTIME about 1 hour, plus time to freeze\n\n4 cups hulled and quartered strawberries\n\n\u00bd cup honey\n\n1 teaspoon freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n\u215b teaspoon fine sea salt\n\nIce cubes\n\n\u00bd cup cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche, homemade or store-bought\n\n1. In a large saucepan, combine the strawberries, honey, lemon juice, salt, and \u00bc cup water and cook over medium heat, stirring often, until the strawberries have softened and the mixture is simmering, about 20 minutes.\n\n2. Remove the strawberry mixture from the heat and puree it in batches in a blender.\n\n3. Fill a large bowl with ice cubes and water. Pour the puree through a fine-mesh strainer into a medium bowl, pressing the mixture with a spoon to extract as much liquid as possible. Discard the contents of the strainer. Set the bowl in the ice bath and let cool completely, stirring occasionally.\n\n4. Add the cr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche to the cold strawberry liquid and whisk until smooth. Freeze in an ice cream maker according to the manufacturer's directions. Eat right away, or transfer to an airtight container and freeze until completely firm, about 6 hours, before serving.\n\n**MAKE AHEAD** The sherbet can be stored in the freezer for up to 1 week.\n\n_PER \u00bd-CUP SERVING 144 cal., 36% (52 cal.) from fat; 1.1 g protein; 5.8 g fat (3.6 g sat.); 24 g carbo (1.6 g fiber); 38 mg sodium; 13 mg chol._\n\n##    \n  STRAWBERRY LEMONADE\n\nThis refreshing lemonade is just as much about the strawberries as it is about the lemons.\n\nMAKES 7\u00bd cups, or 6 servings\n\nTIME about 20 minutes\n\n2 pints strawberries, hulled\n\n\u00be cup honey\n\n1 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice (from 5 to 6 lemons)\n\nIce cubes for serving\n\n1. In a blender, puree the strawberries and honey. Pour through a fine-mesh strainer set over a bowl, pressing the mixture with a spoon to extract as much liquid as possible. Discard the contents of the strainer.\n\n2. Pour the strawberry juice into a pitcher and stir in the lemon juice and 4 cups water. Serve over ice.\n\n**MAKE AHEAD** The lemonade can be made up to 4 days ahead and refrigerated.\n\n_PER SERVING 83 cal., 3% (2.5 cal.) from fat; 0.84 g protein; 0.29 g fat (0.01 g sat.); 22 g carbo (2.1 g fiber); 1.9 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n# A SPRING TEA PARTY\n\n# (because we could)\n\nAs soon as we learned that we could grow tea in Menlo Park, actual _Camellia sinensis_ \u2014the civilizing sip of queens and commoners alike\u2014the idea of trying to make a tea party seized hold. Proper British afternoon tea is all about nuance and delicacy, however, and we had relatively few ingredients to pull it off.\n\nBut we were determined. In the end, the tea party food we created had a hearty note (there's no getting around that with sandwiches made with whole-wheat bread), but it mostly qualified as dainty. We added a bowl of freshly picked strawberries and some thick whipped cream sweetened with honey, and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves one spring afternoon, with our afternoon tea out in the garden.\n\n_Scone Tarts_\n\n##    \nSCONE TARTS\n\nWhat is afternoon tea without scones, clotted cream, and jam? With no baking powder or baking soda, we didn't even try to make scones, knowing they would be disastrous. In their place, we made mini tarts and filled them with scone toppings. They were buttery and delicious, crumbling as soon as we put them in our mouths.\n\nYou can use any shape of tart pan you like for this recipe, as long as it is small (1 to 2 inches in diameter). Even a mini-muffin pan will work. Also, this recipe can easily be doubled.\n\nMAKES about sixteen 2-inch tarts\n\nTIME about 1\u00bd hours, plus 1 hour to chill\n\n**TART CRUSTS**\n\n\u00be cup whole-wheat pastry flour*\n\n\u215b teaspoon fine sea salt\n\n4 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, homemade or store-bought, cut into small cubes\n\n2 teaspoons honey\n\n1 to 2 tablespoons ice water\n\n**FILLINGS**\n\nAbout \u00bc cup clotted cream, homemade or store-bought\n\nAbout 2 tablespoons Sticky Chewy Tangerine Marmalade or store-bought citrus marmalade\n\nAbout 2 tablespoons strawberry jam, homemade** or store-bought\n\nAbout 2 tablespoons lemon curd, homemade or store-bought\n\nA few tangerine segments, cut in half\n\n1 strawberry, hulled and sliced lengthwise paper-thin\n\nSeveral thin lemon zest strips\n\n1. To make the tart crusts, sift the flour and salt into a food processor (discarding any bran) and whirl briefly to blend. Add the butter and pulse until the mixture looks like shaggy fresh bread crumbs. Drizzle the honey over the mixture. Then, with the motor running, drizzle in the ice water, adding just enough for the dough to come together. Turn the dough out onto a work surface and press into a disk. Wrap in plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least 1 hour.\n\n2. Preheat the oven to 350\u00b0F. Lightly dust a work surface with flour. Remove the dough from the refrigerator, unwrap it, place it on the floured surface, and let it warm up for 10 minutes. For each 2-inch tart shell, pull off a ball of dough about 1\u00bd inches in diameter and put it in the bottom of a 2-inch tart pan. With floured thumbs, gently press the dough into the pan, rotating the pan as you press, until the dough is an even \u215b inch thick on the bottom and sides. (You can use a smaller pan, but reduce the amount of dough; it should form a layer no more than \u215b inch thick.) Trim the dough even with the pan rim by brushing outward across the rim with your fingers.\n\n3. Prick the bottom of each tart crust all over with a fork. If you have extra empty tart pans in the same size, fit the empty pans on top of the pastry-lined pans, to create slightly neater shells (they won't shrink as much when baked). Put the pans on a rimmed baking pan and bake until thoroughly golden, 10 to 15 minutes. Let cool completely in their pans, at least 15 minutes but no more than 1 hour (or they will start to stick).\n\n4. Invert each tart pan and squeeze gently to release the crust. Arrange the crusts on a large platter. Fill each crust partway with clotted cream, then fill to the top with the marmalade (warmed if too thick), strawberry jam, or lemon curd. Top each tart with a piece of tangerine, a strawberry slice, or a lemon zest strip.\n\n**MAKE AHEAD** Tart dough can be made up to 2 days ahead and refrigerated. Tart crusts can be baked up to 1 day in advance and stored in an airtight container at room temperature. The tarts can be assembled up to 1 hour before serving and kept at room temperature. (Do not refrigerate them or the crusts will become soggy.)\n\n_PER 2-INCH TART 69 cal., 57% (39 cal.) from fat; 0.63 g protein; 4.4 g fat (2.8 g sat.); 7.1 g carbo (0.75 g fiber); 32 mg sodium; 19 mg chol._\n\n* _We used finely milled 'Sonora' whole-wheat flour, which behaves like commercial whole-wheat pastry flour. SeeThe Allure of Local Wheat for more information on local flours._\n\n** _If using ourStrawberry Oven Jam recipe, sweeten to taste with honey before using._\n\n_Clockwise, from top right:Strawberry Oven Jam, Lemon Curd, and Clotted Cream_\n\n##    \nCLOTTED CREAM\n\nA star of the English tea tray, clotted cream is produced by slowly heating pure cream until it forms a devastatingly rich, thick layer on top, which is then scooped off for slathering onto warm scones.\n\nMAKES about 1\u00bc cups\n\nTIME 2 days\n\n5 cups heavy cream (not ultrapasteurized)\n\n1. Preheat the oven to 175\u00b0F. Pour the cream into a wide, heavy-bottomed pot, cover, and heat for at least 8 hours and up to 12 hours.\n\n2. Remove the pot from the oven, cover, and refrigerate the cream overnight (at least 8 hours).\n\n3. Using a wide, flat spoon, skim the thick layer of clotted cream from the chilled cream and place in a bowl or jar (reserve the remaining thin cream for another use). Cover and refrigerate until firm enough to spread, about 4 hours.\n\n**MAKE AHEAD** The cream will keep, refrigerated, for up to 1 week. It will get thicker the longer it sits.\n\n_PER TABLESPOON 70 cal., 97% (68 cal.) from fat; 0 g protein; 7.5 g fat (5 g sat.); 5 g carbo (0 g fiber); 2.5 mg sodium; 23 mg chol._\n\n##    \nLEMON CURD\n\nYou can use any citrus you like to make this rich, tangy spread. We spooned it into little tart crusts for our one-block tea party. It is also delicious blended with vanilla ice cream or used as a cake filling.\n\nMAKES about 1\u00bd cups\n\nTIME about 15 minutes\n\n\u00bd cup unsalted butter, homemade or store-bought\n\n\u00bd cup freshly squeezed lemon juice (from about 3 lemons)\n\n\u2154 cup honey\n\n8 large egg yolks\n\n1. In a heavy-bottomed medium saucepan, melt the butter with the lemon juice over medium-high heat. In a bowl, whisk together the honey and egg yolks until blended.\n\n2. Slowly whisk the hot lemon-butter mixture into the honey-egg mixture, \u00bd cup at a time. Pour the mixture back into the saucepan and cook over medium-high heat, whisking constantly, until the mixture is thick and just starts to boil, about 4 minutes.\n\n3. Remove from the heat, pour into a bowl or other container, and press plastic wrap directly onto the surface to prevent a skin from forming. Let cool, then refrigerate.\n\n**MAKE AHEAD** The curd will keep in the refrigerator for up 1 week.\n\n_PER TABLESPOON 82 cal., 57% (47 cal.) from fat; .99 g protein; 5.3 g fat (3 g sat.); 8.4 g carbo (0.04 g fiber); 3.7 mg sodium; 80 mg chol._\n\n##    \nSTRAWBERRY OVEN JAM\n\nMaking strawberry jam without sugar or commercial pectin is challenging. Honey tends to burn over high heat, resulting in a bitter jam. A slow-cooker yields a jam that is too liquidy. We kept at it and finally arrived at this easy method, which produces a not-too-sweet, fresh-tasting jam with a nice, spreadable consistency.\n\nMAKES about 1 cup\n\nTIME about 3 hours\n\n2 pints strawberries, hulled\n\n2 tablespoons honey, plus more to taste (optional)\n\n1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n1. Preheat the oven to 200\u00b0F. Combine the strawberries, honey, and lemon juice in a food processor and pulse 20 to 30 times to chop the berries, stopping to scrape down the sides of the work bowl as needed. Be careful you don't puree the berries.\n\n2. Spread the strawberry mixture in a thin, even layer on a rimmed baking sheet. Bake, scraping up and stirring with a flat, wide metal spatula every hour and then respreading into an even layer, until the jam is as thick as you like, 2 to 3 hours. It will continue to thicken slightly as it cools.\n\n3. Let cool, then transfer to an airtight container. Stir in more honey before serving if you want a sweeter jam.\n\n**MAKE AHEAD** The jam will keep in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up to 1 week or in the freezer for up to 3 months.\n\n_PER TABLESPOON 20 cal., 5% (1 cal.) from fat; 0.25 g protein; 0.11 g fat (0.01 g sat.); 5 g carbo (0.73 g fiber); 0.67 mg sodium; 0 mg chol._\n\n_Tea Sandwich Trio, clockwise from top: Egg-Nasturtium, Green Onion\u2013Parsley, and Gouda-Arugula_\n\n##    \nTEA SANDWICH TRIO\n\nThere is something particularly pleasing about sitting in your garden and eating dainty tea sandwiches filled with the garden itself. We made three kinds of sandwiches: hard-cooked egg and peppery nasturtium; Gouda with arugula; and, in a tribute to James Beard's famous onion sandwiches, green onion and parsley.\n\nMAKES 36 miniature sandwiches, or 6 servings\n\nTIME about 20 minutes, plus 30 minutes to chill\n\n18 very thin slices Whole-Wheat Honey Sandwich Bread\n\nEgg-Nasturtium Filling (recipe follows)\n\nGouda-Arugula Filling (recipe follows)\n\nGreen Onion\u2013Parsley Filling (recipe follows)\n\n1. Fill the sandwiches as directed in each filling recipe, using 6 slices of bread to make 3 large sandwiches with each filling. Chill the sandwiches until cold, at least 30 minutes.\n\n2. Trim the crusts from each sandwich and cut into 4 small squares, rectangles, or triangles. Arrange on a platter or individual plates to serve.\n\n**MAKE AHEAD** The sandwiches can be assembled up to 2 hours ahead, covered with a barely damp kitchen towel and plastic wrap, and chilled.\n\n_PER EGG-NASTURTIUM SANDWICH 60 cal., 65% (39 cal.) from fat; 1.7 g protein; 4.6 g fat (0.87 g sat.); 3.6 g carbo (0.52 g fiber); 109 mg sodium; 40 mg chol_\n\n_PER GOUDA-ARUGULA SANDWICH 46 cal., 57% (26 cal.) from fat; 1.8 g protein; 3 g fat (1.8 g sat.); 3.5 g carbo (0.53 g fiber); 74 mg sodium; 9.5 mg chol_\n\n_PER GREEN ONION\u2013PARSLEY SANDWICH 35 cal., 34% (12 cal.) from fat; 1.3 g protein; 1.3 g fat (0.75 g sat.); 4.6 g carbo (0.62 g fiber); 111 mg sodium; 4.7 mg chol_\n\n### EGG-NASTURTIUM FILLING\n\nMAKES enough for 12 miniature sandwiches\n\nTIME about 20 minutes\n\n2 large eggs, at least 1 week old (superfresh eggs are difficult to peel)\n\n3 tablespoons Green Chile Mayonnaise, made without garlic or chile, or regular mayonnaise flavored with a little freshly squeezed lemon juice\n\n3 tablespoons coarsely chopped nasturtium leaves, plus 6 whole leaves\n\nFine sea salt (optional)\n\n12 nasturtium blossoms\n\n1. Put the eggs in a small pot and cover with water by about 1 inch. Bring to a boil, immediately reduce the heat to a simmer, and cook, uncovered, for 10 minutes. Remove from the heat, immerse the eggs in ice water to cover, and let cool for 1 minute. Crack each egg all over on the counter and return to the ice water for 5 minutes.\n\n2. Peel the eggs under cold water and put them in a bowl. Chop them with a pastry blender or mash them with a fork. Stir in the mayonnaise and chopped nasturtium leaves and season with salt.\n\n3. To fill the sandwiches, spread half of the bread slices with the egg mixture, then top each one with 2 whole leaves and 4 blossoms. Top with the remaining bread slices.\n\n### GOUDA-ARUGULA FILLING\n\nMAKES enough for 12 miniature sandwiches\n\nTIME about 5 minutes\n\nAbout 1 \u00bd tablespoons salted butter, homemade or store-bought, softened\n\nAbout 2 ounces young or aged Gouda, homemade or store-bought, thinly sliced\n\n\u2153 cup loosely packed small arugula leaves\n\n1. To fill the sandwiches, lightly spread each bread slice on one side with butter. Layer the cheese and then the arugula on the buttered side of 3 bread slices.\n\n2. Top with the remaining bread slices, with the buttered side down.\n\n### GREEN ONION\u2013PARSLEY FILLING\n\nMAKES enough for 12 miniature sandwiches\n\nTIME about 10 minutes\n\n\u2153 cup fromage blanc, homemade or store-bought mixed with 3 tablespoons heavy cream\n\n3 tablespoons finely chopped green onions\n\n\u00bc cup finely chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley\n\n\u215b teaspoon fine sea salt\n\n1. In a small bowl, stir together the fromage blanc, green onions, parsley, and salt.\n\n2. Spread the mixture on 3 of the bread slices, dividing it evenly. Top with the remaining bread slices.\n\n##    \nWHOLE-WHEAT HONEY SANDWICH BREAD\n\nThis mild-tasting loaf tastes equally good with something savory, like cheese, or something sweet, like jam. It makes great toast, too.\n\nMAKES 2 loaves; each loaf yields about twenty \u00bd-inch-thick slices\n\nTIME about 2\u00bd hours\n\n2 packages (2 \u00bd teaspoons each) active dry yeast\n\n\u00bc cup honey\n\n6 \u00bd cups whole-wheat flour,* plus more for dusting\n\n2 tablespoons unsalted butter, homemade or store-bought, melted\n\n1 tablespoon fine sea salt\n\nAbout 1 teaspoon extra virgin olive oil\n\n1. Put the yeast, honey, 1 cup of the flour, and 3 cups warm water (100\u00b0 to 110\u00b0F) in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a dough hook. Let stand until the yeast dissolves and bubbles appear, about 5 minutes. Add the remaining 5\u00bd cups flour and mix with the dough hook on low speed just until the flour is no longer dry, about 1 minute. Add 1 tablespoon of the butter and the salt and mix on medium-low speed until the dough is smooth, begins to pull away from the sides of the bowl, and feels a bit tacky, 5 to 7 minutes.\n\n2. Use some of the oil to grease a large bowl. Transfer the dough to the bowl and turn the dough to coat it evenly on all sides with oil. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and let sit in a warm spot until the dough is doubled in size, about 1 hour.\n\n3. Use the remaining 1 tablespoon butter to grease two 8\u00bd-by-4\u00bd-inch loaf pans. Dust each pan lightly with flour, tapping out the excess, and set the pans aside.\n\n4. Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured work surface and divide in half. Using the palm of your hand, flatten 1 piece into a rectangle, popping any air bubbles. Position the rectangle with a long side facing you. Fold the farthest edge toward you \u00bd inch at a time, alternating with folds of the shorter sides toward the center, until you reach the long side nearest you. With the heel of your hand, press all along the length of the seam to seal it. Place the loaf, seam side down, in a prepared pan. Repeat with remaining dough half and place in the second pan. Loosely cover each pan with lightly oiled plastic wrap and let them sit in a warm spot until the dough is doubled in size, 30 to 45 minutes. Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 350\u00b0F.\n\n5. Peel the plastic wrap from the pans, being careful not to tear the surface of the loaves. Bake until the loaves are browned and sound hollow when tapped on the bottom or sides (use pot holders to tip the loaf out of the pan, then tap), 45 to 50 minutes. Turn the loaves out onto racks and let cool completely before slicing.\n\n_PER SLICE 80 cal., 12% (9.6 cal.) from fat; 2.8 g protein; 1.1 g fat (0.45 g sat.); 16 g carbo (2.5 g fiber); 169 mg sodium; 1.5 mg chol._\n\n### WHOLE-WHEAT ROLLS\n\nFollow the recipe through step 2. Butter and flour two 12-cup standard muffin pans. Divide the dough into 24 equal pieces. Roll each piece into a ball and place a ball in each prepared cup. Cover the pans loosely with lightly oiled plastic wrap and let sit in a warm spot until the dough doubles in size, about 50 minutes. Bake the rolls in a 350\u00b0F oven until they are browned and sound hollow when tapped on the bottom (lift a roll out of the pan with a knife tip, then tap), about 15 minutes. Turn out onto racks to cool completely.\n\n_PER ROLL 134 cal., 10% (14 cal.) from fat; 4.8 g protein; 1.6 g fat (0.72 g sat.); 27 g carbo (4.2 g fiber); 282 mg sodium; 2.5 mg chol._\n\n* _We used 'Expresso' whole-wheat flour, but any regular whole-wheat flour will work. SeeThe Allure of Local Wheat for more information on local flours._\n\n# Epilogue\n\nWe haven't exactly had a smooth ride with this one-block project of ours. And yet, to a person we think it's been worth it.\n\nWe've had to do without so many ingredients we regularly use unthinkingly all the time, like baking soda and baking powder, cinnamon, black pepper, vanilla, chocolate, and coffee\u2014and sugar, which is much more versatile than honey because it doesn't burn as easily or ooze. Crops we were counting on failed or were destroyed by pests (most perniciously, our lovely olive trees). Our first prospective cow got mastitis, and one of our chickens died. And, most recently, Team Bee member Brianne had to be rushed to the emergency room with a suddenly developed allergy to bee stings. (She recovered well, and is undergoing desensitization therapy so she can work with the hives again.)\n\nAnd yet. All that we've done, successfully or not, has changed our whole outlook on food\u2014and on ourselves.\n\nNow that we've made beer, for instance, and understand more about all the ways in which it can go wrong, we're in awe of the artisans who create great beers like Chimay, time after time.\n\nWe have a deeper way of seeing and relating to the natural world. Margaret can tell the age of a bee by the condition of its wings. Brianne seems to spot mushrooms wherever she goes\u2014she just has an eye for them now. Jim is so gentle with the hens that even skittish Charlotte lets him pick her up. Erika says that one of the best rewards of making wine was \"getting to feel alive in a new way. We got to be part of nature\u2014and be low-tech, without our computers glaring at us.\" In the kitchen, we cooks look at plants differently now. We consider a vegetable's potential from top to bottom, beyond the parts normally considered edible. Fava leaves and radish greens are delicious, we've found, and so are crisp, juicy pineapple guava blossoms, and pod-on shelling beans if you eat them when they are very small.\n\nAnd finally, we cooks (okay, mainly me) have come to understand the gardener's point of view. At the beginning of this project, I thought that a garden could be planted to follow a menu. Now I know that a menu follows a garden. Nature always leads, and a smart cook learns how to dance.\n\nThat said, I'm not sure we would have had as much fun without a menu as our roadmap. It was the idea of a well-thought-out, well-cooked meal that drove us to figure out a cooking fat (olive oil) and sweetener (honey), seasoning (salt), and protein (eggs and cheese)\u2014and really everything else, too.\n\nAnd it was our projects that led to us getting to know one another. Our office is sort of like a neighborhood, in that most of the people here see each other nearly every day and say hello and maybe chat in the hall. But that's often where the conversation ends. Through collaborating on cheese and wine, bees and olive oil, and so on, we learned who likes to camp, whose kids play baseball, about musical tastes and books being read, and who tells a good joke\u2014all the small things that give texture to life. I'm not sure whether this has helped us in our professional work together, but I'd like to think so.\n\nOf course, we are all proud that we have managed to produce some excellent food, using skills more common a few generations ago. Beyond having had four thoroughly enjoyable dinners and plenty of good food in between, we have learned a lot, even though we are far from being experts in anything. We fling around terms like hydrometer and titration, rennet and rumen, sodium metabisulfite and GF-120 as though they were spare change. We're more capable now.\n\nThere's something else going on here, too. Part of what is compelling about these projects is that they're somewhat mysterious and unpredictable. They involve cooperating with other living beings, some human, some not, and most of them microscopic. There is no single way to succeed, so the projects have truly become our own, with results that reflect us and everything around us: the weather, the earth, our tastes and choices, our skill levels. And what we've produced\u2014the weird torpedo-shaped eggs and the carrots with crooks in them, the superfloral honey and the supersharp vinegar\u2014seems unique, too, and wonderful in a world that persists in prizing Red Delicious apples, all the same size, shape, and color.\n\nWhat we like most about our One-Block project is that it has connected us to nature itself, free of standardized packaging and predigested ways of seeing. It has given us the quirks and surprises we didn't even know we craved until we had them, and didn't know we'd lost until we'd found them.\n\nTHE ONE-BLOCK TEAM. _Back row, left to right:_ Erika Ehmsen (with wine), Julie Chai, Sara Schneider, Sarah Epstein, Sara Jamison, Rachel Levin, Alan Phinney, Elaine Johnson, Sheila Schmitz. _Middle row, left to right:_ Lauren Bonar Swezey, Christine Ryan, Sophie Egan, Katie Tamony, Vanessa Speckman, Kimberley Burch, Margaret Sloan, Stephanie Dean, Kathy Brenzel, Rick LaFrentz, and Erin Shitama. _Front row, left to right:_ Jim McCann, Brianne McElhiney, Margo True, Amy Machnak, Elizabeth Jardina, and Johanna Silver. _Not pictured:_ Ryan Casey, Christine Ciarmello, Dale Conour, Trina Enriquez, Barb Newton.\n\n# The One-Block Team\n\n**Kathy Brenzel \u2022 Garden Editor \u2022 Team Vinegar**\n\nEvery year, Kathy's husband makes wine, most recently using grapes from their neighbors' merlot, cabernet, and zinfandel vines. With so much wine aging in carboys and oak barrels in their garage, Kathy decided it was time to learn how to turn some into equally delicious vinegar for dressing salads.\n\n**Kimberley Burch \u2022 Imaging Specialist \u2022 Teams Bee, Mead, Olive, and Salt**\n\nWith the exception of a college year abroad in Wales, Kimberley has lived her entire life in the West, where _Sunset_ magazine was always around. A love of nature led her to become a photographer, and now she is in heaven as Sunset's imaging specialist, photographer for the one-block website, and \"Queen Bee\"\u2014leader of Team Bee.\n\n**Ryan Casey \u2022 Organic Farmer and Former Test Garden Coordinator \u2022 Team Garden**\n\nA true nature nerd and lover of good food, Ryan found the One-Block garden a perfect place to get his hands dirty, watch birds, and discover the vast amount of edible possibilities to grow. He now produces fresh vegetables, fruits, and flowers at Blue House Farm (www.bluehouseorganicfarm.com) in Pescadero, California.\n\n**Julie Chai \u2022 Associate Garden Editor \u2022 Teams Vinegar and Cheese**\n\nAs a member of Team Vinegar, she's dug deep into crocks of fermenting wine to pull out the aging \"mother\" with her bare hands, and has stirred pots of milk for hours as a member of Team Cheese. In coming years, she's hoping to find a way to create Team Chocolate.\n\n**Christine Ciarmello \u2022 Features Editor \u2022 Team Cheese**\n\nEver since she learned to churn butter as a Girl Scout, Christine has been fascinated with the chemistry of food. Team Cheese gave her a peek into the wonderful world of curds. The San Francisco\u2013based editor says her desert island food is definitely ricotta.\n\n**Dale Conour \u2022 Partner and Head of Strategy at Dial House brand strategy agency and Former Executive Editor \u2022 Teams Bee and Beer**\n\nAs fascinating as the bees were, Dale simply enjoyed the opportunity to wear a pith helmet. His beer-making experience deepened his respect for beer craftsmen everywhere, and he now always performs a silent salute to the brewmaster before imbibing. A native of the West, he lives in San Francisco.\n\n**Stephanie Dean \u2022 Test Kitchen Coordinator \u2022 Teams Beer, Kitchen, and Cow**\n\nBefore Sunset, Stephanie worked for chocolate and olive oil producers and in a food product development lab, and has a master's degree in nutrition. What she loved most about the One-Block project was how cooking with what's available forced us to be creative.\n\n**Sophie Egan \u2022 Researcher \u2022 Teams Tea and Cow**\n\nGetting close to one's food sources is thrilling to Sophie, a recent Stanford graduate and Seattle native. After learning that green and black tea all come from the same plant, she was excited to tackle the tea-making process. And she couldn't pass up Team Cow's offer to milk her first cow.\n\n**Erika Ehmsen \u2022 Copy Chief \u2022 Team Wine**\n\nThis comma jockey relished the chance to pursue perfection in a glass, eagerly blending _I Love Lucy_ \u2013inspired grape stomping with a high school affinity for chemistry. After tucking her young kids into bed, Erika sneaks off to her laptop to mince words for her next Team Wine post on the One-Block blog.\n\n**Trina Enriquez \u2022 Copy Editor \u2022 Team Olive**\n\nEven though Trina's dad grows a jungle of backyard fruit\u2014nectarines, persimmons, kiwis, avocados, pluots\u2014Trina herself took it all for granted as a kid. Living in the Bay Area and working at Sunset finally opened her eyes, though. Her dad still cures olives from one of his trees, a process that piqued her interest in Team Olive.\n\n**Sarah Epstein \u2022 Recipe Retester \u2022 Team Wine**\n\nSarah's background in agriculture and plant science fueled her curiosity about how wine happens, from planting and picking to sipping and pairing. She spends her days testing recipes in the Sunset kitchen, where she has used (and tasted) products from all the One-Block teams.\n\n**Elizabeth Jardina \u2022 Freelance Writer and Former Researcher \u2022 Team Chicken**\n\nElizabeth is a friend to chickens and a former vegetarian. A native Texan, she now lives in San Mateo in Merv Griffin's childhood home.\n\n**Sara Jamison \u2022 Former Photo Style Coordinator \u2022 Team Wine**\n\nBefore Sunset, Sara taught arts and crafts to elementary-school children. At Sunset, she transferred her artistic vision to the photo department, styling and propping sets and managing day-to-day details. She has always loved a good glass of wine, so when Team Wine started up, she was ripe for the picking.\n\n**Elaine Johnson \u2022 Associate Food Editor \u2022 Teams Mushroom, Kitchen, Cheese, Cow, and Bee**\n\nEver since she pruned her first lemon tree (badly) at age 10, Elaine has been fascinated with growing her own food. She took up canning and vegetable-gardening in college in Corvallis, Oregon, and still grows and preserves food year-round out of her home garden in Palo Alto, California.\n\n**Rick LaFrentz \u2022 Head Gardener \u2022 Team Beer**\n\nRick has worked in the gardens at Sunset for over 31 years. What he did before that he can't remember. He'd had some experience making beer (from extract), but it's been quite an education trying to make a beer completely from scratch.\n\n**Rachel Levin \u2022 Senior Editor \u2022 Team Olive**\n\nAs a travel editor-writer who loves to cover all things food, too, Rachel jumped at the chance to join a One-Block team. Team Chicken seemed like too much responsibility. Olives sounded easier (until she met the olive fly).\n\n**Amy Machnak \u2022 Recipe Editor \u2022 Teams Salt, Olive Oil, Vinegar, Kitchen, and Escargot**\n\nAmy grew up in the suburbs of Detroit, in a family of avid hunters and gardeners who instilled the foraging and farm-to-table philosophy in her long before it was trendy. A former pastry chef turned writer and devout Western enthusiast, she was giddy at the idea of making recipes from only what grew at Sunset, and often tells people at cocktail parties that she made salt.\n\n**James McCann \u2022 Art Director \u2022 Team Chicken**\n\nJim hooked up with Team Chicken because as a city boy, he's always had a hidden desire to be a farmer and know what it's truly like to live off the land. Plus, he claims he's never had enough straw in his hair, feathers in his mouth, or poop on his shoes.\n\n**Brianne McElhiney \u2022 Editorial Assistant \u2022 Teams Bee, Cheese, Mead, Mushroom, Chicken, and Cow**\n\nA native of the Bay Area, Brianne is no stranger to the innovative and forward-thinking lifestyle of the West. A graduate of Pepperdine University with a degree in business administration and a passion for food, she is balancing her enthusiasm for business with the adventurous and sustainable spirit of Western living\u2014a life made, not bought.\n\n**Barb Newton \u2022 President \u2022 Team Cow**\n\nBarb is a proud member of Team Cow. She came to Sunset from Wisconsin\u2014need she say more?\n\n**Alan Phinney \u2022 Managing Editor \u2022 Teams Wine and Beer**\n\nIn his 19-year stint at Sunset _,_ Alan has had his hand in covering many aspects of growing and gardening, and food and wine. Yet literally handling grapes and grain as they went from field to bottle has meant a whole new world of learning and appreciation.\n\n**Christine Ryan \u2022 Executive Editor \u2022 Team Tea**\n\nWondering whether true black tea could thrive in Northern California, Christine (a five-cup-a-day drinker) volunteered to head up Team Tea. Apart from her tea-fermenting duties, she serves as executive editor of the magazine; before coming to Sunset, she was abusing caffeine at _7\u00d77_ , _Travel Holiday_ , _Gourmet_ , and _European Travel & Life_ magazines.\n\n**Sheila Schmitz \u2022Sunset.com editor**\n\nSheila coached the One-Block team in the art of blogging, and she loves to grow tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, lettuces, herbs, and fruit in her San Jose, California backyard. She keeps the garden imperfect to leave room for daydreaming and surprises.\n\n**Sara Schneider \u2022 Wine Editor \u2022 Team Wine**\n\nWriting about wine makes it irresistible to produce it if you get the chance\u2014to get inside this chemically alive, fascinating beverage. Heading up Team Wine was a true career highlight for this former English teacher, culinary school grad, and food editor.\n\n**Erin Shitama \u2022 Assistant to the President \u2022 Teams Bee and Mushroom**\n\nErin grew up foraging for wild berries and onions around her home on the eastern shore of Maryland, and was drawn to the locavore lifestyle long before she knew locavore was a word. She's happiest when she's on the road with only her passport and a backpack, sampling local food, language, and culture along the way.\n\n**Johanna Silver \u2022 Test Garden Coordinator \u2022 Teams Garden, Escargot, Chicken**\n\nJohanna came to Sunset with a background in organic farm apprenticeships and garden education. She's since added ornamental gardening to her list of loves while at the magazine, but participating in the One-Block project keeps her in touch with her edible roots\u2014er, beginnings.\n\n**Margaret Sloan \u2022 Production Coordinator \u2022 Team Bee**\n\nMargaret wears many hats at Sunset; she researches stories, illustrates maps, squares up page designs, and makes sure the magazine will print properly. She's been fascinated by bees ever since a swarm settled on a tree near her house years ago, but never dreamed she'd have a job that required her to wear a beekeeper's helmet, or that she'd learn to like bugs.\n\n**Vanessa Speckman \u2022 Photo & Imaging Assistant \u2022 Teams Bee and Mead**\n\nVanessa grew up in an Italian and Irish family with a hands-on kitchen, learning how to do everything from crush grapes and construct wine barrels with her _nonno_ to making good chicken broth. Harvesting honey at Sunset and understanding how vital bees are to the environment inspired Vanessa and her brother to make their own mead at home.\n\n**Lauren Bonar Swezey \u2022 Former Garden Special Projects Editor \u2022 Teams Garden, Wine, Chicken**\n\nAs manager of the Sunset test garden and long-time garden writer and editor, Lauren helped identify which vegetable varieties were best for Menlo Park's mild climate, and oversaw planting, care, and harvest. Her favorite part of the project? The excitement of witnessing the garden's daily transformation from bare plot into veritable vegetable factory, and then sampling the tasty harvest.\n\n**Katie Tamony \u2022 Editor-in-Chief \u2022 Team Mushroom**\n\nShe was so intrigued by the idea of \"making\" her own mushrooms\u2014a favorite food! Katie's usual job at Sunset is to direct the editorial work of our incredibly creative group in magazines, books, our web site, and television. And to greenlight projects like this!\n\n**Margo True \u2022 Food Editor \u2022 All teams, but especially Kitchen, Chicken, and Cow**\n\nWhat a journey it's been. What's next? How about Team Fish?\n\n# Acknowledgments\n\nFor almost every one of our projects, we relied on the advice of people wiser and more knowledgeable than us. These generous people helped steer us in the right direction:\n\n**Bees** Randy Oliver, of Scientific Beekeeping, for shifting our paradigm; master beekeepers Tom Vercoutere and Tina and Thomas Keller, for their help, support, and soothing influence in the face of panic; and the Beekeepers' Guild of San Mateo County, for patiently answering our questions and lending us a honey extractor.\n\n**Beer** Chuck Schwalbach, for sharing his extensive beer knowledge and vast array of brewing equipment, and for being so calm and organized.\n\n**Cheese** Sue Conley, Peg Smith, Jonathan White, and Maureen Cunnie at Cowgirl Creamery; and Liam Callahan and his mom, Cindy Callahan, at Bellwether Farms, for their inspiring cheesemaking lessons and followup advice.\n\n**Chickens** Jody Main, for a demystifying day with her hens.\n\n**Cow** Ron Garthwaite and Collette Cassidy, of Claravale Farms, who made Team Cow possible.\n\n**Garden** Renee Shepard, of Renee's Garden Seeds, for always encouraging us to start from seed; also Darryl Wong, of Free Wheelin' Farm, for being our on-call crop advisor.\n\n**Olives** Chris Banthien at Valencia Farms, where we picked olives, and Alessio Carli, olive oil and winemaker at Pietra Santa Winery, where we crushed them, as well as the winery's director of marketing, Jayme Nunn; Dan Flynn, for backyard tree harvesting advice; and Alexandra Devarenne, Bill Krueger, Frank Zalom, Paul Vossen, and Ernie Simpson, for their excellent tips on olive fruit fly control.\n\n**Salt** Mark Bitterman, \"selmelier\" at The Meadow, in Portland, Oregon, for his infectious enthusiasm and for helping us make better salt.\n\n**Vinegar** The incomparable Paula Wolfert, cookbook author, who taught us the ways of vinegar-growing and gave us pieces of her vinegar mother.\n\n**Wine** Thomas Fogarty Winery's Dr. Thomas Fogarty, Anne Krolczyk, and especially winemaker Michael Martella, who visited Sunset to check up on the wine; also Dan Brenzel, home winemaker and retired chemist, who kindly loaned us just about every scrap of equipment we needed\u2014and whose wisecracks still make us laugh.\n\nTo all of them, we owe a giant debt of gratitude. Many others contributed along the way, including my sweetheart, Peter Lang, who trapped Nugget the rooster and spent many hours tending chickens on weekends; Andrew Hash, who collected gallons of Pacific Ocean; and Hank Shaw, our friend at http:\/\/honest-food.net, who gave us pointers on cooking snails; and the readers of our blog, http:\/\/oneblockdiet.sunset.com, who have offered countless good suggestions and stories of their own food-from-scratch adventures.\n\nIn the kitchen, we salute our amazing team of retesters\u2014home cooks who come to Sunset and test our recipes with diligence and dedication to make sure they'll work for anyone. We are grateful for all their work on this book. Thanks also to Molly Watson, former Sunset recipe editor, for creating some of the recipes for our first one-block menu back in the summer of 2007.\n\nEvery now and then, we've needed to construct things like a hen yard or a concrete pad to shield our beehives from ants. Tony Soria and Dan Strack, whose talent and hard work keeps Sunset's office and grounds operating smoothly, have been our heroes and helped us out whenever we asked. Speaking of construction, we have possibly the prettiest henhouse in Menlo Park, built by James Stamp of Wine Country Coops; thank you, James.\n\nThe photos of our feasts were art directed by Sunset's creative director, Mia Daminato, whose graceful aesthetics set the tone for this book. Our luscious recipe shots are the work of staff photographer Tom Story and photo editor Sue Smith\u2014thank you so much\u2014and the garden shots were coordinated by photo editor Linda Peters with good-natured aplomb. A big thank you to photo director Yvonne Stender, for overseeing the photography and making sure it came in on time and on budget. Warm thanks to Sunset's imaging specialist, Kimberley Burch, for efficiently cataloguing hundreds of possible images for this book and adding to them with her own photography. You went above and beyond! Thanks too to Spencer Toy, for our fine group portrait and for the many other shots he contributed to these pages.\n\nAt Ten Speed Press, Melissa Moore was our champion editor and warm guiding hand, assisted with aplomb by Emily Timberlake. Nancy Austin and Katy Brown created the beautiful design. We much appreciated Sharon Silva and Linda Bouchard for their scrupulous attention to every word. And we are very thankful to Aaron Wehner, who instantly understood what we were doing and signed us on. Working with all of them has been a wonderful experience.\n\nAnd lastly, heartfelt thanks to Katie Tamony, our editor in chief at Sunset, for saying Yes to this quirky project and committing the time, resources, and enthusiastic support to help it blossom and grow\u2014and to Barb Newton, our president, who was always ready for the next adventure.\n\n# Appendix\n\n**Regional Planting Calendars for Your Own One-Block Feasts**\n\nThe planting and growing information in this book is for Northern California, where Sunset is located. Over the decades, we've defined a series of 32 climate zones for the entire West\u2014based on winter low temperatures as well as elevation, latitude, rainfall, and proximity to climate-altering mountains, oceans and lakes\u2014with the aim of helping our readers figure out what to plant in their areas and how best to care for those plants. This information is presented in detail in the _Sunset Western Garden Book_ (Sunset Publishing, Eighth Edition, 2007). We've applied that knowledge to the planting timelines that follow to help you grow our one-block crops no matter where in the West you live.\n\nWhereas our warm-season and cool-season planting timelines reflect how we planted crops in Northern California, the calendars here show you all the seasonal plantings and harvests possible in your area, to give you maximum choice for planning menus. The calendars begin in March simply for the sake of consistency.\n\n_Edamame sprout_\n\n**One-Block Feasts across the Country**\n\nIn certain regions of the country, planting times roughly resemble those in parts of the West. If you live in one of the following areas, consult the timeline suggested for your region, but make allowances for your different climate conditions.\n\n\u2022 **New England** (Connecticut, Massachusetts, Rhode Island). Check out our Mountain and Intermountain West timeline.\n\n\u2022 **Midwest** (Illinois, Iowa, Michigan, Wisconsin). Your spring planting dates are much the same as in the Pacific Northwest, but your summers are hotter and winters colder.\n\n\u2022 **Mid-Atlantic States** (Maryland, Delaware, Virginia). Your spring planting dates are much the same as in the Pacific Northwest, but your summer summers are hotter and winters colder.\n\n\u2022 **The Mid-South** (parts of Georgia, Alabama) Your region shares some planting dates with parts of California, but heat, humidity, and rainfall significantly shift the harvest and summer planting dates.\n\n\u2022 **A National Climate Map** For more precisely tailored information for your climate, see our map of 45 national climate zones at www.sunset.com\/usclimatezones. The accompanying descriptions will tell you when to plant warm-season crops and when to start cold-season crops in your area, so you can apply that information to growing the plants in this book; refer to the seasonal garden guides for specific information on planting and harvesting each crop. For a print copy of the national zones and much more on countrywide gardening, pick up a copy of the _Sunset National Garden Book_ (Sunset Publishing, 1997; available on www.amazon.com).\n\nBecause growing conditions can vary so much by region and even microregion, the best source for local planting information is your county's agricultural cooperative extension office; find yours at www.csrees.usda.gov\/Extension\/index.html. Local independent nurseries are excellent sources of advice, too.\n\n# SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA  \n(low elevations west of the mountains)\n\n**MARCH**\n\n**Plant**\n\nArugula (through Apr)\n\nBeets (through May)\n\nBroccoli rabe\n\nCarrots (except interior valleys)\n\nChervil\n\nDill\n\nFlorence fennel\n\nGreen onions (through Apr)\n\nLettuce (through Apr)\n\nMesclun (through Apr)\n\nMustard\n\nParsley (through Apr)\n\nPotatoes\n\nQuinoa\n\nRadishes (through Apr)\n\nSwiss chard (through May)\n\nTea\n\n**Harvest (Jan or Feb planting)**\n\nArugula\n\nBeets\n\nBroccoli rabe\n\nBroccoli romanesco\n\nCabbage\n\nCarrots\n\nGreen onions\n\nKale\n\nLemons\n\nLettuce\n\nMesclun\n\nMustard\n\nParsley\n\nRadishes\n\n**_WARM SEASON_**\n\n**APRIL**\n\n**Plant**\n\nBasil (through Jun)\n\nBeans (through Jul)\n\nChiles\n\nCorn (through Jul)\n\nCucumbers (through May)\n\nEdamame (through Jul)\n\nHerbs (perennial)\u2014chives, marjoram, oregano, peppermint, rosemary, sage, French tarragon, thyme\n\nLemon tree\n\nLemongrass\n\nMelons, all kinds (through Jun)\n\nNasturtiums\n\nPeppers\n\nPineapple guava\n\nPurslane\n\nSquash, butternut\n\nSquash, summer (pattypan and zucchini)\n\nTangerine tree\n\nTomato\n\n**Harvest**\n\nBeets\n\nBroccoli rabe\n\nBroccoli romanesco\n\nCabbage\n\nCarrots\n\nCauliflower\n\nFava beans\n\nGreen onions\n\nHerbs (perennial)\n\nLemons\n\nLettuce\n\nMesclun\n\nMustard\n\nParsley\n\nRadicchio\n\nRadishes\n\nStrawberries\n\nSwiss chard\n\nTea\n\n**MAY**\n\n**Harvest**\n\nBarley\n\nBasil\n\nBeets\n\nBroccoli rabe\n\nBroccoli romanesco\n\nCabbage\n\nCarrots\n\nCauliflower\n\nChervil\n\nDill\n\nFava beans\n\nFlorence fennel\n\nGreen onions\n\nHerbs (perennial)\n\nLemons\n\nLettuce\n\nMesclun\n\nOnions, 'Spanish White' and cippolini\n\nParsley\n\nStrawberries\n\nSwiss chard\n\nWheat\n\n**JUNE**\n\n**Harvest**\n\nBarley\n\nBasil\n\nBeets\n\nCabbage\n\nCarrots\n\nChervil\n\nDill\n\nEdamame\n\nFlorence fennel\n\nGarlic\n\nHerbs (perennial)\n\nLemons\n\nLemongrass\n\nLettuce\n\nNasturtiums\n\nOnions, 'Spanish White' and cippolini\n\nParsley\n\nPotatoes\n\nPurslane\n\nQuinoa\n\nSquash, summer (pattypan and zucchini)\n\nSwiss chard\n\nWheat\n\n**JULY**\n\n**Plant**\n\nCorn\n\n**Harvest**\n\nBasil\n\nBeans\n\nCucumbers\n\nChiles\n\nDill\n\nEdamame\n\nFlorence fennel\n\nGarlic\n\nHerbs (perennial)\n\nLemons\n\nLemongrass\n\nMelons\n\nNasturtiums\n\nPeppers\n\nPotatoes\n\nPurslane\n\nQuinoa\n\nSquash, summer (pattypan and zucchini)\n\nTomatoes\n\n**_COOL SEASON_**\n\n**AUGUST**\n\n**Plant**\n\nBroccoli romanesco (through Oct)\n\nCabbage (through Oct)\n\nCauliflower\n\nLettuce (through Feb)\n\nPotatoes (through Sept)\n\n**Harvest**\n\nBasil\n\nBeans\n\nChiles\n\nCorn\n\nCucumbers\n\nEdamame\n\nHerbs (perennial)\n\nHops\n\nLemons\n\nLemongrass\n\nMelons\n\nNasturtiums\n\nPeppers\n\nPurslane\n\nSquash, butternut\n\nSquash, summer (pattypan and zucchini)\n\nTomatoes\n\n**SEPTEMBER**\n\n**Plant**\n\nArugula (through Feb)\n\nBeets (through Feb)\n\nBroccoli rabe (through Feb)\n\nCarrots\n\nChervil\n\nGreen onions\n\nKale (through Oct)\n\nMesclun (through Feb)\n\nMustard (through Oct)\n\nParsley\n\nRadicchio (through Feb)\n\nRadishes (through Feb)\n\nSwiss chard\n\n**Harvest**\n\nBeans\n\nChiles\n\nCorn\n\nCucumbers\n\nEdamame\n\nHerbs (perennial)\n\nHops\n\nLemons\n\nMelons\n\nMesclun\n\nPeppers\n\nRadishes\n\nSquash, butternut\n\nSquash, summer (pattypan and zucchini)\n\nTomatoes\n\n**OCTOBER**\n\n**Plant**\n\nBarley\n\nCarrots (except interior valleys)\n\nFava beans (through Nov)\n\nGreen onions\n\nOnions, 'Spanish White' and cippolini (through Nov)\n\nParsley (through Feb)\n\n**Harvest**\n\nArugula\n\nBeans\n\nBroccoli rabe\n\nChiles\n\nCorn\n\nEdamame\n\nHerbs (perennial)\n\nKale\n\nLemons\n\nLettuce\n\nMesclun\n\nMustard\n\nPeppers\n\nPineapple guava\n\nRadishes\n\nTomatoes\n\nSquash, butternut\n\n**NOVEMBER**\n\n**Plant**\n\nCabbage (except interior valleys through Jan)\n\nCarrots (except interior valleys through Dec)\n\nGarlic (through Dec)\n\nKale (except interior valleys through Jan)\n\nMustard (along coast through Dec)\n\nPotatoes\n\nWheat\n\n**Harvest**\n\nArugula\n\nBeets\n\nBroccoli rabe\n\nBroccoli romanesco\n\nCabbage\n\nCarrots\n\nCauliflower\n\nGreen onions\n\nHerbs (perennial)\n\nKale\n\nLemons\n\nLettuce\n\nMesclun\n\nMustard\n\nParsley\n\nPineapple guava\n\nPotatoes\n\nRadicchio\n\nRadishes\n\nSwiss chard\n\n**DECEMBER**\n\n**Harvest**\n\nArugula\n\nBeets\n\nBroccoli rabe\n\nBroccoli romanesco\n\nCabbage\n\nCarrots\n\nCauliflower\n\nChervil\n\nGreen onions\n\nHerbs (perennial)\n\nKale\n\nLemons\n\nLettuce\n\nMesclun\n\nMustard\n\nParsley\n\nPotatoes\n\nRadicchio\n\nRadishes\n\nSwiss chard\n\nTangerines\n\n**JANUARY**\n\n**Plant**\n\nBroccoli romanesco (except interior valleys through Feb)\n\nCauliflower (except interior valleys through Feb)\n\nHops (through Feb)\n\nMustard\n\nOnions, 'Spanish White' and cippolini (except along the coast)\n\nStrawberries (through Feb)\n\n**Harvest**\n\nArugula\n\nBeets\n\nCabbage\n\nCarrots (except interior valleys)\n\nChervil\n\nGreen onions\n\nHerbs (perennial)\n\nKale\n\nLemons\n\nLettuce\n\nMesclun\n\nMustard, along coast\n\nParsley\n\nRadicchio\n\nRadishes\n\nTangerines\n\n**FEBRUARY**\n\n**Plant**\n\nCabbage\n\nCarrots\n\nChervil\n\nDill\n\nFlorence fennel\n\nGreen onions\n\nMustard\n\nOnions, 'Spanish White' and cippolini (through Nov)\n\nPotatoes\n\nSwiss chard\n\n**Harvest**\n\nArugula\n\nBeets\n\nBroccoli rabe\n\nCabbage\n\nCarrots (except interior valleys)\n\nGreen onions\n\nHerbs (perennial)\n\nKale\n\nLemons\n\nLettuce\n\nMesclun\n\nMustard (along coast)\n\nParsley\n\nRadishes\n\nTangerines\n\n# SOUTHWEST DESERTS  \n(in New Mexico, Arizona, Utah, Nevada, and California)\n\nThis calendar has no warm or cool seasons. That's because growing seasons here are especially diverse. Instead, follow planting times for one of the four regional climate zones: zone 10, high desert; zone 11, intermediate deserts of California and southern Nevada; zone 12, Arizona-Sonoran desert; zone 13, low deserts of California and Arizona. If no zone is noted, the information pertains to all Southwest gardens.\n\n**MARCH**\n\n**Plant**\n\nBasil (zone 12)\n\nBeans (zone 12)\n\nBeets\n\nBroccoli rabe (zones 10, 11)\n\nBroccoli romanesco (zones 10, 11)\n\nCabbage (zones 10, 11)\n\nCarrots (zone 10, 11)\n\nCauliflower (zones 10, 11)\n\nChervil (zones 10, 11, 12)\n\nCorn (zones 12, 13)\n\nCucumbers (zone 13)\n\nDill (zone 11)\n\nEdamame (zone 13)\n\nFava Beans (zone 11)\n\nFlorence fennel (zone 11)\n\nHops (zone 10)\n\nKale (zones 10, 11)\n\nLettuce (zones 10, 12)\n\nMelons (zones 12, 13)\n\nMesclun\n\nMustard (zones 10, 11)\n\nOnions, 'Spanish White' and cippolini (zone 10)\n\nParsley (zones 10, 11)\n\nPotatoes (zone 11)\n\nPurslane (zone 13)\n\nRadicchio (zone 11)\n\nRadishes (zones 10, 12)\n\nStrawberries\n\nSquash, summer (pattypan and zucchini) (zones 12, 13)\n\nSwiss chard (zones 10, 12)\n\nTomato (zone 12, 13)\n\nSquash, butternut (zone 13)\n\n**Harvest**\n\nArugula (zone 12)\n\nBeets\n\nCarrots (zones 12, 13)\n\nFava Beans (zones 12, 13)\n\nFlorence fennel (zones 12, 13)\n\nGreen onions\n\nLettuce (zones 12, 13)\n\nMesclun\n\nParsley (zones 12, 13)\n\nQuinoa (zone 13)\n\nRadicchio (zone 12)\n\nRadishes (zones 12, 13)\n\nSwiss chard (zone 12)\n\n**APRIL**\n\n**Plant**\n\nBasil (zones 10, 11, 12; from mid-month)\n\nCarrots (zone 10, 11)\n\nChervil (zones 10, 11, 12)\n\nChiles\n\nCorn (zones 10, 11)\n\nCucumbers (zone 11; from mid-month, 13)\n\nDill (zones 10, 11)\n\nEdamame (zones 12, 13)\n\nFava Beans (zone 10)\n\nFlorence fennel (zones 10, 11)\n\nHerbs (perennial)\u2014chives, marjoram, oregano, peppermint, rosemary, sage, French tarragon (zone 10 only), thyme\n\nLemon tree (zones 12, 13; outside potted for wintering indoors elsewhere)\n\nLemongrass\n\nLettuce (zone 10),\n\nMesclun\n\nNasturtiums (zones 10, 11, 12)\n\nOnions, 'Spanish White' and cippolini (zone 10)\n\nParsley (zones 10, 11)\n\nPeppers\n\nPineapple guava (zones 12, 13)\n\nPotatoes, (zone 10)\n\nPurslane (zones 10, 11, 12)\n\nQuinoa (zones 10, 11, 12)\n\nRadicchio (zone 10)\n\nRadishes (zones 10, 11, 12)\n\nSquash, butternut (zone 10)\n\nSquash, summer (pattypan and zucchini) (zones 12, 13)\n\nTangerine tree (zones 12, 13; outside potted for wintering indoors elsewhere)\n\nTea (zone 12)\n\nTomato (zones 10, 11)\n\n**Harvest**\n\nBarley (zones 12, 13)\n\nBasil\n\nBeans\n\nBeets\n\nBroccoli rabe (zones 10, 11)\n\nCarrots (zones 12, 13\n\nCucumbers (zone 13)\n\nDill (zones 12, 13)\n\nFlorence fennel (zones 12, 13)\n\nGreen onions\n\nLettuce (zones 10, 11)\n\nMesclun\n\nOnions, 'Spanish White' and cippolini\n\nParsley (zones 12, 13)\n\nQuinoa (zone 13)\n\nSwiss chard (zones 10, 12)\n\n**MAY**\n\n**Plant**\n\nArugula (zone 12)\n\nBasil (zones 10, 11, 12)\n\nCarrots (zone 11)\n\nChiles\n\nCorn (zone 10)\n\nCucumbers (zone 10, 11),\n\nEdamame (zones 11, 12)\n\nMesclun (zones 10, 12)\n\nMelon (zones 10, 11)\n\nPeppers (zones 10, 12)\n\nSquash, butternut (zones 10, 11)\n\nSquash, summer (pattypan and zucchini) (zones 10, 11)\n\nTomato (zones 10, 11)\n\n**Harvest**\n\nBarley (zones 12, 13; late in month)\n\nBasil\n\nBeans\n\nBeets\n\nBroccoli rabe\n\nBroccoli romanesco\n\nCarrots\n\nChervil (zones 10, 11, 12)\n\nCorn (zone 13)\n\nCucumbers (zone 13)\n\nDill (zones 10, 11)\n\nFlorence fennel (zones 10, 11)\n\nGarlic\n\nGreen onions\n\nLettuce (zones 10, 11, 12)\n\nMesclun\n\nNasturtiums (zone 13)\n\nPotatoes (zone 13)\n\nOnions, 'Spanish White' and cippolini\n\nParsley (zones 10, 11)\n\nPurslane (zone 13)\n\nRadicchio (zones 10, 11)\n\nRadishes, zones 10, 11, 12\n\nStrawberries\n\nSwiss chard (zones 10, 12)\n\nTea\n\nWheat\n\n**JUNE**\n\n**Plant**\n\nCabbage (zone 10)\n\nCarrots (zone 11)\n\nCorn (zone 10)\n\nEdamame (zone 10)\n\nSquash, summer (pattypan and zucchini) (zones 10, 11)\n\n**Harvest**\n\nArugula (zone 12)\n\nBarley\n\nBasil\n\nBeans\n\nBeets (zones 10, 11)\n\nCarrots (zones 10, 11)\n\nChervil (zones 10, 11, 12)\n\nCorn (zones 12, 13)\n\nCucumbers\n\nDill (zones 10, 11)\n\nEdamame (zone 13)\n\nFlorence fennel (zones 10, 11)\n\nGreen onions\n\nHerbs (perennial)\n\nLemongrass\n\nLettuce (zone 10)\n\nMelons (zones 12, 13)\n\nMesclun (zone 10, 12)\n\nNasturtiums (zones 10, 11, 12)\n\nOnions, 'Spanish White' and cippolini\n\nParsley (zones 10, 11)\n\nPotatoes (zones 12, 13)\n\nPurslane\n\nRadicchio (zone 10)\n\nStrawberries\n\nSwiss chard (zone 10)\n\nTomatoes (zones 12, 13)\n\n**JULY**\n\n**Plant**\n\nBeans (zone 12; last half of month)\n\nBeets (zone 10)\n\nCabbage (zone 10)\n\nCarrots (zone 11)\n\nCorn (zones 10, 11, 12)\n\nMesclun (zone 10)\n\nRadicchio (zone 10)\n\nSquash, butternut (zones 12, 13)\n\n**Harvest**\n\nBasil\n\nCarrots (zone 11)\n\nChiles\n\nCorn (zones 10, 11)\n\nCucumbers (zones 10, 11)\n\nEdamame (zones 12, 13)\n\nFava beans\n\nGarlic\n\nHerbs (perennial)\n\nLemongrass\n\nMesclun (zones 10, 12)\n\nNasturtiums (zones 10, 11, 12)\n\nPeppers\n\nPotatoes (zone 11)\n\nPurslane\n\nQuinoa (zones 10, 11, 12)\n\nSquash, butternut (zone 13)\n\nSquash, summer (pattypan and zucchini) (zones 10, 11)\n\nTomatoes\n\n**AUGUST**\n\n**Plant**\n\nBeans (zones 12, 13)\n\nBeets (zones 10, 11)\n\nCarrots (zone 10)\n\nCorn (zones 12, 13)\n\nCucumbers (zones 12, 13)\n\nLettuce (zone 10)\n\nMesclun (zone 10)\n\nRadicchio (zone 11)\n\nRadishes (zones 10, 11, 12)\n\nSwiss chard (zone 10)\n\n**Harvest**\n\nCarrots (zone 11)\n\nChiles\n\nCorn (zone 10)\n\nEdamame (zones 11, 12)\n\nFava beans\n\nHerbs (perennial)\n\nHops\n\nLemons\n\nLemongrass\n\nMelons (zones 10, 11)\n\nMesclun (zone 10)\n\nPeppers\n\nPotatoes (zone 10)\n\nPurslane\n\nQuinoa (zones 10, 11, 12)\n\nSquash, butternut (zone 10)\n\nSquash, summer (pattypan and zucchini) (zones 10, 11)\n\nTomatoes (zones 10, 11, 12)\n\n**SEPTEMBER**\n\n**Plant**\n\nArugula (zones 10, 11, 12)\n\nBeets\n\nBroccoli romanesco\n\nCabbage\n\nCarrots (zones 12, 13)\n\nCauliflower\n\nChervil (zones 12, 13)\n\nChiles\n\nDill (zone 12)\n\nFlorence fennel (zone 12)\n\nKale\n\nLettuce (zones 10, 11, 12)\n\nMesclun\n\nMustard\n\nNasturtiums (zone 13)\n\nParsley (zone 12)\n\nPeppers\n\nRadicchio (zones 12, 13),\n\nRadishes (zones 11, 12, 13)\n\nSwiss chard (zones 12, 13)\n\n**Harvest**\n\nBeets\n\nCarrots (zone 11)\n\nCorn (zone 10)\n\nEdamame (zone 10, 11, 12)\n\nHerbs (perennial)\n\nLemons\n\nLemongrass\n\nMesclun\n\nRadishes (zones 10, 11, 12)\n\nSquash, butternut (zones 10, 11)\n\nSwiss chard (zone 10)\n\nTomatoes (zones 10, 11, 12)\n\n**OCTOBER**\n\n**Plant**\n\nArugula (zones 12, 13)\n\nBeets (zones 12, 13)\n\nBroccoli rabe (zones 12, 13)\n\nBroccoli romanesco (zones 12, 13)\n\nCabbage (zones 12, 13)\n\nCarrots (zones 10, 12, 13)\n\nCauliflower (zones 12, 13)\n\nDill (zones 12, 13)\n\nFava Beans (zones 12, 13)\n\nFlorence fennel (zones 12, 13)\n\nGarlic\n\nHerbs (perennial)\u2014rosemary, sage, thyme\n\nKale (zones 12, 13)\n\nLettuce (zones 12, 13)\n\nMesclun (zones 12, 13)\n\nMustard (zones 12, 13)\n\nParsley (zones 12, 13)\n\nRadicchio (zones 12, 13)\n\nRadishes (zones 11, 12, 13)\n\nSwiss chard (zones 12, 13)\n\n**Harvest**\n\nArugula (zones 10, 11, 12)\n\nBeans\n\nBeets\n\nCabbage\n\nChervil (zones 12, 13)\n\nCorn (zones 10, 11, 12)\n\nCucumbers (zones 12, 13)\n\nEdamame (zone 10)\n\nHerbs (perennial)\n\nLemons\n\nLettuce (zone 10)\n\nMesclun\n\nNasturtiums (zone 13)\n\nRadishes (zones 11, 12, 13)\n\nSquash, butternut (zones 12, 13)\n\nSwiss chard (zone 10)\n\n**NOVEMBER**\n\n**Plant**\n\nArugula (zones 12, 13)\n\nBarley (zones 12, 13)\n\nBeans\n\nBeets (zones 12, 13)\n\nBroccoli rabe (zones 12, 13)\n\nBroccoli romanesco (zones 12, 13)\n\nCabbage (zones 12, 13)\n\nCarrots (zones 12, 13)\n\nCauliflower (zones 12, 13)\n\nDill (zones 12, 13)\n\nFava Beans (zones 12, 13)\n\nFlorence fennel (zones 12, 13)\n\nGarlic\n\nKale (zones 12, 13)\n\nLettuce (zones 12, 13)\n\nMesclun (zones 12, 13)\n\nMustard, transplant (zones 12, 13)\n\nOnions, 'Spanish White' and cippolini\n\nParsley, seedling (zones 12, 13)\n\nQuinoa (zone 13)\n\nRadicchio (zone 12)\n\nRadishes (zones 12, 13)\n\nSwiss chard (zones 12, 13)\n\nWheat\n\n**Harvest**\n\nArugula\n\nBeets\n\nCorn (zones 12, 13)\n\nCucumbers (zones 12, 13)\n\nHerbs (perennial)\n\nLemons\n\nLettuce\n\nMesclun (zones 12, 13)\n\nNasturtiums (zone 13)\n\nPineapple guava\n\nRadicchio (zones 12, 13)\n\nRadishes (zones 11, 12, 13)\n\nSquash, butternut (zones 12, 13)\n\nSwiss chard (zones 12, 13)\n\nTangerines\n\n**DECEMBER**\n\n**Plant**\n\nArugula (zones 12, 13)\n\nBarley (zones 12, 13)\n\nBeets (zones 12, 13)\n\nCarrots (zones 12, 13)\n\nDill (zone 13)\n\nFlorence fennel (zone 13)\n\nLettuce (zones 12, 13)\n\nMesclun (zones 12, 13)\n\nOnions, 'Spanish White' and cippolini\n\nParsley (zones 12, 13)\n\nPotatoes (zone 13)\n\nRadicchio (zone 12)\n\nRadishes (zones 12, 13)\n\nSwiss chard (zones 12, 13)\n\n**Harvest**\n\nArugula\n\nBeets\n\nCarrots (zones 12, 13)\n\nDill (zones 12, 13)\n\nFlorence fennel (zones 12, 13)\n\nLemons\n\nLettuce (zones 12, 13)\n\nMesclun (zones 12, 13)\n\nParsley (zones 12, 13)\n\nRadicchio (zones 12, 13)\n\nRadishes (zones 12, 13)\n\nSwiss chard (zones 12, 13)\n\nTangerines\n\n**JANUARY**\n\n**Plant**\n\nArugula (zones 12, 13)\n\nBasil (zone 13)\n\nBeets (zones 12, 13)\n\nCarrots (zones 12, 13)\n\nDill (zone 13)\n\nFlorence fennel (zone 13)\n\nHops (zone 10)\n\nLettuce (zone 12)\n\nMesclun (zones 12, 13)\n\nParsley (zones 12, 13)\n\nPotatoes (zone 13)\n\nRadicchio (zone 12)\n\nRadishes (zones 12, 13)\n\nStrawberries (through Mar)\n\nSwiss chard (zone 12)\n\n**Harvest**\n\nArugula (zones 12, 13 through Feb)\n\nBeets\n\nBroccoli romanesco (zones 12, 13)\n\nCabbage (zones 12, 13)\n\nCarrots (zones 12, 13)\n\nCauliflower (zone 13)\n\nDill (zones 12, 13)\n\nFlorence fennel (zones 12, 13)\n\nGreen onions\n\nKale (zones 12, 13)\n\nLemons\n\nLettuce (zones 12, 13)\n\nMesclun (zones 12, 13)\n\nParsley (zones 12, 13)\n\nRadicchio (zones 12, 13)\n\nSwiss chard (zones 12, 13)\n\nTangerines\n\n**FEBRUARY**\n\n**Plant**\n\nBasil\n\nBeans (zone 13)\n\nBeets\n\nCarrots (zones 12, 13)\n\nCorn (zone 13)\n\nCucumbers (zone 13)\n\nDill (zone 13)\n\nFlorence fennel (zone 13)\n\nHop (zone 10)\n\nLettuce (zones 11, 12)\n\nMesclun (zones 11, 12)\n\nNasturtiums (zone 13)\n\nPotatoes (zones 12, 13)\n\nRadishes (zones 12, 13)\n\nSwiss chard (zones 10, 12)\n\n**Harvest**\n\nArugula (zones 12, 13)\n\nBeets\n\nCabbage (zones 12, 13)\n\nCarrots (zones 12, 13)\n\nCauliflowe (zones 12, 13)\n\nDill (zones 12, 13)\n\nFava Beans (zones 12, 13)\n\nFlorence fennel (zones 12, 13)\n\nGreen onions\n\nKale (zones 12, 13)\n\nLemons\n\nLettuce (zones 12, 13)\n\nMesclun (zones 11, 12, 13)\n\nParsley (zones 12, 13)\n\nRadicchio (zones 12, 13)\n\nRadishes (zones 12, 13)\n\nSwiss chard (zones 12, 13)\n\n# PACIFIC NORTHWEST  \n(Western Oregon, Western Washington, and Southwestern British Columbia)\n\n**MARCH**\n\n**Plant**\n\nArugula (through May)\n\nBeets (through May)\n\nBroccoli rabe (through Apr, warmest zones)\n\nBroccoli romanesco (through Apr, warmest zones)\n\nCabbage (through Jul)\n\nCarrots (through Jul)\n\nCauliflower (through May)\n\nChervil\n\nHops\n\nLettuce (through May)\n\nMesclun (through Jul)\n\nMustard (through Apr)\n\nOnion (through Jun) (Green onions only)\n\nParsley (through May)\n\nPotatoes (through May)\n\nRadicchio (through Jul)\n\nRadishes (through Apr)\n\nStrawberries\n\nSwiss chard (through May)\n\n**Harvest**\n\nHerbs (perennial)\n\nLemons\n\n**_WARM SEASON_**\n\n**APRIL**\n\n**Plant**\n\nDill (through Jun)\n\nFlorence fennel (through Jul)\n\nHerbs (perennial)\u2014chives, oregano, peppermint, rosemary, sage, French tarragon, thyme (thorough May)\n\nHops (through May)\n\nLemongrass\n\nMarjoram (through May)\n\nPineapple guava (warmest location)\n\nTomato (last half of month and through May)\n\n**Harvest**\n\nArugula\n\nCauliflower\n\nChives\n\nLemons\n\nMesclun\n\nMustard\n\n**MAY**\n\n**Plant**\n\nBasil (through Jul)\n\nBeans (through Jun)\n\nBroccoli rabe (cooler zones through Jun)\n\nBroccoli romanesco (cooler zones through Jun)\n\nChiles\n\nCorn\n\nCucumbers\n\nEdamame\n\nHoneydew melon\n\nLemon tree (through Jun; outside in summer, sunroom in winter)\n\nMelons\n\nNasturtiums (through Jun)\n\nPeppers\n\nPineapple guava\n\nPurslane (through Jun)\n\nQuinoa\n\nRadishes (except in hottest zones)\n\nSquash, butternut (through Jun)\n\nSquash, summer (pattypan and zucchini, through Jun)\n\nTangerine tree (through Jun; outside in summer, sunroom in winter)\n\nWatermelon\n\n**Harvest**\n\nArugula\n\nBeets\n\nBroccoli rabe\n\nCarrots\n\nCauliflower\n\nChervil\n\nFava Beans\n\nGreen onions\n\nHerbs (perennial)\n\nLemons\n\nLettuce\n\nMesclun mix\n\nMustard\n\nRadicchio\n\nRadishes\n\nWheat\n\n**JUNE**\n\n**Plant**\n\nBeets (cooler zones only)\n\nCabbage (cooler zones only through Jul)\n\nCauliflower (cooler zones, through Jul)\n\nFava Beans\n\nLettuce (cooler zones, through Jul)\n\nRadishes (cooler zones)\n\n**Harvest**\n\nArugula\n\nBasil\n\nBeets\n\nBroccoli rabe\n\nBroccoli romanesco\n\nCabbage\n\nCarrots\n\nCauliflower\n\nDill leaves\n\nGarlic\n\nGreen onions\n\nHerbs (perennial)\n\nLemongrass\n\nLemons\n\nLettuce\n\nMarjoram\n\nMesclun\n\nMustard\n\nParsley\n\nPotatoes\n\nRadicchio\n\nRadishes\n\nStrawberries\n\nSwiss chard\n\n**JULY**\n\n**Plant**\n\nArugula (late in the month)\n\nBeets (warmer zones)\n\nRadishes (except in hottest zones)\n\n**Harvest**\n\nBarley\n\nBasil\n\nBeans\n\nBeets\n\nBroccoli rabe\n\nBroccoli romanesco\n\nCabbage\n\nCarrots\n\nCauliflower\n\nCucumbers\n\nDill\n\nEdamame\n\nFennel\n\nGreen onions\n\nHerbs (perennial)\n\nLemongrass\n\nLemons\n\nLettuce\n\nMarjoram\n\nMesclun\n\nNasturtiums\n\nOnions, 'Spanish White' and cippolini\n\nParsley\n\nPotatoes\n\nPurslane\n\nRadicchio\n\nRadishes\n\nStrawberries\n\nSquash, summer (pattypan and zucchini)\n\nSwiss chard\n\nTomato\n\n**_COOL SEASON_**\n\n**AUGUST**\n\n**Plant**\n\nArugula (through Oct)\n\nBasil\n\nBeets\n\nBroccoli rabe\n\nBroccoli romanesco\n\nCabbage\n\nCarrots (through Sept)\n\nCauliflower\n\nChervil (last half of month)\n\nKale\n\nLettuce (except in warmest zones)\n\nMesclun (through Sept)\n\nMustard (through Sept)\n\nOnions, 'Spanish White' and cippolini (through Sept)\n\nParsley\n\nRadicchio (through Nov)\n\nRadishes (except in warmest zones)\n\nSwiss chard\n\n**Harvest**\n\nBasil\n\nBeans\n\nBeets\n\nCabbage\n\nCarrots\n\nChiles\n\nCorn\n\nCucumbers\n\nDill leaves, seeds\n\nEdamame\n\nFennel bulbs\n\nGreen onions\n\nHerbs (perennial)\n\nHop flowers\n\nLemongrass\n\nLemons\n\nLettuce\n\nHoneydew melon\n\nMarjoram\n\nMelons\n\nMesclun\n\nNasturtiums\n\nOnions, 'Spanish White' and cippolini\n\nParsley\n\nPeppers\n\nPotatoes\n\nPurslane\n\nRadicchio\n\nRadishes\n\nStrawberries\n\nSquash, summer (pattypan and zucchini)\n\nSwiss chard\n\nTomato\n\nWatermelon\n\n**SEPTEMBER**\n\n**Plant**\n\nBroccoli rabe\n\nBroccoli romanesco\n\nCabbage\n\nCauliflower\n\nChervil\n\nFava beans (through Oct)\n\nHerbs (perennial)\u2014rosemary, sage, thyme (through Oct)\n\nKale\n\nLettuce\n\nPurslane\n\nRadishes\n\n**Harvest**\n\nArugula\n\nBasil\n\nBeans\n\nBeets\n\nBroccoli rabe (late)\n\nBroccoli romanesco\n\nCabbage\n\nCauliflower\n\nChiles\n\nCorn\n\nCucumbers\n\nDill\n\nEdamame\n\nFennel\n\nGreen onions\n\nHerbs (perennial)\n\nHoneydew melon\n\nKale\n\nLemongrass\n\nLemons\n\nLettuce\n\nMarjoram\n\nMelons\n\nMesclun\n\nMustard\n\nParsley\n\nPeppers\n\nQuinoa\n\nRadicchio\n\nRadishes\n\nStrawberries\n\nSquash, butternut\n\nSquash, summer (pattypan and zucchini)\n\nTomato\n\nWatermelon\n\n**OCTOBER**\n\n**Plant**\n\nBarley (through Nov)\n\nGarlic (through Nov)\n\nWheat (through Dec)\n\n**Harvest**\n\nArugula\n\nBroccoli rabe\n\nBroccoli romanesco\n\nCabbage\n\nCarrots\n\nCauliflower\n\nChervil\n\nDill\n\nFennel\n\nHerbs (perennial)\n\nKale\n\nLemons\n\nLettuce\n\nMarjoram\n\nMesclun\n\nMustard\n\nParsley\n\nPineapple guavas\n\nRadicchio\n\nRadishes\n\nSquash, butternut\n\nSwiss chard\n\nTomato\n\n**NOVEMBER**\n\n**Plant**\n\nFava Beans (first half of the month)\n\n**Harvest**\n\nArugula\n\nBroccoli romanesco\n\nCarrots\n\nChervil\n\nLemons\n\nMustard\n\nParsley\n\n**DECEMBER**\n\n**Harvest**\n\nArugula\n\nLemons\n\n**JANUARY**\n\n**Plant**\n\nHops (through Mar)\n\nStrawberries (through Feb)\n\n**Harvest**\n\nHerbs (perennial)\n\nLemons\n\n**FEBRUARY**\n\n**Harvest**\n\nHerbs (perennial)\n\nLemons\n\n# MOUNTAIN AND INTERMOUNTAIN WEST  \n(Mountainous areas of all Western states, including the Northwest)\n\n**MARCH**\n\n**Plant**\n\nBeets (through Apr in mildest areas)\n\nFava Beans (mildest areas)\n\nHops\n\nLettuce (in mildest areas, through Apr)\n\nMesclun (through Jun)\n\nMustard (mildest areas)\n\nOnions, 'Spanish White' and cippolini\n\nPotatoes (mildest areas)\n\nRadicchio\n\nRadishes (mildest areas, through Apr)\n\nStrawberries (through Apr)\n\nSwiss chard (milder areas through Jun)\n\n**Harvest**\n\nLemons\n\nTangerines\n\n**APRIL**\n\n**Plant**\n\nArugula\n\nBroccoli rabe (through Jun)\n\nBroccoli romanesco\n\nCabbage\n\nCarrots (through Jun)\n\nCauliflower (through May)\n\nChervil\n\nFava Beans\n\nHops\n\nOnions, 'Spanish White' and cippolini\n\nQuinoa (through May)\n\n**Harvest**\n\nLemons\n\nMesclun\n\nRadishes\n\nSwiss chard\n\nTangerines\n\n**_WARM SEASON_**\n\n**MAY**\n\n**Plant**\n\nBasil (through Jun)\n\nBeans (through Jun)\n\nBeets\n\nBroccoli romanesco (through Jun)\n\nCabbage (through Jun)\n\nChiles\n\nCorn\n\nCucumbers\n\nDill (through Jun)\n\nEdamame (through Jun)\n\nFlorence fennel\n\nHerbs (perennial)-chives, oregano, peppermint, sage, French tarragon, thyme\n\nLemon tree, (outdoors in frost-free season, sunroom in cold months)\n\nLemongrass\n\nLettuce (everywhere through Jun)\n\nMarjoram\n\nMelons\n\nMustard (coldest-winter areas)\n\nNasturtiums\n\nPeppers\n\nPotatoes (everywhere)\n\nPurslane\n\nRadishes (colder areas)\n\nRosemary (though Jun)\n\nSquash, butternut\n\nSquash, summer (pattypan and zucchini)\n\nTangerine tree (outdoors in frost-free season, sunroom in cold months)\n\nTomato (cold-winter areas)\n\nWatermelon\n\n**Harvest**\n\nArugula\n\nBeets\n\nBroccoli rabe\n\nGreen onions\n\nLemons\n\nLettuce\n\nMesclun\n\nRadicchio\n\nRadishes\n\nSwiss chard\n\nTangerines\n\n**JUNE**\n\n**Plant**\n\nCucumbers\n\nPotatoes (cold-winter areas)\n\nSwiss chard (cold-winter areas)\n\n**Harvest**\n\nBeans\n\nBeets\n\nBroccoli rabe\n\nBroccoli romanesco\n\nCabbage\n\nCarrots\n\nCauliflower\n\nFava Beans\n\nGarlic\n\nGreen onions\n\nLemons\n\nLettuce\n\nMesclun\n\nRadishes\n\nSwiss chard\n\nTangerines\n\n**JULY**\n\n**Plant**\n\nBeets (mild-summer areas)\n\nLettuce (except in hot-summer areas)\n\nMesclun (except in hot-summer areas)\n\n**Harvest**\n\nBasil\n\nBeans\n\nBeets\n\nBroccoli rabe\n\nBroccoli romanesco\n\nCabbage\n\nCarrots\n\nCauliflower\n\nChervil\n\nChiles\n\nCorn\n\nCucumbers\n\nEdamame\n\nFava Beans\n\nGarlic\n\nGreen onions\n\nHerbs (perennial)\n\nHops\n\nLemons\n\nLemongrass\n\nLettuce\n\nMarjoram\n\nMesclun\n\nNasturtiumss\n\nPeppers\n\nPotatoes\n\nPurslane\n\nRosemary\n\nStrawberries\n\nSquash, summer (pattypan and zucchini)\n\nSwiss chard\n\nTangerines\n\nTomato\n\nWheat\n\n**_COOL SEASON_**\n\n**AUGUST**\n\n**Plant**\n\nArugula (except in hot-summer areas)\n\nLettuce (except in hot-summer areas)\n\nMesclun (except in hot-summer areas)\n\nRadicchio\n\n**Harvest**\n\nBarley\n\nBasil\n\nBeans\n\nBeets\n\nBroccoli romanesco\n\nCabbage\n\nCarrots\n\nCauliflower\n\nChervil\n\nChiles\n\nCorn\n\nCucumbers\n\nDill\n\nEdamame\n\nFava Beans\n\nFlorence fennel\n\nHerbs (perennial)\n\nHoneydew melons\n\nHops\n\nLemons\n\nLemongrass\n\nLettuce\n\nMarjoram\n\nMelons\n\nMesclun\n\nNasturtiums\n\nOnions, cippolini\n\nPepper\n\nPotatoes\n\nPurslane\n\nQuinoa\n\nRosemary\n\nSquash, summer (pattypan and zucchini)\n\nSwiss chard\n\nTangerines\n\nTomato\n\nWatermelons\n\n**SEPTEMBER**\n\n**Plant**\n\nBarley\n\nMesclun\n\nMustard (mildest areas)\n\nRadishes\n\nWheat (through Oct)\n\n**Harvest**\n\nArugula\n\nBasil\n\nBeans\n\nBeets\n\nCorn\n\nCucumbers\n\nChiles\n\nDill\n\nEdamame\n\nHerbs (perennial)\n\nLemons\n\nLemongrass\n\nLettuce\n\nMarjoram\n\nMelons\n\nMesclun\n\nNasturtiums\n\nOnions, 'Spanish White'\n\nPeppers\n\nPotatoes\n\nPurslane\n\nRosemary\n\nSquash, butternut\n\nSquash, summer (pattypan and zucchini)\n\nTangerines\n\nTomato\n\n**OCTOBER**\n\n**Plant**\n\nBarley\n\nGarlic (last half of month through Nov)\n\nRadishes (mild-winter areas)\n\n**Harvest**\n\nArugula\n\nHerbs (perennial)\n\nLemons\n\nLettuce\n\nMarjoram\n\nMesclun\n\nPotatoes\n\nRadishes\n\nRosemary\n\nSquash, butternut\n\nTangerines\n\n**NOVEMBER**\n\n**Harvest**\n\nLemons\n\nRadicchio\n\nRadishes\n\nTangerines\n\n**DECEMBER**\n\n**Harvest**\n\nLemons\n\nTangerines\n\n**JANUARY**\n\n**Harvest**\n\nLemons\n\nTangerines\n\n**FEBRUARY**\n\n**Plant**\n\nSwiss chard (in mildest areas)\n\n**Harvest**\n\nLemons\n\nTangerines\n\n# Index\n\n### A\n\nAle. _See_ Beer\n\nApples\n\nApple Cheese Puff\n\nFresh Apple Cider and Applesauce\n\nGrilled Radicchio and Fennel Salad with Apples and Toasted Walnuts\n\nArugula\n\nArugula and Red Butterhead Lettuce Salad with Tangerines and Hard-Cooked Eggs\n\ngrowing\n\nTea Sandwich Trio\n\n### B\n\nBarley\n\nBelgian Abbey Ale\n\ngrowing, 2.1, 3.1, 3.2\n\nthreshing\n\nBasil\n\ngrowing\n\nTomato and Herb Salad with Fresh Chive Cheese\n\nBeans. _See also_ Edamame; Fava beans\n\ncooking dried\n\nCreamy Flageolet Dip with Red Pepper Sticks\n\nGrilled Summer Succotash\n\ngrowing\n\nMexican Skillet Eggs\n\nQuinoa Huaraches with Egg and Parsley Salad\n\n'Scarlet Emperor' Rago\u00fbt\n\nVegetable Shepherd's Pie\n\nBeekeeping, 1.1, 1.2, 3.1, 6.1, 10.1, 10.2, 14.1, 14.2\n\nBeer\n\nBelgian Abbey Ale\n\nmaking, 1.1, 3.1, 14.1, 14.2\n\nSummer Wheat Beer\n\nBeets\n\nCarrot and Beet Chips\n\nFresh Pickled Beets\n\nGarden Borscht\n\ngrowing\n\nMesclun Salad with Spring Beets and Dill\n\nRoasted Beets and Tops with Tarragon\n\nBelgian Abbey Ale\n\nBeverages. _See also_ Beer; Tea; Wine\n\nFresh Apple Cider\n\nPeppermint-Lemongrass Tisanes\n\nStrawberry Lemonade\n\nTrue Mead\n\nBorscht, Garden\n\nBread\n\nTea Sandwich Trio\n\nWheat Berry Ciabatta\n\nWhole-Wheat Honey Sandwich Bread\n\nBroccoli rabe\n\ngrowing\n\nWheat Berry \"Risotto\" with Roasted Tomatoes and Broccoli Rabe\n\nWinter Vegetable Chowder\n\nBroccoli romanesco\n\ngrowing, 11.1\n\nWinter Vegetable Chowder\n\nBroth, Herb Vegetable\n\nButter\n\nmaking\n\nSage Butter\n\nButtermilk\n\nButtermilk Crackers\n\nmaking\n\nButternut squash\n\nAncho Chile\u2013Sauced Noodles with Shiitakes and Butternut Squash\n\nButternut Squash and Cipollini Onion Soup\n\nButternut Squash Compote with Honey and Toasted Walnuts\n\nButternut Squash Gnocchi with Chard and Sage Brown Butter\n\ngrowing\n\nRoasted Spiced Butternut Squash Seeds\n\n### C\n\nCabbage, Savoy\n\nBraised Winter Greens with Preserved Lemon and Red Chile\n\ngrowing\n\nCanning, 5.1, 5.2\n\nCantaloupe\n\nCantaloupe Sorbet\n\ngrowing\n\nCarrots\n\nCarrot and Beet Chips\n\nGrilled Carrot Salad\n\ngrowing\n\nCauliflower\n\ngrowing\n\nWinter Vegetable Chowder\n\nCheese\n\nApple Cheese Puff\n\nButternut Squash Gnocchi with Chard and Sage Brown Butter\n\nCaramelized Tangerine and Ricotta Tart\n\nCorn Soup with Roasted Poblanos and Zucchini Blossoms\n\nEgg and Gouda Crepes\n\nEgg Cloud\n\nFavas and Ricotta on Buttermilk Crackers\n\nfeta\n\nFresh Chive Cheese\n\n_fromage blanc_ , 8.1\n\nGouda\n\nGouda Goug\u00e8res\n\nmaking, 1.1, 3.1, 6.1, 8.1\n\nOregano Queso Blanco\n\nricotta\n\nRicotta Manicotti\n\nStrawberries with Fromage Blanc and Honey\n\nStuffed Poblanos with Red Pepper Sauce\n\nTea Sandwich Trio\n\nTempura Squash Blossoms\n\nTomato and Herb Salad with Fresh Chive Cheese\n\nWhole-Wheat Pizzas\n\nChervil\n\nChickens, raising, 1.1, 3.1, 6.1, 10.1, 14.1\n\nChiles\n\nAncho Chile\u2013Sauced Noodles with Shiitakes and Butternut Squash\n\nCorn Soup with Roasted Poblanos and Zucchini Blossoms\n\nDeviled Cucumber Cups\n\ndrying\n\nGreen Chile Mayonnaise\n\nGrilled Summer Succotash\n\ngrowing\n\nMexican Skillet Eggs\n\nRoasted Poblanos for the Freezer\n\nStuffed Poblanos with Red Pepper Sauce\n\nWalnut Romesco\n\nWatermelon-Chile Salad\n\nChips, Carrot and Beet\n\nChives\n\nFresh Chive Cheese\n\ngrowing, 2.1, 2.2\n\nChowder, Winter Vegetable\n\nCider, Fresh Apple\n\nClimate zones\n\nColcannon, Kale\n\nCompost, fm.1, fm.2\n\nCorn\n\nCorn Soup with Roasted Poblanos and Zucchini Blossoms\n\ndrying\n\nGrilled Summer Succotash\n\ngrowing\n\nStuffed Poblanos with Red Pepper Sauce\n\nWhole-Wheat Pizzas\n\nCows. _See also_ Milk\n\nmilking, 14.1, 16.1\n\nowning\/co-owning, 10.1, 14.1, 16.1, 16.2\n\nCrackers, Buttermilk\n\nCream\n\nclotted\n\ncr\u00e8me fra\u00eeche\n\nCrepes\n\nEgg and Gouda Crepes\n\nRicotta Manicotti\n\nStrawberry Crepes\n\nWhole-Wheat Crepes\n\nCucumbers\n\nDeviled Cucumber Cups\n\ngrowing\n\nPurslane-Cucumber Salad\n\nCustards, Summer Lemongrass\n\n### D\n\nDehydrating, 5.1, 5.2, 5.3\n\nDesserts\n\nApple Cheese Puff\n\nButternut Squash Compote with Honey and Toasted Walnuts\n\nCaramelized Tangerine and Ricotta Tart\n\nHoney Ice Cream\n\nLemon-Thyme Ice Cream Sandwiches\n\nStrawberries with Fromage Blanc and Honey\n\nStrawberry Cr\u00e8me Fra\u00eeche Sherbet\n\nSummer Lemongrass Custards\n\nTangerine Honey Flan\n\nWalnut-Honey Crisps\n\nWatermelon, Cantaloupe, or Honeydew Sorbet\n\nDill\n\nDrip irrigation\n\n### E\n\nEdamame\n\ngrowing\n\nSkillet-Roasted Edamame\n\nEggs. _See also_ Chickens, raising\n\nArugula and Red Butterhead Lettuce Salad with Tangerines and Hard-Cooked Eggs\n\nCreamy Scrambled Eggs with Oyster Mushrooms\n\nDeviled Cucumber Cups\n\nEgg and Gouda Crepes\n\nEgg Cloud\n\nFava Leaf and Parsley Quiche\n\nfried\n\nGreen Chile Mayonnaise\n\nLemon Curd\n\nMexican Skillet Eggs\n\nNasturtium Salad with Omelet Ribbons\n\nomelet\n\npastured vs. commercial\n\nPattypan Squash with Eggs\n\nPickled Eggs\n\npoached\n\nQuinoa Huaraches with Egg and Parsley Salad\n\nscrambled\n\nsoft cooked\n\nSummer Lemongrass Custards\n\nTangerine Honey Flan\n\nTea Sandwich Trio\n\ntesting\n\nEscargots, 10.1, 12.1\n\n### F\n\nFava beans\n\nFava Leaf and Parsley Quiche\n\nFavas and Ricotta on Buttermilk Crackers\n\ngrowing\n\nFennel\n\nGrilled Radicchio and Fennel Salad with Apples and Toasted Walnuts\n\ngrowing\n\nRoasted Tomato-Fennel Soup\n\nFertilizers\n\nFish emulsion\n\nFlan, Tangerine Honey\n\nFreezing, 5.1, 5.2\n\n### G\n\nGarden Borscht\n\nGardening. _See also_ _individual plants_\n\nclimate zones\n\nfertilizers\n\nplanting techniques\n\nsoil, fm.1, fm.2\n\nsun\n\ntimelines, fm.1, 18.1\n\nwatering\n\nGarlic\n\nGnocchi, Butternut Squash, with Chard and Sage Brown Butter\n\nGoug\u00e8res, Gouda\n\nGreen onions\n\ngrowing\n\nTea Sandwich Trio\n\n### H\n\nHerbs. _See also_ _individual herbs_\n\nbouquets of\n\ndrying\n\nHerb Vegetable Broth\n\nTomato and Herb Salad with Fresh Chive Cheese\n\nWhole-Leaf Radish and Herb Salad\n\nHoney. _See also_ Beekeeping\n\nApple Cheese Puff\n\nButternut Squash Compote with Honey and Toasted Walnuts\/a>\n\ncollecting, 1.1, 3.1, 6.1\n\nHoney Ice Cream\n\nStrawberries with Fromage Blanc and Honey\n\nSummer Wheat Beer\n\nTangerine Honey Flan\n\nWalnut-Honey Crisps\n\nWhole-Wheat Honey Sandwich Bread\n\nHoneydew melons\n\ngrowing\n\nHoneydew Sorbet\n\nHops\n\nBelgian Abbey Ale\n\ngrowing, 2.1, 3.1, 3.2, 3.3\n\nHuaraches, Quinoa, with Egg and Parsley Salad\n\n### I\n\nIce cream\n\nHoney Ice Cream\n\nLemon-Thyme Ice Cream Sandwiches\n\nIrrigation\n\n### J\n\nJams and preserves\n\nLast-Minute Pineapple Guava Preserves\n\nPreserved Lemons\n\nSticky Chewy Tangerine Marmalade\n\nStrawberry Oven Jam\n\n### K\n\nKale\n\nBraised Winter Greens with Preserved Lemon and Red Chile\n\ngrowing\n\nKale Colcannon\n\nVegetable Shepherd's Pie\n\n### L\n\nLabels\n\nLemongrass\n\ngrowing\n\nPeppermint-Lemongrass Tisanes\n\nSummer Lemongrass Custards\n\nLemons\n\ngrowing\n\nLemon Curd\n\nLemon-Thyme Ice Cream Sandwiches\n\nPreserved Lemons\n\nStrawberry Lemonade\n\nLettuce. _See also_ Mesclun\n\nArugula and Red Butterhead Lettuce Salad with Tangerines and Hard-Cooked Eggs\n\ngrowing\n\n### M\n\nManicotti, Ricotta\n\nMarjoram\n\ngrowing\n\nTomato and Herb Salad with Fresh Chive Cheese\n\nMarmalade, Sticky Chewy Tangerine\n\nMayonnaise, Green Chile\n\nMead, 10.1, 12.1\n\nMelons\n\ngrowing\n\nWatermelon, Cantaloupe, or Honeydew Sorbet\n\nWatermelon-Chile Salad\n\nMenus\n\nfall\n\nspring\n\nsummer\n\nwinter\n\nMesclun\n\ngrowing\n\nMesclun Salad with Spring Beets and Dill\n\nNasturtium Salad with Omelet Ribbons\n\nMexican Skillet Eggs\n\nMilk. _See also_ Buttermilk; Cows; Cream\n\nbottling\n\ncooking with\n\nfiltering\n\nhistory of\n\npasteurized, 16.1, 16.2\n\nraw, 16.1, 16.2\n\nstoring\n\nMushrooms\n\nAncho Chile\u2013Sauced Noodles with Shiitakes and Butternut Squash\n\nCreamy Scrambled Eggs with Oyster Mushrooms\n\ngrowing, 6.1, 8.1\n\nHerb Vegetable Broth\n\nPickled Cocktail Mushrooms and Onions\n\nVegetable Shepherd's Pie\n\nMustard\n\nBraised Winter Greens with Preserved Lemon and Red Chile\n\ngrowing\n\n### N\n\nNasturtiums\n\ngrowing\n\nNasturtium Salad with Omelet Ribbons\n\nTea Sandwich Trio\n\nNoodles, Ancho Chile\u2013Sauced, with Shiitakes and Butternut Squash\n\n_Nuvolone_ , 13.1\n\n### O\n\nOlives\n\nfruit flies, 8.1, 8.2\n\nharvesting\n\noil, 1.1, 8.1, 8.2\n\nOnions. _See also_ Green onions\n\nButternut Squash and Cipollini Onion Soup\n\ngrowing, 2.1, 7.1\n\nHerb Vegetable Broth\n\nPickled Cocktail Mushrooms and Onions\n\nWhole-Wheat Pizzas\n\nOregano\n\ngrowing\n\nOregano Queso Blanco\n\n### P\n\nPancakes, Featherlight\n\nParsley\n\nFava Leaf and Parsley Quiche\n\ngrowing\n\nQuinoa Huaraches with Egg and Parsley Salad\n\nTea Sandwich Trio\n\nWhole-Leaf Radish and Herb Salad\n\nPattypan squash\n\ngrowing\n\nPattypan Squash with Eggs\n\nTempura Squash Blossoms\n\nPeppermint\n\ngrowing\n\nPeppermint-Lemongrass Tisanes\n\nPeppers, sweet. _See also_ Chiles\n\nCreamy Flageolet Dip with Red Pepper Sticks\n\ngrowing\n\nStuffed Poblanos with Red Pepper Sauce\n\nWalnut Romesco\n\nPickles\n\nFresh Pickled Beets\n\nPickled Cocktail Mushrooms and Onions\n\nPickled Eggs\n\nPineapple guava\n\ngrowing\n\nLast-Minute Pineapple Guava Preserves\n\nPizzas\n\ntoppings for\n\nWhole-Wheat Pizzas\n\nPlanting. _See also_ _individual plants_\n\ntechniques\n\ntimelines, fm.1, 18.1\n\nPotatoes\n\ngrowing\n\nKale Colcannon\n\nOven-Baked Steak Fries with Green Chile Mayonnaise\n\nRosemary Potatoes Anna\n\nVegetable Shepherd's Pie\n\nWhole-Wheat Pizzas\n\nWinter Vegetable Chowder\n\nPreserves. _See_ Jams and preserves\n\nPurslane\n\ngrowing\n\nPurslane-Cucumber Salad\n\n### Q\n\nQuiche, Fava Leaf and Parsley\n\nQuinoa\n\ngrowing\n\nQuinoa Bites with Walnut Romesco\n\nQuinoa Huaraches with Egg and Parsley Salad\n\nrinsing\n\nStuffed Poblanos with Red Pepper Sauce\n\nthreshing\n\n### R\n\nRadicchio\n\nGrilled Radicchio and Fennel Salad with Apples and Toasted Walnuts\n\ngrowing\n\nRadishes\n\ngrowing\n\nRadishes, Fresh Homemade Butter, and Salt\n\nWhole-Leaf Radish and Herb Salad\n\nRolls, Whole-Wheat\n\nRoot cellars, 5.1, 5.2\n\nRosemary\n\ngrowing\n\nRosemary Potatoes Anna\n\nWhole-Wheat Rosemary Shortbreads\n\n### S\n\nSage\n\ngrowing\n\nSage Butter\n\nSalads\n\nArugula and Red Butterhead Lettuce Salad with Tangerines and Hard-Cooked Eggs\n\nGrilled Carrot Salad\n\nGrilled Radicchio and Fennel Salad with Apples and Toasted Walnuts\n\nMesclun Salad with Spring Beets and Dill\n\nNasturtium Salad with Omelet Ribbons\n\nPurslane-Cucumber Salad\n\nTomato and Herb Salad with Fresh Chive Cheese\n\nWatermelon-Chile Salad\n\nWhole-Leaf Radish and Herb Salad\n\nSalt\n\nSandwiches\n\nLemon-Thyme Ice Cream Sandwiches\n\nTea Sandwich Trio\n\nWhole-Wheat Honey Sandwich Bread\n\nSauces\n\nApplesauce\n\n'Sweet Million' Tomato Sauce\n\nWalnut Romesco\n\nScone Tarts, 18.1, 18.2\n\nSeeds\n\nRoasted Spiced Butternut Squash Seeds\n\nstarting from, fm.1, fm.2\n\nstoring\n\nShepherd's Pie, Vegetable\n\nSherbet, Strawberry Cr\u00e8me Fra\u00eeche\n\nShortbreads, Whole-Wheat Rosemary\n\nSnails. _See_ Escargots\n\nSoaker hoses\n\nSoil\n\nassessing, fm.1, fm.2\n\nfixing\n\nSorbet, Watermelon, Cantaloupe, or Honeydew\n\nSoups\n\nButternut Squash and Cipollini Onion Soup\n\nCorn Soup with Roasted Poblanos and Zucchini Blossoms\n\nGarden Borscht\n\nRoasted Tomato-Fennel Soup\n\nWinter Vegetable Chowder\n\nSquash. _See_ Butternut squash; Pattypan squash; Zucchini\n\nStrawberries\n\ngrowing\n\nStrawberries with Fromage Blanc and Honey\n\nStrawberry Cr\u00e8me Fra\u00eeche Sherbet\n\nStrawberry Crepes\n\nStrawberry Lemonade\n\nStrawberry Oven Jam\n\nSuccotash, Grilled Summer\n\nSummer Lemongrass Custards\n\nSummer Wheat Beer\n\nSun\n\nSwiss chard\n\nBraised Winter Greens with Preserved Lemon and Red Chile\n\nButternut Squash Gnocchi with Chard and Sage Brown Butter\n\ngrowing\n\nVegetable Shepherd's Pie\n\n### T\n\nTangerines\n\nArugula and Red Butterhead Lettuce Salad with Tangerines and Hard-Cooked Eggs\n\nCaramelized Tangerine and Ricotta Tart\n\ngrowing\n\nSticky Chewy Tangerine Marmalade\n\nTangerine Honey Flan\n\nTarragon\n\nTarts\n\nCaramelized Tangerine and Ricotta Tart\n\nScone Tarts\n\nTea\n\ngrowing, 14.1, 15.1\n\nmaking\n\nparty\n\nTea Sandwich Trio\n\nTempura Squash Blossoms\n\nThyme\n\nTimelines, fm.1, 18.1\n\nTisanes, Peppermint-Lemongrass\n\nTomatoes\n\nCanned Heirloom Tomatoes\n\nGrilled Summer Succotash\n\ngrowing\n\nMexican Skillet Eggs\n\nRicotta Manicotti\n\nRoasted Tomato-Fennel Soup\n\n'Scarlet Emperor' Rago\u00fbt\n\nSlow-Roasted Tomatoes for the Freezer\n\n'Sweet Million' Tomato Sauce\n\nTomato and Herb Salad with Fresh Chive Cheese\n\n'Trombetta' Zucchini and Its Flowers\n\nWheat Berry \"Risotto\" with Roasted Tomatoes and Broccoli Rabe\n\nWhole-Wheat Pizzas\n\nTransplants\n\n### V\n\nVegetables. _See also_ _individual vegetables_\n\nHerb Vegetable Broth\n\nVegetable Shepherd's Pie\n\nWinter Vegetable Chowder\n\nVinegar, 1.1, 8.1\n\n### W\n\nWalnuts\n\nButternut Squash Compote with Honey and Toasted Walnuts\n\nGrilled Radicchio and Fennel Salad with Apples and Toasted Walnuts\n\nWalnut-Honey Crisps\n\nWalnut Romesco\n\nWheat Berry \"Risotto\" with Roasted Tomatoes and Broccoli Rabe\n\nWatering\n\nWatermelon\n\ngrowing\n\nWatermelon-Chile Salad\n\nWatermelon Sorbet\n\nWheat\n\nBelgian Abbey Ale\n\nflour\n\ngrowing, 2.1, 3.1, 3.2\n\nlocal\n\nseeds\n\nSummer Wheat Beer\n\nthreshing\n\nWheat Berry Ciabatta\n\nWheat Berry \"Risotto\" with Roasted Tomatoes and Broccoli Rabe\n\nWhole-Wheat Crepes\n\nWhole-Wheat Honey Sandwich Bread\n\nWhole-Wheat Pizzas\n\nWhole-Wheat Rolls\n\nWhole-Wheat Rosemary Shortbreads\n\nWine\n\nChardonnay\n\nmaking, 1.1, 8.1, 10.1\n\nSyrah\n\nWinter Vegetable Chowder\n\n### Z\n\nZucchini\n\nCorn Soup with Roasted Poblanos and Zucchini Blossoms\n\ngrowing\n\nTempura Squash Blossoms\n\n'Trombetta' Zucchini and Its Flowers\n\nWhole-Wheat Pizzas\n\n# Credits\n\nAuthor photo \u00a9 2011 by Thomas J. Story\n\nFood\/location photography \u00a9 2011 by Thomas J. Story: FM.1, FM.2, FM.4, FM.5, 1.1, 1.8, 1.13, 1.14, 1.18, 1.19, 1.53, 1.54, 1.55, 1.56, 1.57, 1.58, 1.59, 1.60, 1.61, 1.62, 1.64, 1.65, 1.66, 2.1, 2.7, 2.8, 2.9, 2.31, 2.32, 2.33, 2.34, 2.35, 2.36, 2.37, 2.54, 2.55, 2.56, 2.57, 2.58, 2.59, 2.60, 2.61, 2.66, 2.62, 2.63, 2.64, 2.65, 2.68, 3.8, 3.10, 3.11, 3.12, 3.13, 3.14, 3.15, 3.16, 3.21, 3.23, 3.24, 3.25, 3.26, 3.27, 3.28, 3.29, 3.30, 3.31, 3.32, 3.33, 3.34, 3.35, 4.1, 4.6, 4.8, 4.21, 4.22, 4.23, 4.24, 4.25, 4.25, 4.27, 4.28, 4.29, 4.30, 4.31, 4.32, 4.33, 4.34\n\nFood styling \u00a9 2011 by Karen Shinto: FM.1, 1.1, 1.8, 1.54, 1.55, 1.57, 1.58, 1.61, 1.64, 1.66, 2.35, 2.36, 2.37, 2.54, 2.55, 2.56, 2.57, 2.58, 2.59, 2.61, 2.66, 2.62, 2.63, 2.64\n\nFood styling \u00a9 2011 by Dan Becker: 1.56, 1.59, 1.60, 1.62, 2.9, 3.1, 3.23, 3.24, 3.25, 3.30, 3.32, 3.33, 4.23, 4.24, 4.25, 4.27, 4.31\n\nFood styling \u00a9 2011 by Randy Mon: 2.60, 3.26, 3.27, 3.28, 3.29, 3.31, 3.34, 4.1, 4.21, 4.22, 4.25, 4.29, 4.30, 4.32, 4.33, 4.34\n\nLocation photography \u00a9 2011 by Kimberley Burch: FM.6, FM.9, FM.11, 1.4, 1.21 (top left, bottom), 1.24, 1.27, 1.28, 1.29, 1.34, 1.36, 1.39, 2.14, 2.38, 2.42, 2.48, 2.49, 2.50, 3.4, 3.22, 4.3, 4.16, 4.20\n\nLocation photography \u00a9 2011 by Rob Brodman: FM.8, 1.11, 1.16, 1.20, 2.11, 2.15\n\nLocation photography \u00a9 2011 by E. Spencer Toy: FM.11, 1.2, 1.9, 1.22, 1.30, 1.48, 1.49, 1.51, 1.52 (bottom left, bottom right), 1.63, 1.68, 2.6, 2.10, 2.12 (bottom center, bottom right), 2.13, 2.16, 2.18, 2.19, 2.21, 2.20, 2.22, 2.23, 2.24, 2.25, 2.27, 2.28, 2.29, 3.3, 3.9, 3.17, 4.10, 4.17, 4.18, 4.19\n\nGarden plan illustrations \u00a9 2011 by Akiko Aoyagi Shurtleff\n\nThe following material is reprinted with permission:\n\nCourtesy Margo True: FM.3, 1.17, 1.26, 1.32, 1.38, 1.43, 1.44, 1.45, 1.46, 2.4, 2.30, 2.43, 2.46, 2.45, 2.53, 3.19, 4.4, 4.5, 4.7, 4.11 (top and bottom right), 4.13, 4.15\n\nCourtesy Johanna Silver: FM.7, 2.12 (top, bottom left), 3.20, 4.9\n\nCourtesy Sheila Schmitz: FM.10, 1.7, 1.10, 1.12, 1.15, 1.52 (top), 2.51, 2.52, 1.35\n\nCourtesy Elizabeth Jardina: 1.5, 1.47, 1.50, 2.2, 2.3, 3.2, 3.5\n\nCourtesy Erika Ehmsen: 1.3, 2.17, 2.26\n\nCourtesy Elaine Johnson: 1.6, 1.21 (top right), 4.2, 4.12, 4.14\n\nCourtesy Brianne McElhiney: 1.23, 1.31, 1.33, 2.5, 2.39, 2.40, 2.41, 2.44, 2.47, 4.11 (bottom left)\n\nCourtesy Alan Phinney: 1.37\n\nCourtesy Rick LaFrentz: 1.40, 1.41, 1.42\n\nCourtesy Native Seeds\/SEARCH: 2.67\n\nCourtesy Ron Ehmsen: 3.6\n\nCourtesy Doni Jackson: 3.7\n\nCourtesy Mark Bitterman: 3.18\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":"RYDER\n\nA Men of Clifton Montana Novel\n\nBook 5\n\nSusan Fisher-Davis\nErotic Romance\n\nRyder\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2015 Susan Fisher-Davis\n\nFirst E-book Publication: October 2015\n\nCover design by Amy Valentini\n\nEdited by Amy Valentini\/Romancing Editorially\n\nProofread by Toby Schuler\n\nAll cover art copyright \u00a9 2015 by Susan Fisher-Davis\n\nALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.\n\nAll characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.\n\nPUBLISHER: Blue Whiskey Publishing\n\nSusan Fisher-Davis\n\nwww.susanfisherdavisauthor.com\n\n# Table of Contents\n\nTitle Page\n\nCopyright Page\n\nDedication\n\nChapter One\n\nChapter Two\n\nChapter Three\n\nChapter Four\n\nChapter Five\n\nChapter Six\n\nChapter Seven\n\nChapter Eight\n\nChapter Nine\n\nChapter Ten\n\nChapter Eleven\n\nChapter Twelve\n\nChapter Thirteen\n\nChapter Fourteen\n\nEpilogue\n\nAbout the Author\n\n# Dedication\n\nA big Thank you to Kenolivier Gisbert for being Ryder.\n\n<https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/olivier.gisbert.7?fref=ts>\n\nTo Neuf Neuf Photography for the amazing shoot you did for me.\n\n<https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/NeufNeufPhotographer?fref=ts>\n\nYou both are amazing and I love you!\n\nTo my readers. I do this for you. Without you, I wouldn't be here.\n\n# Chapter One\n\nRyder Wolfe knew trouble. Most of the time, he knew how to handle it but as he turned to look in the direction which had drawn the attention of every other man in the place, he wondered if he'd met his match. Taking a deep breath, he spun on the bar stool, and set his elbows on the bar behind him. Like every man in the bar, his gaze settled on the angelic looking beauty standing in the doorway. Yeah, she was definitely trouble. She was tall, at least her long legs made her appear so. He couldn't really tell...yet. Blonde hair swirled around her face, falling onto her shoulders like a halo. She stood with her legs slightly spread. His gaze traveled over her, from the top of that beautiful blonde hair to a face that could stop traffic or at least cause a few accidents. Her nose was pert and below it, she had the most kissable mouth he'd ever seen. At thirty-three, he was a loner, but he loved women. Respected them, or at least tried to but he usually loved them then left them. He had run away from home when he turned sixteen so he grew up fast, and he grew up hard.\n\nOnce more, his gaze swept the room. His mouth twitched in irritation. The men in the bar looked like a bunch of hungry dogs waiting for a bone. A fight was coming. Ryder could feel it in his bones. He looked back to the woman. Finishing where he left off, his scrutiny settled on her chest. The top three buttons of her white blouse were unbuttoned just enough to tease a man. She had nice cleavage. Her stomach was flat too. The white blouse she wore was tucked into what had to be the tightest, shortest, red skirt, he'd ever seen. Any shorter, and she'd be arrested for indecent exposure. Ryder had to shake his head on that one. There wasn't anything indecent about it but it sure was inciting indecent thoughts.\n\nDown his eyes went to those long legs. He almost smiled. Always having been a leg man, he thought hers were great. The shoes on her feet had him biting the inside of his cheek to hold back a groan. Red stilettos. Good God, his mouth was watering. He felt his groin tighten. He spun back around on the stool and took a long pull on his beer. He shook his head. You never let a woman get to you. Don't start now.\n\nHe made the mistake of looking her way again. She was walking toward the bar. Her hips swayed just enough to draw attention, and no more. Ryder watched another man walk up to her. She graced him with a slight smile but moved past him. The guy looked like he'd just lost his best friend. Ryder covered his smile by taking another drink. She walked past him. He could smell her perfume. Light, not too strong. Just enough that it teased his nose, and made him want to bury his face in her neck. He watched her by way of the mirror behind the bar. She sat on a stool three down from his, but Ryder kept his eyes on the mirror.\n\nShe glanced up, and in the mirror, her eyes connected with his. He felt like someone had sucker-punched him. She really was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. He watched as Keith, the bartender, stepped up to ask what she wanted to drink. Ryder didn't hear her response, but Keith nodded and handed her a beer. In a bottle yet. She looked at it as if she didn't know what to do with it. Keith set a glass in front of her, bringing a smile to her face. She had a perfect, white smile. When she smiled, deep dimples appeared in her cheeks. Ryder couldn't stop looking at her mouth.\n\nRyder watched as she poured her beer into the glass. She was pouring it too fast, and it was going to be all foam. As the beer reacted as he predicted, the foam rising high above the top of the glass, she set the bottle on the bar top and leaned down. She quickly took a sip and Ryder did all he could not to laugh. He was sure he was the only one who saw the face she made when she tasted the beer. The smile left his face though when he saw her small pink tongue come out and lick at the foam on her upper lip. Squeezing his eyes shut against the image, Ryder turned around on the stool to watch the pool game going on behind him. He kept his eyes on the game, paying no more attention to the woman. He watched as Big Earl came strolling over to her and tried to squeeze in between two bar stools, but failed. Jesus! Didn't the big ox know how big he was? Ryder kept his eyes on the game, but Big Earl's voice carried over the noise in the bar.\n\n\"Hello, honey. Heaven must be missing an angel.\"\n\nRyder nearly choked on his beer. He found it hard to believe that any man would still use that sorry excuse of a pick-up line. He mentally shrugged. He wasn't getting involved. She wasn't his problem. He raised the bottle to his lips and took another sip, but almost spit it out when he heard her speak.\n\n\"That's nice of you to say. I'm looking for a man.\"\n\nBig Earl let out a loud laugh. \"Well, honey, you came to the right place.\" He leaned closer to her. \"I could be the man you're looking for.\"\n\nRyder turned back around and watched them in the mirror. He watched as the woman leaned forward as if she was going to whisper in Big Earl's ear. He listened closely, hoping she was going to be creative in her rejection of the jerk.\n\n\"You might be. Are you Ryder Wolfe?\" She spoke in a soft, smoky voice.\n\nRyder slammed the beer bottle down on the bar. He felt every set of eyes, in the bar, except hers, settle on him. He picked up his cowboy hat, from where he'd laid it on the bar, and slammed it on his head. He'd almost gotten to the door when Keith called his name.\n\nShit! He turned around slowly, and looked at Keith. When Keith didn't say anything, Ryder raised an eyebrow. He heard Keith clear his throat. Ryder narrowed his eyes at him, letting him know he'd done the wrong thing. No one bothered Ryder unless he wanted to be bothered. He was well-known as one mean son of a bitch when things bothered him. He was a tough man. He saw Keith swallow and move his eyes toward the blonde, who was now looking in his direction. Ryder shifted his gaze to her, and swore under his breath.\n\nRyder walked toward the woman. Every step felt like he was walking to the electric chair. He stopped in front of her. She slid off the stool, settling easily on those sexy shoes. She was tall in those heels but at six four, he was taller. The top of her head came to his mouth. Without the heels, she would barely reach his shoulder.\n\n\"You're Mr. Wolfe?\" she asked him, looking everywhere but at him.\n\n\"Who wants to know?\" Ryder almost kicked himself for using such a childish comeback. She didn't seem to notice.\n\n\"My name's Kelsey Sullivan.\" She stuck her hand out. He ignored it. Her brow furrowed in reaction to his obvious insult. She took a deep breath before continuing. \"Frank Sanders told me to contact you when I got to Clifton. He said you would help me.\"\n\nRyder was so angry, he was sure steam was coming out of his ears. Damn it, Frank! He took her elbow in his large hand, and led her to a table away from prying eyes. He nodded for her to sit down. When she did, he removed his hat, took a seat across from her, and stared at her over the small table. He couldn't seem to keep his eyes off her. She, on the other hand, wasn't having any problem keeping her eyes off him. She didn't seem to want to look him in the eye. She was nervous. He sat back in the chair and folded his arms over his chest. He was getting impatient.\n\n\"Why would Frank send you to me? I'm not a damn babysitter. I'll let Frank know that too.\"\n\n\"Babysitter?\" she asked. Even as she diverted her eyes, he knew she waited for his answer.\n\n\"Yes. Well, I don't have time for this.\" He told her with a wave of his hand. He stood up, and looked down at her. \"You might want to go home and see who else Frank can get to help you. I'm not that man.\" He spun on his heel and headed for the door.\n\nRyder was still fuming even after he reached the parking lot. Frank had no right to send someone to him. He was beside his truck before he knew it. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat, and pulled out his cell phone. He punched in Frank's number, cursing every time it rang. Finally, he heard Frank answer.\n\n\"What the hell were you thinking, sending someone here? I'm not a fucking babysitter, Frank, and God damn it, you know that!\"\n\n\"Are you done yelling at me?\" Ryder heard Frank ask in a calm voice. This made Ryder angrier. He opened his mouth to tell him he was just getting started when Frank continued to speak.\n\n\"I didn't know what else to do, Ryder. I've known Kelsey, and her family, for years. In fact, I'm her godfather. I've always told her to call me if she ever needed anything. Well, she does and she did. She needs to disappear until her stalker is caught\u2014again. They had him once but when he posted bail, he bolted. Your ranch is the best place I could think of.\"\n\nRyder swore under his breath. \"You didn't think to call me and ask first? I'm supposed to hide this...this woman for God knows how long. How long has he been on the run?\"\n\n\"A week. They've got a BOLO out on him. She's scared, Ryder,\" Frank said in a low gentle voice.\n\nRyder sighed. How could he turn down Frank's request? He owed Frank too much to refuse a favor since he and his wife had practically raised Ryder.\n\n\"But how long am I supposed to let her stay here?\" Ryder asked, and then listened as Frank went into the details. Ryder swore when Frank pulled the trump card.\n\n\"You owe me, Ryder. I swore I'd never call you on it but in this matter, I have to.\"\n\nRyder was royally pissed off and intended to let Frank know. He swore up a blue streak for the next few minutes and wouldn't be surprised if Frank had set the phone down while he did. Finally, Ryder took a breath as he listened to Frank continue.\n\n\"Look, I know you don't want her there but...Kelsey's my goddaughter. I've known her since she was born. Her parents are like family to Grace and me. You, of all people, know how we feel about family.\"\n\nRyder sighed. He knew Frank had a smile on his face even though he couldn't see it. Frank loved him like a son, and although he had never said so, Ryder loved him, and his wife, Grace. They had taken him in when he was sixteen. A lonely teenager on his own, with nowhere to go, no one to watch over him\u2014until Frank and Grace.\n\n\"I know I owe you. I'll take her to the ranch, but they need to find him. Fast.\" Ryder didn't wait to hear Frank's response, but instead hung up the phone and stuck it back into his pocket. He turned to head back into the bar when he saw Kelsey standing outside of the door, looking his way. He walked toward her, stopping a few feet from her. He put his hands on his hips, and looked at her. He saw tears in her eyes. He swore softly, and glanced away, then back to her. He didn't do well with emotional women.\n\n\"I spoke to Frank. I'll take you to my ranch until your stalker is found.\"\n\n\"Thank you. I hope you're right about that,\" she said softly. Ryder nodded, and motioned his head for her to follow him. He started walking toward his truck but when he didn't hear her behind him, he turned back around. He saw her walking from the bushes with a suitcase. He realized she'd hidden her suitcase there, rather than carrying it into the bar. She caught up to him, and smiled up at him. He frowned at her and walked away.\n\nBehind them, the bar doors swung open and Ryder heard Big Earl yell at them. \"Where the hell you think you're going with my woman, Wolfe?\"\n\nRyder hung his head and swore. He told Kelsey to get into the truck. He was grateful she did what she was told. Ryder watched as Big Earl stomped toward him with fire in his eyes. Ryder stood tall for sure. Big Earl wasn't Big Earl because he was tall, but rather because he was wide. Wider than a Mack truck, it seemed to most people. Not to Ryder. He folded his arms over his chest, and waited for the big ox to get to him. When Earl got close enough, he put his head down, and charged at Ryder. Ryder was ready and stepped aside when Earl got there. Earl fell to the ground face first. Getting up slowly, he glared at Ryder. He let out a growl when he saw Ryder smile. He stood in front of Ryder, and took a swing but he was ready. Ryder leaned back quickly, and then faster than lightning, his fist shot out, hitting Earl square on the chin. The big man went down like a ton of bricks, and didn't get back up. Ryder made sure he was all right, and then walked to his truck. He got in, rubbing the knuckles on his right hand. They were going to be sore tomorrow. He glanced over at Kelsey. She was just sitting there staring at him. He mumbled under his breath.\n\n\"What did you say?\" he heard her ask.\n\n\"I said I knew you were trouble the minute you walked into the bar.\" He started the truck, and after another look at her, shook his head, put the truck in gear, and headed home.\n\n****\n\nKelsey sat quietly in the truck looking out the front windshield. She nibbled on her bottom lip. He certainly wasn't much of a talker or very friendly. What had she gotten herself into? She supposed she had to trust this Ryder Wolfe. If Frank told her she could trust Ryder, then she would. She knew he wasn't happy about the situation, but she wasn't either. She wasn't happy about anything in her life right now.\n\nTwo months ago, she'd started receiving emails, and then it escalated to letters sent to her place of work. When she started receiving mail at her home too, she knew it was time to report it. The police found the man and arrested him but then he made bail, and ran. After she told her parents about it, they suggested she call Frank since he used to be in law enforcement. Frank sent her to the silent and disagreeable man beside her.\n\nKelsey sighed and looked out the windshield. She was shocked to see snow highlighted in the headlights. She glanced over to Ryder. His big hands were leisurely holding the steering wheel as if he were out for a Sunday afternoon drive. The snow didn't seem to bother him at all.\n\n\"It's snowing,\" she said, continuing to stare at him. He didn't take his eyes off the road when he spoke to her.\n\n\"Brilliant deduction. It's been snowing since we left the bar.\"\n\nKelsey's eyes widened. \"It's late September.\" Did he have to be such a smart-ass?\n\nRyder glanced at her then back to the road. \"You're in northern Montana. Of course, it's snowing. Where are you from?\"\n\n\"Georgia. Born and raised.\" She looked at him. \"Have you always lived in Montana?\"\n\nRyder shook his head, but didn't supply anything further. Silence filled the space once more. Fifteen minutes later, he slowed the truck and steered it onto a dirt road. The only light illuminating the road was coming from the headlights of the truck. He drove slowly until they arrived at a gate. There he stopped the truck and stepped out.\n\nKelsey watched him as he pushed the gate open, and then walked back to the truck and climbed in. He put the truck in gear and drove through the gate then stepped out, and repeated the action only closing the gate this time. After returning to the truck, he drove it further down the road until she could see lights up ahead.\n\nRyder steered the truck into an area in front of a log home, shut off the engine, and nodded for her to get out. She opened the door, and the scent of snow filled her nose, she carefully climbed down from the truck fully aware of her high heels, and then reached for her suitcase from the back seat. She looked up at the yard lights. Still amazed at seeing snow in September, she stood there watching the snowflakes dance through the light. It started snowing harder. Suddenly, Ryder was there beside her. She glanced up at him, his hat shading his eyes. He took the suitcase from her.\n\nWhen he started walking toward the house, she followed him to the back door where a light on the porch made the trek easy. Ryder opened the back door and reached inside to turn the kitchen light on. The warmth from the house came out to greet them. She hadn't realized how cold it had gotten and shivered a bit from the change in temperature. He motioned for her to go inside so she stepped into the house.\n\nKelsey glanced around the kitchen. The countertops were black marble. The appliances matched, including the smooth-top stove, with a built-in black microwave above it. The floor reflected the color scheme in its large square tiles. A kitchen table sat to the left of the entry door, under a window with white plantation blinds. Kelsey fell in love with it. She turned to tell him she thought the kitchen was beautiful, but meeting his gaze straight on made her speechless.\n\nShe found herself gazing up into moss green eyes lined with thick black lashes. Slowly, she took in this obstinate man's good looks as he removed his coat, from the top of his brown cowboy hat, sitting low on his forehead to his nose, which was straight and narrow. He had high cheekbones and a wonderful, sumptuous mouth. Stubble covered his lower face, neck, and jaw. His hair was black, pitch black actually, and touched the collar of his T-shirt. She watched him hang up his jacket on one of a row of hooks on a wall leading away from the kitchen, and she couldn't resist perusing his wide chest, the T-shirt stretched tight over it. Next, her eyes took in his flat stomach, which led to the snap of his jeans. Jeans, he seemed to fill out most impressively, covered long legs. On his feet were well-worn cowboy boots. The words to describe this man, which sprang into her mind, were cowboy, sexy, and dangerous. Kelsey lifted her gaze and met his stare. She found a tight-lipped expression.\n\n\"Do I pass?\" he asked her. Just then, two dogs came running into the kitchen and saved her from answering.\n\nRyder told them \"No\" in a voice that demanded obedience. Both dogs stopped and sat down in front of her. She smiled and put her hand out to them. They were bumping into each other trying to get closer but barely moved.\n\n\"What breed are they? They're so pretty.\" She glanced up at Ryder.\n\n\"Border Collies,\" he said as he walked to the back door and opened it to let them out. They both ran off the porch, and then disappeared around a small barn. Ryder closed the door, removed his hat, hung it on a hook alongside his jacket, and then disappeared into a small room off the kitchen. Kelsey took her coat off and followed him. They almost bumped into each other as he came out the door she was going in. She laughed softly and looked up at him. He was a big man. He took her coat from her and hung it on another hook near his things. No smile touched his lips as he turned to her.\n\n\"Are you hungry? I could make you some soup or something.\"\n\n\"I'm too tired to be hungry. I just want to go to bed.\" She felt a blush rush up her neck and into her cheeks. She had no idea why saying that made her blush but suddenly, she couldn't look at him.\n\n\"I'll show you to your room then. Follow me.\" Ryder left the kitchen. After a few mortifying seconds of wishing she could crawl into a hole, Kelsey followed him. You're making such an ass of yourself. Calm down. He's just a man. God, yes, but what a man!\n\nKelsey rolled her eyes at her own foolishness as she followed him through what appeared to be a foyer or maybe not, since he didn't turn any lights on until they reached a hallway. It was then she noted they had passed a darkened living room. He opened the first door on the left side of the hallway and turned a light on inside the room. He motioned for her to go in. He set the suitcase down just inside the door.\n\n\"You have your own bathroom. If you need more blankets, there are some in the linen closet. If you need anything, my room is the last one on the right.\" He frowned at her. \"How did you know to find me at Dewey's? The bar,\" he clarified.\n\n\"When I arrived at the bus station, I saw a Sheriff's Deputy and I asked him where I could get a taxi to take me to your house. He told me he'd just been by the bar and saw your truck there.\" She shrugged. \"So I took a taxi there.\"\n\nHe gave her a nod and softly closed the door behind him leaving her alone.\n\nKelsey stood in the center of the room and looked around. The walls were painted in a soft blue. There were white lace curtains on the window and a blue and white quilt on the bed. The chest of drawers was mahogany with a small TV sitting on top of it. Along a wall sat a large mahogany dresser and the soft carpet was light beige. It was a surprisingly nice room.\n\nShe walked to the nightstand beside the bed, turned on the small table lap, and then flipped off the ceiling light. Sighing, she lifted her suitcase up on the bed and opened it. She hoped she wasn't here very long or she'd have to get more clothing. She put her underwear in one of the drawers, and hung her blouses, and jeans in the roomy closet.\n\nMoving toward the bed, something outside in the yard caught her eye. She slowly moved to the window and looked out. It was Ryder. He was walking toward the barn. He had certainly made no bones about not wanting her in his home. Other than answering her question about the dogs and telling her where to get extra blankets, he hadn't said much. Geesh! What a motor mouth! She chuckled at the thought.\n\nKelsey took a seat on the bed and wondered what to do next. The fatigue of the past two months, the journey here, and not knowing what was going to happen was weighing heavy on her. It had been a long flight from Georgia to Montana, and now the time difference was starting to affect her. She counted on her fingers and realized that it was nine at night in Georgia, but only seven here. The bus ride from Butte to Clifton had been long and boring.\n\nWhen she heard the dogs barking, she stood up and looked out the window again. She watched in amusement as Ryder played with them. He was throwing a ball for them. He'd throw it as far as he could and the dogs would run after it. Both of the dogs, eager to please their master, tried carrying it back to him. She heard him laugh and her heart hit her stomach. He had a deep, rich laugh that made her smile. He glanced toward the window as if sensing she was there. She jumped back. She didn't want him to see she'd been watching him.\n\nHow long was she going to have to be here? With a man she knew nothing about...except that Frank Sanders trusted him. She sighed. She knew that was good enough for her. She loved Frank as if he were an uncle to her instead of a godfather. She even called him uncle. She knew he'd never put her in danger.\n\nKelsey fell back on the bed and placed her hands over her face. Please God, please let the stalker give up on me...please. She whispered the same prayer every day, hoping one day soon God would hear her, and give an answer.\n\n****\n\nThe next morning Kelsey awoke to what sounded like hammering. She was surprised at how hard she had slept. She expected to toss and turn since she was in a strange place but she must have been more exhausted than she thought. Climbing from the warmth of her bed, she looked out the window. There was a smattering of snow on the gravel driveway and the grass, but the sun was shining. Feeling energized, she hurried into the bathroom to shower. After dressing, she headed for the kitchen.\n\nWhen she came upon the living room, she stopped. Unlike the night before when it was dark, it was bright with sunlight and looked very welcoming. To her right was a cherry door with leaded glass. A large red overstuffed couch filled the room in front of her with its back to her. Two red recliners sat opposite of the couch. The stone fireplace had a large flat screen TV hanging above the mantel centered between the living room and kitchen. She loved how it was open on both sides. A window seat with large cushions sat at the bottom of a large picture window that took up most of the front wall. In the corner next to the window seat was a beautiful rocking chair made from cedar. The floor was dark cherry hardwood. The whole room was beautiful. A room she'd love spending a day in reading a good book.\n\nShe was preparing a pot of coffee in the kitchen when the back door opened. She turned to see Ryder enter with the dogs following behind. She could feel and smell the cold coming off them. The dogs greeted her with pants and wagging tails. Without a word, they sat down in front of her. She smiled and reached down to pet them. They put their paws up for her to shake. She laughed and looked at Ryder, who busied himself taking his hat and coat off. He hung his hat on a peg by the door, then walked into the laundry room and hung up his coat.\n\nShe watched as he walked back into the kitchen, rolling up the sleeves on his blue and black checkered flannel shirt. She could see he had a T-shirt on under it. His forearms were large and tanned. Dark hair covered his arms. She'd always thought that was sexy but when she took notice of his mussed hair as well, it only added to the sexiness that was Ryder Wolfe.\n\n\"I'm making coffee. Would you like some?\" she asked, watching him.\n\nRyder nodded his head as he washed his hands at the sink. As he reached for a paper towel, she noticed a small crescent shaped scar by his right eye. His eyes were even greener than she'd first thought. His lashes were long and thick. His hair so black that the ceiling lights made it appear to have a blue sheen. His eyebrows were thick and black. The man was, without a doubt, drop dead gorgeous, and sexier than sin.\n\nKelsey turned away from him and wanted to fan herself. Suddenly, the room seemed as if it was on fire. It was so hot! She was so into her own thoughts, she didn't realize he'd spoken until she saw him staring at her. She blushed and glanced away from him.\n\n\"Are you all right?\" Ryder asked her.\n\nShe nodded. \"I've just got a lot on my mind. I'm sorry. What did you ask me?\"\n\n\"I didn't ask you anything. I said I didn't know if you even liked coffee when I made the pot, so I didn't make any extra. I will tomorrow morning.\"\n\n\"What are the dogs' names?\" She blushed. What a lame question! Oh well, she was curious.\n\n\"Badger and Buttons,\" he said while pointing to each dog. \"I didn't name them. They had those names when I adopted them from the shelter.\"\n\nWonderful! A gorgeous man who also saves animals. Did he have any flaws? Dipping her eyes down to the fly of his jeans again, she had her answer. Nope. No flaws.\n\n****\n\nRyder pulled a chair out from the table and sat down. He watched her fuss over the coffee and saw her nod again. Was she nervous? Was she afraid of him? He mentally shook his head. No, she wasn't afraid, nervous perhaps, but she knew and trusted Frank. If Frank trusted him enough to watch over her and protect her, then she wouldn't be here if she didn't trust him. He moved his gaze over her as she poured a second cup of coffee. The night before, the bar had been dark and although he had appreciated her beauty, he hadn't wanted anything to do with her. Then she told him Frank sent her. He clenched his jaw at remembering. Damn it! He didn't need any of this. Frank knew that he didn't have time for this shit.\n\nHe sneaked a look back at Kelsey and allowed his eyes to peruse the view of her backside. He almost groaned. Jesus, those jeans hugged her ass like a second skin.\n\nHis dick twitched in appreciation so he leaned back in the chair, crossed his arms, and looked everywhere but at her. When she walked into his line of sight and set his coffee down in front of him, he caught a whiff of her perfume again. Just like last night, subtle, but not too strong. Still, enough to make him want to hold her close and breathe it in. He tried not to watch her as she sat down in the chair across from him. She spooned sugar into her cup but kept her eyes down as if she was determined not to look at him.\n\nRyder lifted his cup and took a sip of coffee. Thankfully, it was not scalding hot anymore, or he would have burned his mouth since he couldn't keep his gaze from going back to her. Her skin was flawless and his notice of freckles across her nose told him she wore no makeup. He liked that. Most women would put makeup on regardless of the situation, and especially around a man they didn't know. For what reason that was, he had no idea. He preferred a natural looking woman.\n\nHe took a deep breath. He knew he had to let her stay. He'd do it for Frank because he'd do just about anything Frank asked him to do. He let his breath out slowly and stood up, moving to the sink without glancing at her. After rinsing his cup, he set it aside, and walked to the laundry room where he'd left his coat. Returning, he didn't look in her direction but put his hat on, gave an abrupt nod, and headed out the door.\n\n# Chapter Two\n\nKelsey sat at the table for a long while after Ryder left. She wondered what she was going to do all day since he certainly gave her no suggestions. He barely spoke more words than were necessary. She stood, walking to the sink to rinse her cup. She stopped there and gazed out the window. She wondered what he did to keep busy. Did he have horses he had to take care of? Would he mind if she went out there? She wasn't about to go where she wasn't invited to find out. He just seemed so private. A real loner. Sighing, she returned to her bedroom, got her cell phone out, and called Frank.\n\n\"What kind of man do you have me staying with, Uncle Frank?\" She smiled as she heard him chuckle. She wasn't sure what the relationship between Ryder Wolfe and her godfather was but she needed to know. \"Who is he to you?\" she asked curiously.\n\nShe heard him take a deep breath and exhale. She listened as Frank told her about Ryder.\n\n\"He's had a rough life. He ran away from home when he was sixteen. His father...and I use that term loosely, used to smack him, and his mother, around. Ryder's mother stayed drunk most of the time. His father was a heavy drinker too, and a mean drunk. Ryder was smart to get away from them. I found him sleeping in our barn.\" Frank chuckled as if remembering back. \"He had a real bad attitude too, and didn't want help, from anyone. I was ready to call the cops, but Grace saw something in him that I didn't. He needed love. We found his parents and asked them to give him up to us. At first, they said they wouldn't do it unless we gave them a lot of money. Money! They actually wanted money instead of their son.\" Frank sighed. \"But once we told them we'd report them for child abuse, and not reporting him missing, they changed their mind. They said Ryder was nothing to them anyway. So we took him in and told him if he ran off, we'd report him for being a runaway. For months, he fought us every step of the way. Eventually, Grace got him to see that she loved him, cared about him, and it got through to him. She was the mother he never really had.\n\n\"It took a little longer for him to trust me. It finally happened when we went fishing when he was seventeen. He caught me with his hook when he cast out. I swore up a blue streak. Scared him to death, I guess. He thought I was going to hit him. Even at seventeen, already getting big and strong, he was scared. I had him take the hook out of my hand. The whole time, he had tears streaming down his face. When he finally removed it, he hung his head, as if waiting for me to start hitting him. I put my hand on his shoulder and told him I wasn't angry with him. He said, 'you sure were cussing a lot.' I laughed and told him, I guess I was...because it hurt! Ryder looked at me with the most amazing look on his face. He couldn't believe I could be that angry and not hit him. He gave me the biggest grin, and from that day on, we've been close. He calls us Mom and Dad now, unless he's angry with me, then I'm Frank. He went back to school and graduated. From there he went to college, and then returned to Clifton to raise Paint horses. His grandfather left him that ranch, but that's something I'll let him tell you about because it's not all cut and dry. I was hoping to get in touch with him before you arrived but Grace had an art show, and time slipped away from me.\"\n\n\"I'm all right with it. I'm not sure Ryder is though.\"\n\nFrank chuckled. \"He'll be fine. He'd do anything we ask of him.\"\n\n\"I'm just not sure how long I should stay here.\"\n\n\"Until I'm sure that SOB isn't looking for you. We'll just take it one day at a time. In the meantime, enjoy Montana. It's beautiful there.\"\n\n\"All right. I love you, and tell Aunt Grace I love her too.\"\n\nFeeling a little better about this enigmatic man, Ryder Wolfe, she gave a low sigh, put her phone away, and decided since she was obviously stuck here for a while, she'd make herself useful and fix dinner. Wondering what food was available, she returned to the kitchen.\n\n****\n\nRyder pounded the hammer as hard as he could to work out his frustrations. How the hell was he supposed to live with her, and for who knew how long? He didn't like having a woman in his home, let alone living here. No matter how temporary it was. He blew out a breath because he knew he had no choice. Frank and Grace asked him to do this and so he would\u2014for them. But damn, if Kelsey wasn't so fucking beautiful, it wouldn't be such a hardship. Her long hair looked so soft that he wanted to wrap it around his hand and pull it to his face. The hammer missed the nail and hit his thumb. Grimacing in pain, Ryder dropped the hammer and grabbed his thumb.\n\n\"Motherfucker!\"\n\nHe stuck his thumb into his mouth, trying to ease the pain, and make it feel less like it was going to explode like in the cartoons. That's what you get for not having your mind on your work, and on a woman instead, stupid. A damn woman! Shit!\n\nHis thumb was hurting. It throbbed something fierce. He shook his hand trying to alleviate the pain. but it didn't seem to help. He bent over, picked up the hammer, and put it away. There was no way he'd get any more work done since he wasn't able to concentrate on it anyway. He put his tools away, left the small barn, and entered the horse barn. Two of his ranch hands walked toward him.\n\n\"Hey, Ryder,\" Jay Rodriquez greeted him.\n\n\"How's it going, guys?\"\n\n\"It's been a pretty good day, boss,\" Gavin Hill told him.\n\n\"Great. If you're done, you guys can head on out.\" He nodded at them and started around them. \"Oh, wait. You'd best know, there's a woman here for a while...\" he started to explain but hesitated when both men raised their eyebrows. \"No, not for that, get your minds out of the gutter. Frank sent her here from Georgia. She has a stalker and he thought she'd be safer here until the guy was found again. The police had him once but he jumped bail.\"\n\n\"That stalker shit isn't something to take lightly. An ex-boyfriend stalked my sister and it got downright creepy,\" Jay said.\n\n\"Is she all right?\" Ryder asked.\n\n\"Yeah. But he tried to kidnap her. Luckily, the police caught up with them and helped her, but Jamie is almost afraid to step outside the house now. I know she'll get over it eventually but it was real bad for a while.\"\n\n\"I just want you both to keep an eye out for any strangers coming around. Although I'm not sure how anyone would find her here, but you never know.\"\n\n\"Have you told Sam?\" Gavin asked him.\n\n\"No, but that's a good idea. I just worry that the more people who know about her being here, the greater the chance of her stalker finding her. Then again, most folks around here I can trust to help keep an eye out. I'll give him a call though. Have a good evening,\" Ryder said waving them on their way, as he walked down the aisle of the barn.\n\nHe entered his office, pulled his cell phone from his pocket, and called Sam Garrett, the Sheriff of Clifton County, Montana. After explaining the situation to Sam, he did as Sam suggested, he called a select group of his friends to come to his house that night. He would introduce them to Kelsey and explain what was going on.\n\nAn hour later, he entered the house and almost fell to his knees from the smells coming from the kitchen. Kelsey stood at the stove. She glanced over her shoulder at him.\n\n\"I thought I'd earn my keep and make dinner. Hope you like fried chicken, corn, and mashed potatoes. Go on and take a shower. It should be ready by the time you're done.\"\n\nRyder stared at her for a few seconds until she raised her eyebrow at him. He nodded his head, removed his hat and coat, hung them up, and then headed toward the bathroom. It was going to be the fastest shower on record. He hadn't realized just how hungry he was until he entered the house.\n\n****\n\nKelsey was just setting the food on the table when he returned. His hair was still wet and she found herself tempted to comb her fingers through it.\n\n\"Do you need any help?\" he asked her, still tucking his shirt into the top of his belted jeans.\n\n\"Nope, all under control. Just have a seat.\"\n\nRyder pulled out a chair but sat only after waiting for her to take a seat. She put food on her plate, and then watched as Ryder piled his plate high. After he took a first bite of chicken, he moaned.\n\n\"Damn, this is good.\"\n\n\"Thank you. I love to cook so since you're letting me stay here, I'll fix dinner. Breakfast and lunch too, if you want.\"\n\n\"I get up before the sun, but lunch would be good. Would you mind cooking enough for the men too?\"\n\n\"No, not at all. How many?\"\n\n\"Six altogether. Is that a problem?\"\n\n\"Only if you don't have enough food.\" She smiled.\n\n\"There are two freezers filled to capacity in the mudroom.\"\n\nKelsey laughed. \"Okay, it won't be a problem then.\"\n\nRyder nodded as he continued to eat. \"A group of my friends are coming over tonight. I want them to meet you, and know what's going on. Some of them will understand well what you're going through, and with their help, and the help of my men, we'll have more eyes keeping watch for strangers.\"\n\n\"All right.\" Kelsey knew he was doing the right thing, but she had to wonder what his friends might think of her staying with Ryder.\n\n\"What's wrong?\" he asked her.\n\n\"What will they think of me staying here?\"\n\n\"Nothing. I plan to tell them the truth. They're not going to judge you, if that's what you think.\"\n\nKelsey huffed. \"You trust them?\"\n\n\"With my life.\"\n\n\"Good enough for me then.\"\n\nAn hour later, they sat in the living room watching TV when someone knocked on the back door. Ryder glanced at her, motioned for her to stay put, stood, and headed toward the kitchen. He came back in with three tall men and three women accompanying him.\n\n\"Kelsey, this is Jake, Gabe, and Wyatt Stone. This is Becca, Jake's wife, Emma, Gabe's wife, and Olivia, Wyatt's wife. Everyone, this is Kelsey Sullivan. Once everyone else arrives, I'll tell you what's going on.\"\n\nKelsey looked at each man, and almost groaned. They were all gorgeous. She could easily see the resemblance between them, the black hair, and dark eyes. Only Gabe had a mustache, but it seemed to suit him. Their wives were beautiful too. The men took seats on the chairs Ryder had brought in from the dining room. The women sat on the sofa beside her. They each smiled at her with curious expressions on their faces. She smiled at them and shrugged, making them laugh.\n\n\"I'm really curious here, Ryder,\" Olivia said.\n\n\"Why am I not surprised, Liv?\" Ryder teased.\n\nA few minutes later, two more couples entered. Ryder introduced them as Madilyn and Brody Morgan, and Trick and Kaylee Dillon.\n\n\"Where's Sam? He's usually on time,\" Ryder asked Brody.\n\n\"He pulled in just as we were coming in.\"\n\nA tall man entered and Kelsey gazed around the room. All of these men were gorgeous. She'd never seen so many hot men in one place, including the one wearing a badge who was the last to join them.\n\n\"Kelsey, this is Sam Garrett. He's the sheriff here in Clifton,\" Ryder told her.\n\n\"Hello.\" She shook his warm hand and hoped she didn't sound as breathless as she felt. Sam Garrett could arrest her anytime. She glanced over to Olivia and saw her mouth the words, \"hot, huh?\" making Kelsey bite back a giggle.\n\nOnce everyone had taken seats, Ryder explained what was going on. The women gasped and the men wore frowns.\n\n\"How long has this been going on, Kelsey?\" This question came from Sam.\n\n\"Two months before Frank sent me here.\"\n\n\"You had to be terrified,\" Emma said, reaching out to pat Kelsey's knee.\n\n\"I was. I still am...\"\n\n\"We'll all keep an eye out, Ryder. In this little town, we all know each other and this time of the year there should be no strangers,\" Wyatt said.\n\n\"Do people come here to ski?\" Kelsey asked.\n\n\"No. Clifton is an hour from the nearest resort. People usually don't stay that far away from the slopes since they like to get on them early,\" Ryder told her.\n\n\"If it was spring or summer, it would be different. We have loads of tourists here then. I own a bed and breakfast that does amazingly well and people come from all over. Strangers are all we see then. We'll be open only a few more weeks, and the people that are here now, we know,\" Becca said.\n\nKelsey nodded. \"I'm sorry to include you all in this.\"\n\n\"Don't worry about it,\" Sam said, smiling. He turned to Ryder. \"I think you should bring her to Evelyn and Stan's engagement party. We can introduce her and let folks know she's under the town's protection. That way everyone will keep an eye out for anything unusual or if someone comes around asking about her. I'll contact the police in Atlanta and have a picture of the perp faxed over.\"\n\nKelsey saw Ryder swear. \"I suppose it would only make sense to take her to the party. Everyone will eventually see her around anyway and letting them know what's going on can only help us, as long as it stays only with the town folks.\"\n\n\"You want to take me out in public?\" Kelsey asked.\n\n\"I think the more people who know you and why you're here, the more will be on the lookout for any strangers, and I'll pass the picture around too,\" Sam told her the same thing Ryder had.\n\n\"Whatever you say, you're the sheriff.\" Kelsey teased and smiled at him.\n\nSam grinned at her. \"Yes, ma'am, I am.\"\n\nShe glanced over at Ryder and saw him frowning at her. She stared back at him until he finally looked away. What was his problem? Was he jealous of Sam? Too bad. What woman in her right mind wouldn't do a little harmless flirting with Sam Garrett? In fact, if the other men were single, she'd flirt with them too. She loved gorgeous men and the room was full of them\u2014including Ryder. No matter how hot she found the others, there was something more about him that made him stand out. He had that brooding cowboy thing going on and it was damn sexy.\n\n\"Tell me how it all started,\" Sam said, in what she imagined was his investigative voice.\n\nKelsey sighed. \"It started with a message on my social media page. He asked me what hospital I worked at. I'm a nurse.\" She gazed up at Sam. \"I told him Georgia. I didn't want to tell him exactly where I was. We chatted for a while and I thought he was nice. I wasn't looking to hook up or anything, I was just being nice.\" She shook her head. \"I should have known better. He always seemed to pop in anytime I was online and we'd chat. I liked talking to him.\"\n\n\"Did the police find him through social media?\" Jake asked her.\n\n\"No. They found him when they discovered he was driving by my house every day. I didn't know I'd even met him before, until I saw him when he was arrested. He's the uncle of one of my patients. I started getting letters at the hospital. They'd be at the front desk with a note saying they were for me. The police couldn't get fingerprints from anything. He was smart. Next thing I know I'm getting emails from him. Telling me he wanted to be with me, and that he...he loved me. I suppose he got my email from my social media.\" At Ryder's grunt, she glared at him. \"I know it was stupid. You don't have to be rude about it.\"\n\n\"You think I'm being rude about it? I'm just surprised you're a nurse. You should know better than to do something like that. There are all kinds of idiots out there. As you now know.\" Ryder practically growled and came to his feet. Kelsey gasped.\n\nSam glared at him. \"That's enough, Ryder. We all make mistakes.\"\n\nRyder glared back at Sam. \"Yes, we do. but in this day and age, no woman should be talking with a man she doesn't know.\"\n\n\"Excuse me, but I'm living with a man I don't know,\" Kelsey shouted.\n\n\"It's not the same thing,\" Ryder muttered.\n\n\"Okay, let's all just calm down,\" Sam said. \"It's done and over with. We'll all keep an eye out. We'll do our best to keep you safe, Kelsey.\"\n\n\"Thank you. His name is Wayne Dowling,\" Kelsey said, quietly.\n\nOlivia put her arm around Kelsey. \"We'll take care of you.\"\n\nKelsey tried to smile. \"Thank you, Olivia. I appreciate it. It's nice that most of you will.\"\n\nRyder's lips flattened as she stared up at him. He spun away from her and returned to his seat in the recliner. She really wished she didn't have to stay here with him. She wished she could ask the others for haven with them but she didn't want to interfere in their lives. Besides, Frank had sent her to Ryder and she wouldn't want to upset Frank by leaving Ryder's ranch. He trusted Ryder.\n\n\"What about your job?\" Gabe asked her.\n\n\"I took a leave of absence. Thing is, I don't know how long they'll allow me to be away though. If I don't go back soon, I know I'll be replaced.\" It saddened her to think of not going back to the hospital. Would she get back in a reasonable amount of time or would they hire someone to take her place? She hated being a bother to Ryder and she knew, without a doubt, that she was. He didn't want her here anymore than she wanted to be here. She glanced over to him and saw him still staring at her. A sudden heat filled her face.\n\n****\n\nRyder wanted to shake her. What the fuck was she thinking? Talking with a man on social media like an immature kid who didn't know better. Sure, he was a stranger but Frank vouched for him, and she trusted Frank or she wouldn't be here. His hands tightened around the arms of the chair until he was sure his fingers would leave indents in the material. Did Frank know the entire story? Had Kelsey told him about talking with the stalker?\n\n\"Stop staring at me like you want to choke me, Ryder,\" Kelsey snapped at him.\n\n\"Because I do!\" He stood. \"What were you thinking?\"\n\n\"I wasn't, okay? Could we talk about this later?\" Kelsey glanced around the room, suddenly looking embarrassed.\n\n\"We're going to leave you two to talk. Bring her to the party Saturday, Ryder,\" Sam practically ordered. Ryder gave him a terse nod. Everyone said their goodbyes and left. Ryder continued to stare at her.\n\n\"Tell me what possessed you to talk with a stranger so much that he thinks he's in love with you?\"\n\n\"I guess I liked the attention,\" she whispered, as if she wanted to disappear.\n\n\"What?\"\n\nKelsey glared up at him. \"I liked the attention, all right?\"\n\n\"A woman who looks like you needed attention from a perfect stranger?\"\n\nShe shot up off the sofa. \"Just what does that mean? A woman who looks like me?\"\n\n\"It means, why would a beautiful woman need to seek out attention from a stranger?\"\n\n\"You think I'm beautiful?\" She sat back down.\n\nRyder snorted. \"Do you never look in the mirror? Of course, you're beautiful. That's why I don't get this at all.\" He ran his fingers through his hair.\n\n\"Thank you, but I know I'm not beautiful.\"\n\nHe stared at her, and then burst out laughing. \"Are you fishing?\"\n\n\"What? No. Of course not.\"\n\n\"Kelsey, I know a lot of beautiful women and trust me when I say you're beautiful.\" When she opened her mouth to speak, he put his hand up. \"Don't argue with me. I'm not the only one who thinks so. I saw the way Sam was looking at you.\" He began pacing the room.\n\nShe smiled at him, as if pleased at the idea that the sheriff might be attracted to her. \"Sam is very good-looking.\"\n\n\"Too much for his own good.\"\n\nKelsey laughed. \"Don't worry. He has nothing on you, Ryder Wolfe.\"\n\nRyder stopped pacing and turned to look at her. Was she being sarcastic? He suddenly hoped not. He grinned. \"Is that so?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she said with a teasing smirk. Now he wasn't sure again.\n\nRyder stared at her, and then suddenly frowned. Was it possible she truly didn't think she was a beautiful woman? \"Did someone put you down at one time?\"\n\nShe cleared her throat. \"A man I was seeing. A teacher. I found out he was married and then he told me I wasn't the only one he was seeing because he couldn't stand to look at me.\" Her voice cracked and he knew those words had hurt her. He understood how words could cause as much pain as fists.\n\n\"And you believed the asshole?\"\n\n\"When you hear things enough, you begin to believe them. He never hesitated to tell me I was ugly.\"\n\n\"Why would he say things like that?\" Ryder walked toward her and stopped in front of her.\n\n\"I have a long scar on my left thigh from a car accident.\"\n\nRyder swore and turned from her. \"Son of a bitch. He drilled it into your head that you were ugly because of a scar on your leg?\" He looked back at her.\n\nKelsey nodded. \"It took a long time for me to even let him see it and once he did, he started telling me how people didn't like scars. It was a fact of life.\"\n\n\"I'd like to choke him with my bare hands.\" He squatted down in front of her and took her hand in his. \"Scars are a fact of life, but in no way should anyone make you feel ugly because of one. I have one here.\" He pointed to the one at the corner of his eye. \"And I have scars you can't see. It took me a long time to get past them, but I did. Don't let him keep making you feel ugly, Kelsey. You are one beautiful woman. I thought so the minute you walked into Dewey's.\"\n\nKelsey leaned forward and kissed the place alongside his eye where that scar lived. He froze at the touch of her lips. His eyes met her blue ones and nothing in this world could have stopped him from leaning forward, and pressing his lips to hers. Her gasp filtered across his lips right before she pulled his bottom lip between her teeth. Ryder growled and moved to his knees. He cupped her face in his hands and deepened the kiss, moving his tongue into her mouth to taste her. Her arms wrapped around his neck as she moaned into his mouth. Ryder moved to sit beside her on the sofa but as his body came full up against hers and his hands moved, one to cup her firm sweet bottom, while the other slid into her silky hair, he felt her tense. Suddenly, he remembered what they had just discussed. This other guy had made her feel ugly and self-conscious, and now he was pawing her like a rutting horse.\n\nRyder pulled back, breaking the kiss. He stared down into blue eyes heavy with desire and wished she understood just how incredibly gorgeous she was. He wanted to show her how beautiful he thought she was. He dipped his eyes and watched her tongue slide over the delectable lips he'd just tasted. How he wanted to kiss her there, and lower, and lower still until she begged him to take her. He felt his body react and knew he needed to stop this before it got out of hand.\n\nLeaning back and releasing Kelsey, he cleared his throat. \"I guess that was out of line. It's been a long day. I'm sorry.\"\n\nKelsey stared at him, her chest heaving drawing his eyes to her nipples reaching toward him through the thin cloth of her top. He glanced away.\n\n\"Yeah, I suppose it was. I shouldn't have kissed you.\"\n\nShe shouldn't have kissed me! Where the hell did that come from? Ryder was about to comment that he was the one to take things too far when she pulled herself off the sofa, straightened her clothes, and started toward the door.\n\n\"Goodnight,\" she said, throwing the word over her shoulder as she left the room.\n\n\"What the hell...\" Ryder mumbled at the empty room. He ran his hand over his face and took a deep breath willing his body to calm down. \"Being gentlemanly just doesn't pay off sometimes.\"\n\n# Chapter Three\n\nSaturday evening, Ryder and Kelsey rode in silence to the Clifton town hall. They'd barely spoken two words to each other in the three days that had passed since...the couch incident. That was how Kelsey thought of it. Still feeling embarrassed about kissing him, and for thinking even for a moment, he had actually been interested at all. He'd certainly pushed her away fast enough. He may have told her he thought she was beautiful, but what man turned away a beautiful woman? His tall, dark, and silent treatment hadn't helped either. In fact, she was getting angrier by the day because he made her feel foolish. Damn him.\n\nShe glanced over to him. He kept his eyes straight on the road ahead. He hadn't looked at her at all in the past few days. She didn't even ask him what she should wear for the party. She'd called Olivia instead, and asked her.\n\n\"Just jeans are fine. It's not fancy even if it is an engagement party,\" Olivia had told her.\n\nArmed with that advice, Kelsey wore skinny jeans tucked into Ugg boots and a blue sweater that matched her eyes. She knew the sweater brought out the color of her eyes, making them sparkle. She cleared her throat.\n\n\"Who are Evelyn and Stan?\"\n\nRyder flinched as if surprised by her voice. \"Stan Watson is the foreman at Becca's B and B. Evelyn Robinson is the cook. They're both in their sixties, I believe,\" he explained with a shrug, but didn't take his eyes off the road. \"They fell in love and decided to get married. They're a great couple. You'll like them.\"\n\n\"That's great that they're getting married. Love knows no age limits.\"\n\nRyder grunted and steered the truck into the parking lot. He found a spot easily enough and after parking it, climbed out. Not waiting for him, Kelsey opened her door and stepped down out of the cab. He stood at the front of the truck waiting on her. She stuck her chin up and walked past him, clenching her jaw when she heard him sigh. She hoped he wasn't going to embarrass her in front of his friends. She spun around to glare at him, half-expecting him to make some snide remark but he just grinned and stepped up next to her, taking her elbow in his hand.\n\n\"Try not to let everyone know you hate me,\" he whispered against her ear. Her hate him! She stared at him and confusion raced over her. Two can play this game.\n\n\"You're asking the impossible,\" Kelsey muttered, but smiled when he chuckled.\n\nThey entered the town hall and Ryder led her around the room introducing her to people, and somewhat, explaining the situation without giving too much detail. Once done, they joined their friends at the table. Kelsey pulled out a chair and sat down between Olivia and Emma. Ryder sat across from her beside Becca.\n\n\"You look great,\" Becca told her.\n\nKelsey smiled at her. \"Thank you. So do you.\"\n\nJake sat forward and put his arm around his wife. \"She always does.\" He kissed Becca's temple, making her blush. Kelsey laughed at how adorable they were.\n\n\"How are things going out at the Wolfe ranch?\"\n\n\"Good.\" Kelsey smiled, hoping her discomfort wasn't too apparent to the women.\n\n\"I'm sure it's not a hardship being with a man who looks like Ryder,\" Emma said from beside her.\n\nKelsey laughed. \"You live with a gorgeous man. All of you do.\"\n\n\"Yes, we do, but we also love looking at other gorgeous men.\" Olivia sighed. \"Like Sam.\" She nodded her head toward the door and Kelsey watched as the sexy sheriff entered the town hall.\n\n\"He is really hot,\" she said wondering if he would turn her away like Ryder had.\n\n\"I've said it before and I'll say it again, if I hadn't met Wyatt, I would have gone after Sam. That man is fucking sexy.\"\n\nAs Sam walked further into the room, all the women followed him with their eyes. Olivia turned around and fanned herself, making the women laugh.\n\n\"He certainly fills out a pair of jeans,\" Becca said.\n\n\"Front and back, honey,\" Emma added with a big grin.\n\n\"Oh yeah, for sure. That's ten pounds of sugar in a five pound sack,\" Olivia said and then sighed. The women all burst out laughing at her dramatics.\n\n\"They're talking about Sam,\" Wyatt said aloud, sounding somewhat annoyed.\n\n\"I figured as much,\" Jake said frowning.\n\n\"What?\" Olivia asked as she batted her eyelashes.\n\n\"It's just a damn good thing we love you,\" Gabe said and then winked at Emma.\n\nTrick and Kaylee along with Brody and Madilyn took seats at the table.\n\n\"What's everyone talking about?\" Kaylee asked.\n\n\"How the women are drooling over Sam,\" Jake told her.\n\nKaylee laughed. \"Sam is hot.\"\n\n\"What?\" Trick growled from beside her. Kelsey watched as Kaylee smiled at her husband and Trick winked at her.\n\nMadilyn laughed. \"He is. I don't think there's a woman in town who doesn't think so.\"\n\nThe men laughed. Wyatt shook his head. \"Why didn't you go out with him then, instead of Ryder?\"\n\nOlivia laughed. \"He never asked.\" She squealed when Wyatt pulled her onto his lap.\n\n\"You dated Ryder?\" Kelsey asked, suddenly feeling very inadequate since Olivia was the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen.\n\nRyder chuckled. \"I wouldn't call going out once dating.\"\n\n\"What happened that you didn't go out more?\"\n\nRyder looked at Kelsey. \"We just didn't feel it. Although I remember, Wyatt hated me for a while.\"\n\n\"A while? What makes you think I still don't? I can hold a grudge, you know.\" He grinned when Olivia whispered something in his ear. \"She's talking dirty to me, so no grudge held.\"\n\nRyder burst out laughing along with everyone else.\n\nAs the humor of the group, helped put her more at ease, Kelsey watched as a woman came up behind Ryder, put her arms around his neck, and leaned over his shoulder. He glanced over his shoulder at her.\n\n\"You didn't call me like you said you would, Ryder.\"\n\nRyder looked at Becca and winked. \"I thought you wouldn't want me to after the last time we spoke.\"\n\nThe woman laughed softly. \"You know better than that. When have I ever stayed mad at you?\" She glanced over at Kelsey, and for some reason, gave her a dirty look. \"Dance with me, Ryder...unless your date won't let you.\"\n\nRyder's gaze slid to Kelsey then back to Nicki. \"She's not my date, Nicki. Be nice.\"\n\nNicki sneered at Kelsey. \"Sorry.\"\n\nKelsey didn't think she sounded sorry. \"No problem. If I was his date, you sure as hell wouldn't be hanging all over him.\"\n\nOlivia nearly choked on her drink, and Becca placed her hand over her mouth. Everyone else laughed. Kelsey didn't know why she had said what she did but apparently, it didn't bother Ryder, because he was grinning at her.\n\nNicki pulled on his arm. He rolled his eyes, stood up, and started toward the dance floor. Nicki looked back at Kelsey.\n\n\"In your dreams, honey.\" Then she quickly caught up to Ryder.\n\n\"I can't believe I said that,\" Kelsey said with embarrassment, and put her hands on her cheeks.\n\nOlivia laughed. \"I loved it. Nicki Shaffer deserved it. She thinks she's the only woman Ryder's interested in.\" She shrugged. \"He dates a few women at a time. I seriously think he's one man who will never settle down.\"\n\nWyatt grunted. \"I thought I was that man for a while. It just takes the right woman.\" He looked at Olivia and winked. She put her head on his shoulder, and let out a big sigh, making everyone laugh.\n\n****\n\nRyder had his hands on Nicki's waist while her arms wrapped around his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair. She was gazing up at him.\n\n\"Who's that woman?\" she asked.\n\nRyder shrugged. \"Nobody important, she's staying with me for a while. Frank sent her to me for some protection. She seems nice enough. You, however, were being a bitch.\"\n\nNicki pouted at him. \"You know how I feel about you, Ryder. Do you think I need any more competition where you're concerned?\"\n\nRyder scowled. \"Nicki, you know how I feel. I'm not committed to you or anyone else.\"\n\n\"So, are you saying you're interested in her?\"\n\n\"I didn't say that but even if I was, it wouldn't be any of your business.\"\n\n\"Sometimes, I really hate you, Ryder. There's going to come a day when you want me and I might not be available anymore.\" Nicki stalked away from him as soon as the song ended.\n\nRyder returned to the table, wishing the night would end. Having two women angry with him for no apparent reason was more than enough. The band suddenly stopped playing, and Becca stood on the stage. Everyone stopped what he or she was doing to pay attention.\n\n\"We're here tonight to celebrate the love of Evelyn and Stan. It's about time you two did this. You've been dancing around each other for quite a while now.\" The crowd laughed. \"Seriously, we all love you and are so very, very happy for you both. It will be a beautiful wedding, and Jake and I are thrilled to death to have it at the B and B. Let's all raise our glasses to Evelyn and Stan.\"\n\nEveryone raised their glasses and toasted the couple, who smiled and leaned into each other. Becca walked straight to Evelyn and hugged her, and then Stan. Jake hugged Evelyn and shook Stan's hand then he led Becca back to the table.\n\nThe band started playing again to get back into the party mood. A slow song started and everyone left the table to dance, except for Kelsey and Ryder.\n\n\"Would you like to dance?\" Ryder asked her, not sure how she might answer.\n\n\"Oh, I don't know. Where's the she-devil you were dancing with earlier?\"\n\nRyder chuckled, almost with relief. \"I don't know. I'm sure she's around. Why? You're not afraid of her are you?\"\n\nKelsey snorted. \"Please. I could take her in a heartbeat.\"\n\nRyder laughed, suspecting she could at that. He stood, and put his hand out to her. She came around the table and accepted it. He led her to the dance floor and turned her in his arms. Kelsey had her hands on his shoulders and his were around her waist. Kelsey softly laughed. Ryder leaned his head back to look at her, raising his eyebrow.\n\n\"Don't look now, but the she-devil is shooting darts at us with her eyes.\"\n\nRyder huffed out a laugh. \"I'm sure she is.\"\n\nKelsey giggled. \"I just waved at her.\"\n\nRyder threw his head back and laughed. Kelsey laughed with him. He turned her so he could see just in time to watch Nicki stalk toward the bathroom.\n\n\"And you call her a she-devil. You're just wicked.\"\n\nKelsey laughed. \"You have no idea.\"\n\nRyder was about to try once more to apologize about the other night when Sam interrupted the band, and walked to the mic. \"Sorry to interrupt, folks, but it's snowing and accumulating kind of fast. Some of you may want to leave now.\"\n\n\"Are we leaving?\" Kelsey asked Ryder with a worried expression.\n\nHe nodded. \"I think we should. If it's getting bad here in town, it'll be worse on the outskirts.\" He led her back to the table and talked with Gabe and the others. He turned to Kelsey. \"Everyone is leaving. We're all going together in case there's any problem. We all live in the same direction, so it makes sense.\"\n\n\"It wasn't even snowing when we came in,\" Kelsey said as Ryder handed her coat over.\n\n\"It can happen fast here and pile up in no time. No one will take the chance that they can't get home. Everyone who lives out of town will probably leave.\" Ryder glanced around the room and watched as most of the people were getting their coats and hats on to leave.\n\nKelsey nodded. \"I hate it for Stan and Evelyn.\"\n\n\"They know how it is and I'm sure they're ready to go too. In fact, I think they're already gone.\" Ryder smiled as he pulled his coat on.\n\nThe group walked out to the parking lot together. Once on the road, they pulled the vehicles into a caravan, and soon the snow got heavier.\n\n\"I can't believe this,\" Kelsey said peering out through the windshield.\n\n\"Welcome to Montana.\" Ryder chuckled and kept his eyes on the truck in front of him.\n\nAs they drove on, each time one of the trucks pulled into a driveway, Ryder would blow the horn. His driveway was the last one so he saw everyone get home safely. Now if he could just concentrate on driving and not on the beautiful woman beside him. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He should have just kept his damn hands to himself the other night. He still didn't understand why she felt what she did was wrong. She'd given him a sweet touching kiss on his cheek and he'd taken it to pawing her and wanting to take it much further...much, much further. Touching her was not only wrong but also stupid. Frank wouldn't like what had almost happened. He trusted him to watch over her, and he was nearly as bad as the stalker.\n\nRyder slowed the truck to pull into his driveway and it slid on the snow-covered road. Kelsey let out a gasp and gripped the center console and suicide bar on the dash.\n\n\"We're fine, I got it,\" he said quietly and saw her nod out of the corner of his eye. He was glad he'd left the gate open, was his thought, as he drove through, and toward the house. He stopped the truck by the back door and shut the engine off. \"Are you all right?\"\n\n\"Yes. That was just a little scary.\" Kelsey looked at him with large round eyes. \"I've never driven in snow and now I'm glad I didn't have to. I would have panicked.\"\n\n\"Rule of thumb...never slam on the brakes. The wheels lock up, and the vehicle will slide.\"\n\n\"I'll never drive in it, so no worries.\" She smiled at him.\n\nTheir eyes met and held for longer than was necessary. Ryder cleared his throat, opened his door, and climbed out. He trudged through the snow, around the front of the truck, planning to help Kelsey but she met him there.\n\n\"Take my hand so you don't slip,\" Ryder told her as he held out his hand.\n\n\"If I fall, you're going down with me.\" She laughed even as she put her smaller hand in his.\n\n\"Wouldn't be the first time my ass has hit the snow. Come on.\"\n\nThey made their way through the quickly accumulating snow to the porch. The dogs barked from inside the house. Ryder opened the door and they ran out and off the porch. Once inside, Ryder helped her out of her coat, and then removed his own and his hat.\n\n\"It sure got cold really fast,\" Kelsey said rubbing her hands up and down her arms.\n\n\"Go take a hot bath. I think I'll watch some TV before I head to bed.\"\n\n\"All right.\" She seemed to hesitate as if she wanted to say something but then didn't. \"Goodnight, Ryder.\"\n\n\"'Night.\" He watched as she walked down the hallway and disappeared into her room. The closing of the door had him leaving out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He flopped down in the recliner and picked up the remote. He suspected it was going to be another fucking sleepless night.\n\n****\n\nAfter changing into sweatpants and a T-shirt, Kelsey fell back on the bed and sighed. She wanted Ryder. All night with him, sitting across from him, and then dancing with him had put her body on high alert. Watching him dance with Nicki, Kelsey had wanted to skin her alive. The woman had her hands all over him.\n\nShe punched the quilt-covered mattress, thinking about them together. Ryder slept with that woman and Kelsey knew it as well as she knew her own name. Bitch!\n\nStaring at the ceiling, she wondered how much longer she was going to have to be here. The more time she spent around Ryder, the harder it was going to be not to touch him or let him know how much she wanted him even though he wasn't interested. Why should he be? He has Nicki. He was probably disappointed he had to bring her home instead of being with the she-devil.\n\nKelsey was twenty-seven years old and never been married. She could count on one hand the number of men she'd had sex with and still have fingers left over. Daniel Ward had been the last man she'd been with and she really thought she was in love, until she found out he had a wife and three kids at home. Some of her friends had tried to tell her he was married, but she'd believed him when he said he was separated and getting a divorce. Believed him completely, until his wife came to her apartment and told her different. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!\n\nDaniel even came to her apartment that very night to tell her he'd leave his wife but she shut the door in his face. Once a liar, always a liar. He'd fucked around on his wife, and Kelsey knew he'd do the same to her if she stayed with him. He'd made her feel such the fool when she found out he never intended to leave his wife. Damn men. The police had even checked into Daniel as the stalker, but it wasn't him. He'd moved on to greener pastures with a new young teacher at his school, or so she'd heard. The man couldn't keep it in his pants and his wife couldn't keep him at home.\n\nThe only other two men she'd been with had been one in high school and one in college. They had both been too immature. Inexperienced, neither knew anything about satisfying a woman. She didn't seem to have much luck where men were concerned.\n\nKelsey pushed off the bed and moved to the window where she watched the snow falling outside. Amazing. Snow so early in the year. She slipped her feet into her slippers and padded to the door. Opening it quietly, in case Ryder had gone to bed, she stepped into the hallway and strolled toward the kitchen. As she passed the living room, she saw the flickering glow of the television. She peeked into the room and realized Ryder was sitting in a recliner.\n\nQuickly retreating, she hurried to the kitchen for a snack. The light was on so she moved directly to the refrigerator and pulled the door open, peering inside. Suddenly, a barking sound came from outside. She started toward the back door but stopped when Ryder entered the kitchen. He stopped. He stared at her. His hair was slightly mussed as if he had been sleeping, and his shirt was open and the T-shirt beneath clung to his hard body.\n\nAnother bark sounded from the other side of the door. Ryder moved quickly to the door, opened it and the two dogs flew inside bringing the scent of cold and snow in with them. They shook, spraying cold wet droplets around the kitchen. Most of it showered Ryder's jeans but some hit Kelsey too, making her laugh and jump back a step.\n\n\"Go on, get in there,\" Ryder commanded with a chuckle, sending the dogs into the laundry room. He followed them.\n\nKelsey smiled. The dogs had certainly enjoyed themselves out in the snow. Like children, she thought. She returned to the refrigerator and grabbed an apple from the crisper, and a bottle of white wine from the door. She was pouring wine into a tumbler when Ryder returned to the kitchen.\n\n\"Want some?\" she asked, showing him the bottle.\n\n\"No, thanks, got a beer in the other room,\" Ryder answered and headed toward the living room.\n\nKelsey frowned as she watched him leave the room. Why did she even try? She took a crackling bite of the apple and chewed the tasty fruit, thinking about Ryder. Was she really so unappealing? Less appealing than that she-devil, who hung all over him at the party.\n\nShe took a mouthful of wine and swallowed hard. She bit into the apple again, feeling annoyance and perhaps anger build with each bite. When she finished, she slam dunked the core into the trash bin, picked up her glass of wine, took a fortifying gulp, and marched into the living room.\n\nRyder was sitting in the recliner, a bottle of beer in one hand, his arm resting on the arm of the chair. She walked into the room and took a seat on the sofa. He glanced at her but didn't say anything. She sipped at her wine and glanced at the TV. Some classic black and white movie was playing but the sound was low so she didn't really know what the actors were saying.\n\n\"So...you and Nicki,\" she began.\n\n\"There is no me and Nicki,\" Ryder said in a low voice before taking a drink of beer.\n\n\"I just figured...well, the way she was hanging on you and...\" Kelsey paused and looked down at the glass in her hand. \"Well, you weren't interested in me.\"\n\n\"Not interested in you,\" Ryder exclaimed, his eyes meeting hers in the dim light of the room. \"You're the one who told me it was a mistake.\"\n\n\"Yeah, well then, I guess it was.\" She finished the last of her wine and set the glass on the coffee table. \"I don't compare to the other women you know.\" She thought about how beautiful Olivia was and knew she was nothing like her, or even Nicki.\n\n****\n\nKelsey stood. Ryder knew she was once more thinking herself ugly thanks to the bastard who told her so while claiming to love her. She was so wrong about him not being interested in her though. He could have had Nicki tonight had he wanted, but he couldn't stop thinking about Kelsey. Holding her in his arms while dancing reminded his body just how soft and wonderful she felt when he kissed her the other night.\n\nWhen she moved to leave, he came to his feet. She stopped and looked at him with a curious expression. He moved forward until he stood in front of her. He heard her inhale as he smoothed her hair back from her beautiful face. Dipping his head, he touched his lips to hers and felt her tense for a moment. Here we go again!\n\nRyder hesitated in deepening the kiss and nearly stepped back when Kelsey snaked her arms around his shoulders and pressed her warm body against him. His body immediately reacted and his arms slid down to her waist and pulled her close. Lowering her onto the couch, he spread out alongside her while his tongue danced with hers. He heard her moan low in her throat and his body liked it.\n\nHer hands pushed his outer shirt off over his shoulders before sliding her fingers across his chest and down along his stomach to the bottom of his T-shirt. She lifted it over his head and pulled her lips from his. He watched as her eyes roamed over his chest and down his muscled stomach. He pushed her shirt up and groaned when he saw her beautiful breasts. The rosy nipples peaked in anticipation and arousal.\n\n\"You're beautiful, Ryder,\" she whispered on an exhalation.\n\nHe grinned with satisfaction and moved his mouth to her neck as his hand slipped inside her sweatpants to her very core. He kissed her and smiled against her lips.\n\n\"Commando?\" he said as he pulled them off her and tossed them onto the floor.\n\nKelsey blushed and nodded. \"Touch me, please...\" Her plea ended on a gasp when he moved his fingers between her wet, slick folds.\n\n****\n\nKelsey pressed her body against his hand as he inserted a finger and rubbed his thumb against her clitoris. His tongue lapped at her nipple, and then he sucked it into his mouth. What he was doing was driving her crazy. She'd never felt like this, and she wanted him inside her. Now. Kelsey threw her head back as her orgasm grabbed her. A low moan emerged from her before she cried out his name. Her body trembled as she came down from her high. She felt Ryder move his mouth up her neck to her lips, taking them in a deep kiss. He removed his hand from her still throbbing body, and lifted his lips from hers. She groaned as she watched him stick his finger into his mouth and sucked on it. She'd never seen anything so erotic in her life.\n\nShe wrapped her hand around his neck, pulled him down to her, and ran her tongue along his lips, making him groan. He took control of the kiss and deepened it, his tongue dipping deep inside her mouth. The growl that tore from him when she sucked on it made her feel very much in control. He moved his lips across her cheek to her ear.\n\n\"I want to fuck you,\" he whispered, his hot breath in her ear. \"I want to feel you clench around my cock when you come. I\u2014\" All of a sudden, he pulled away from her.\n\n\"What...?\"\n\n\"We can't do this, Kelsey,\" he said in a rough hoarse voice.\n\n\"It looks like we already are.\"\n\nRyder sat up and moved away from her. He cleared his throat and ran his hand around the back of his neck. \"Frank would kill me.\"\n\n\"Frank isn't here and besides, who would tell him?\"\n\n\"No one has to tell him. I'd know he'd be disappointed in me. I'm supposed to be protecting you, not fucking you.\"\n\nShe sat up and pulled her T-shirt down. \"Well, we certainly didn't get that far, did we?\" she said, suddenly feeling angry and humiliated. He'd used her just as Daniel had.\n\nRyder stared at her. \"No, we didn't, because I came to my senses.\"\n\n\"Was that before or after you were licking me off your finger?\" She grabbed her sweatpants from the floor and pulled them on. She stood and glared down at him. She saw his jaw clench, and a muscle ticked in his cheek.\n\n\"Go to bed,\" he growled suddenly.\n\n\"Are you coming with me? Oh. No. Wait. You're too afraid to be a man here and finish what you started.\"\n\n\"I got you off, didn't I?\" he shouted, noticeably angry.\n\nShe spun away from him and then turned back to him. \"You're right. At least I got off.\" Her eyes shifted to the bulge behind his fly. \"You'll have to take care of that by yourself.\"\n\nKelsey wanted to hit him, and demand he just admit he wanted her, but feared he didn't. She stormed off to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.\n\n****\n\nRyder swore under his breath when he heard the door slam. What the fuck is wrong with you? He ran his fingers through his hair, and then down over his face. He could still smell her scent on his finger and that just made his cock swell even more. Son of a bitch!\n\nHe pulled on his shirts and stomped to the kitchen, grabbed his hat and coat, and walked out the back door. He trudged through the snow to the barn. Frank would have his balls in a sling if he even thought, for one minute, that Ryder would touch Kelsey.\n\nRyder walked into his office and closed the door. After taking his hat and coat off, he sat behind the desk and booted up the computer. Why he did, he had no idea. He just needed to get his mind off Kelsey. He snorted...like that would happen with his body still wanting her.\n\nHe groaned when he thought about how responsive she'd been. When he felt her inner muscles clenching around his finger, he just about came himself. He'd wanted to shove his jeans down and thrust into her hot, wet heat.\n\nHis hands grasped the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white trying to push back his need to march back into the house, go to her room, throw her on the bed and fuck her till she screamed for more. He jerked when his cell phone rang. He picked it up and groaned when he saw who it was.\n\n\"Hey, Frank,\" he answered through a clenched jaw.\n\n\"How is everything, Ryder?\"\n\n\"Fine. Why?\"\n\nA silence greeted him for a few seconds. \"I was just wondering,\" Frank finally said.\n\nRyder cleared his throat. \"Everything is just fine.\"\n\n\"Good. I tried to call Kels, but she didn't answer. Is she all right?\"\n\nAll right? She was fucking fantastic was Ryder's thought, but he couldn't say that to Frank. \"She's probably in the shower.\"\n\nShit! Ryder didn't need that image in his head. His dick was hard enough to pound nails already.\n\nFrank chuckled in his ear. \"Okay, then. Tell her I called and I love her. I'll talk to you soon, son.\"\n\n\"All right, Dad.\" Ryder ended the call and walked to the window.\n\nThis was ridiculous. He wondered how much longer she was going to be here. He wasn't sure how much longer he could take having her here with him and it'd only been a few days. He slammed his fist on the wall alongside the window, and then swore at the pain. His knuckles hadn't healed from hitting Big Earl yet.\n\nRyder sighed, and returned to his seat behind the desk. He figured he could look over the books, and do whatever else came to mind until he headed back inside. Give his body some time to calm down. He couldn't avoid her forever. If only he could.\n\n****\n\nKelsey leaned her head back against the tub and closed her eyes. Damn him. He wanted her. She restlessly moved her legs. She was still on fire from his touch. No man had ever made her feel that way that quickly. She wanted him inside her and he'd moved away. Moved away! He got a fucking conscience and pulled back from her. Told her they couldn't do it. Damn him. God damn him! If he were standing in front of her, she'd slug him. She hoped his dick stayed hard all night. She snorted and laughed. Then she sobered when she remembered how she'd felt him hard against her thigh and how fantastic he'd felt. Long, thick, and hard. She jerked when a sudden knock sounded on the bathroom door. He called her name.\n\n\"Go away, Ryder.\"\n\n\"Are you all right?\"\n\n\"Sure. I'm not the one sexually frustrated right now.\" She placed her hand over her mouth and grinned maliciously when she heard him swear.\n\n\"I just wanted to tell you that Frank called. He said to tell you he loved you.\" He cleared his throat. \"I'm going to bed.\"\n\n\"Thank you...Ryder?\"\n\n\"Yes?\" Why did he suddenly sound hopeful? Was he? No! He'd made his opinion quite clear.\n\n\"Hope you and your hand have a nice night together,\" she yelled through the door, and then laughed when she heard him swearing as he walked away.\n\nDamn him anyway. Even Daniel hadn't gotten her to an orgasm like he had, and Ryder had only used his hand. She shivered against the warm water, feeling her body react at the memory. If he was that good with just his hand, she wondered what he could do with the rest of his body. She'd never felt that way before. She groaned when she remembered him sticking his finger into his mouth and sucking her essence from it. God! He was so fucking hot.\n\nShe wanted to see him...all of him. Every. Delectable. Inch. Of. Him. Because what she'd felt against her leg had been very impressive, and she had no doubt he knew what to do with it. Daniel had never touched her like that. He'd never done much in the foreplay area. He was too anxious to get inside her, and get off. She'd always been left wanting...craving for more, just as she was now.\n\nKelsey pulled the plug on the tub and stood up as the water began draining away like she wished the throbbing of her body would. The water ran down her body as she reached for a fluffy towel. After drying off, she pulled on a pair of lounge pants and a T-shirt. Entering her bedroom, she looked at the empty bed and sighed. She had a feeling it was going to be a long night. Again. After pulling the quilt back on the bed, she climbed beneath the covers and turned the bedside light off. Taking a deep breath, she blew it out and stared at the ceiling hoping sleep would come before daylight crept through the lace curtains.\n\n# Chapter Four\n\nSunlight played across her face, waking her. Kelsey stretched against the pillows and mattress before sitting up and glancing toward the window. Once again, she heard hammering. She threw back the covers, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and slipped her feet into her slippers. She pulled the quilt from the bed up around her shoulders and walked to the window. The sun reflected off the snow making it almost impossible to see at first. Once her eyes adjusted, she saw smoke pouring out of the chimney that jutted up from the smaller barn roof. She decided she was going out there today, so she quickly dressed and headed toward the kitchen. After getting a quick cup of coffee, she put on her boots, hat, and coat before heading outside. She let her eyes adjust to the brightness before walking down the steps. Someone had shoveled a path through the snow leading to the barns. Kelsey followed it and stopped at the door of the smaller barn. She smelled fresh sawdust. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and stepped inside.\n\nShe let her eyes adjust again and once they did, she gazed around in awe. Wood furniture sat everywhere. She heard a saw running and walked toward the sound. She saw Ryder standing at a table saw with safety goggles on. She stepped in front of him and waved her hands so he'd see her. She watched him turn off the saw, raise his goggles up, and push them up on top of his head.\n\n\"So this is what you do in here? You make furniture?\" She was astounded at the beauty of the furniture sitting around. From bedroom suites to dining room tables and rows of rocking chairs. She realized the one that was in his living room was just like the ones sitting in there.\n\nHe grinned. \"What do you think?\"\n\nKelsey shook her head and walked toward the rockers. She ran her hand over the top of one of them. The surface was as smooth as glass. The cedar gleamed, and the lighter shade of wood running through the darker wood was beautiful. She sat in one of them and rocked it. She watched Ryder walking toward her. She gazed up at him when he stopped in front of her.\n\n\"I love this. I'd love to have one.\" She grinned.\n\nRyder took a seat in the rocker beside her. She glanced at him as she rocked the chair. Who knew this is what he did out in this barn? She glanced around at the other pieces in the space and when her eyes landed on an armoire, the beauty of the piece stole her breath. It was made from cherry.\n\nShe pushed out of the rocker and walked over to it. She ran her hands over it, and then opened the doors looking inside and inhaling the wonderful aroma. It was a truly beautiful piece of furniture. She turned around and looked at him with admiration.\n\n\"You made all of this? You made this?\" she asked caressing the fine wood.\n\n\"Yes, and most of them are sold already too. Just waiting for pick-up. One of my best customers owns a furniture store in Billings. He usually sends a big truck here to pick up a huge order. He came here last month to pick up an armoire I'd made for him to give to his wife for her birthday.\"\n\n\"My mom would love to go through here. She's a big furniture nut.\" She spun around and looked at him. \"You made the furniture in my bedroom, didn't you?\"\n\n\"I made all the furniture in my home, except the couch and recliners. Well, maybe a few other things.\" He shrugged and flashed a grin at her.\n\n\"But you have horses too?\"\n\n\"My main business is my ranch, the Paint horses I breed and sell. This is just a hobby that took off like wildfire.\"\n\n\"I can see why. It's all so beautiful.\" This was the most talkative he'd been since her arrival. Of course, they both failed to talk about the issue hanging in the air between them.\n\n\"Thank you. Look, I need to get back to work. I only work out here on the weekends and I have a customer coming tomorrow to pick up a bedroom suite.\"\n\n\"All right. I'll get out of your way. Did you have breakfast?\"\n\n\"Hours ago. I'd love some lunch though in about an hour. If you don't mind?\"\n\nShe smiled. \"No problem. I'll fix you something. Is there supposed to be more snow?\"\n\n\"Yes. The weatherman is calling for up to a foot more tonight. I'll have to make sure we have plenty of firewood and gas for the generator, in case the power goes out.\"\n\n\"Do you think it will?\"\n\nRyder shrugged and moved to stand by the table saw. \"We never know around here. It has before and it will again. Don't worry, we'll stay warm.\" He lowered his goggles and turned on the saw.\n\nKelsey nodded and left the barn to head back to the house. She looked around at all of the snow. She'd never seen so much snow, not in person anyway. It was beautiful. She glanced back to the barn when she reached the back door. She knew of one way to stay warm...with Ryder. Of course, all she had to do was think about the time on the couch and she was burning up. Damn. If only she could get him to admit he wanted her and to stop worrying about what Frank would think. Suddenly, she was hoping the power would go out tonight.\n\nAbout an hour later, Ryder entered the kitchen and took off his hat and coat. After hanging them up, he told he was going to make a fire, just in case and headed off to the living room. A short while later, he returned to the kitchen and washed his hands in the kitchen sink. He took a seat at the table and Kelsey set a hamburger in front of him.\n\n\"I hope that's all right. I didn't know how big of a lunch you'd want.\"\n\n\"It's just fine,\" Ryder told her as he spread mustard on the bun. He glanced up at her and raised an eyebrow. \"Aren't you eating?\"\n\n\"I already did.\"\n\nHe nodded, picked up the sandwich, and took a big bite. \"Umm...this is good. Different.\"\n\n\"I added some spices to the meat. Who wants a plain old hamburger?\"\n\n\"Not me, not anymore.\"\n\nKelsey laughed, appreciating how he was enjoying his lunch. \"I have steaks out for dinner. How do you like yours?\"\n\n\"Rare.\"\n\nKelsey made a face and gave a mock shudder. \"How in the world do you eat it like that? Isn't it still mooing?\"\n\n\"Only way to eat a steak, darlin', more than that and you cook the flavor out.\"\n\n\"Uncle Frank eats it that way too.\"\n\nRyder chuckled. \"Who do you think got me started on it that way?\"\n\n\"They were good to you, weren't they?\"\n\nHe stared at her for a few seconds. \"Yes, they were.\"\n\nIt was obvious he wasn't going to say anything more on the subject. He simply finished his burger and then stood. After putting his plate in the sink, he grabbed his hat and coat, and was gone.\n\nKelsey blew out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She was never sure what she could say without offending him. The man was a puzzle, but one she'd very much love to solve.\n\n****\n\nAfter working a few more hours on the furniture order, and Kelsey feeding him one of the best steak dinners he'd had in a long time, Ryder returned to the main barn to feed the horses. Since it was the weekend, he took care of it himself. He gave his men weekends off when possible. The only one around full-time was his manager, Cookie Bridges, and he rarely left the ranch. He and his wife, Charlene lived in a small house behind the barns.\n\nAs he walked down the aisle with the bucket of feed, the horses stuck their heads over their gates. He talked to each one as he fed them. He opened Tramp's gate and entered the stall. The horse butted his head against Ryder's chest.\n\n\"Hey, buddy. Are you hungry?\" Ryder chuckled when the horse bobbed his head up and down.\n\nTramp was one of Ryder's best studs. The horse had high stud fees, and it was because of this particular horse and his stud that his business thrived the way it did. People from across the states came to buy a Paint with Tramp's bloodlines. A five year old with black, brown, and white markings, he stood seventeen hands tall and had blue eyes. He was a gorgeous animal and Ryder loved him. The feeling was mutual. Tramp would let no one else near him if Ryder wasn't close by.\n\nAs Ryder poured the oats into the feed bucket, Tramp pushed him in the back. Ryder spun around and grinned. \"What the hell was that for? I'm pouring the food as fast as I can. You can't be that hungry.\"\n\nTramp took the brim of Ryder's hat in his teeth and pulled it from his head. He bobbed his head up and down with the hat between his teeth. When Ryder reached for it, Tramp turned his head away. Ryder put the bucket down and stared at the horse fighting to keep from laughing.\n\n\"You think you're such a smartass. Give me my hat or you're dog food.\" Tramp dropped the hat and butted Ryder against his chest. Ryder chuckled and patted Tramp's strong neck. \"You know better than to believe that of me, don't you, boy?\"\n\nOnce the feed was in the bucket, Tramp pushed Ryder out of the way and started eating. He ignored Ryder as he munched on the oats. \"You don't even acknowledge me now, do you?\"\n\nWhen the horse didn't raise his head, Ryder smiled, patted Tramp on the neck, picked up the other bucket, and left the stall. He wanted to get inside before it got much darker and the snow piled even higher.\n\nAs he checked to make sure everything was secure in the barn, he thought about Kelsey. She was hard to read, that one. Last night, she was angry, angry that he'd respected her and stopped things before they got out of control. She hadn't brought it up so he sure as hell wasn't going to, but then she'd complimented his work on the furniture and now she was cooking for him like he was something special. Did that mean she'd forgiven him, or was she just planning her revenge through kindness and compliments? Women. Impossible. Simply impossible.\n\nLeaving the barn, he pulled his collar up, whistled for the dogs that appeared from around the side of the barn, and together they hurried through the snow as it began falling faster and heavier. Just as he opened the back door and entered the kitchen, the lights flickered once. He stopped, took off his hat, and waited. Just as he shrugged out of his damp coat, the lights flickered again, and then went out. Damn!\n\n****\n\nKelsey jerked when the lights went out. It was early evening but with the snow, it seemed later. The kitchen went dark yet with the reflection off the snow, the yard seemed suddenly brighter. She watched as Ryder hung up his hat and coat. Then he turned toward her.\n\n\"I think you should get blankets and a pillow from your room, along with anything else you need, and put them in the living room. I don't know how long the power will stay out and I'd rather you get everything now then have to do it in the dark.\"\n\n\"All right.\" Kelsey headed down the hallway and pulled a pillow and blanket off the bed. She had just entered the living room and laid them on the sofa when the power suddenly came back on. She sighed in relief.\n\nRyder shrugged. \"We never know what might happen. I don't think it would be a bad idea to sleep in the living room tonight anyway. I have a generator, but since this early snow caught me off guard, I hadn't laid in any additional fuel for it, so I'm not sure how long it will keep the lights on.\" He took a seat in the recliner. \"Whatever you wear to bed, you'd better make sure it will keep you warm.\"\n\n\"I'll change into my sweatpants...\" She hesitated for a heartbeat remembering what had happened when she wore them last night. Heat flashed over her body thinking about Ryder stripping them off her legs. She refused to look at him and headed toward her bedroom.\n\nShit, shit, shit! She clenched her fists and hissed. Maybe he had forgotten how he'd humiliated her. She snorted. Yeah, about as much as she had. Her body shivered with sudden arousal remembering the way he had brought her body to life and now she might have to sleep next to him in the living room. Should she pray for the power to go off or stay on? Either way, she decided God was punishing her for some misdeeds she was unaware of having committed.\n\nKelsey quickly changed her clothes and walked slowly back to the living room. Ryder was adding wood to the fire and the room was feeling very warm and cozy. The blue and orange flames wrapped around the logs filling the room with the scent of burning wood. She took a seat on the sofa, pulling her legs up under her, and stared up at the TV, but she couldn't keep her eyes from seeking out Ryder. He took his seat in the recliner again, stretched his longs legs out in front of him, and crossed his booted feet at the ankles.\n\nGod! He was so gorgeous. That black hair needed a trim but it looked so sexy on him and the stubble on his face, neck, and jaw made her fingers itch to touch it. She'd love to scrape her fingernails over it. Her eyes traveled down his chest to the fly of his jeans and she had to bite her lip to keep from groaning as she remembered how he'd felt against her leg. Hard, long...she raised her eyes and saw him looking at her. She felt a flaming hot blush heat her face.\n\n\"You keep looking at me like that and I'll finish what I started last night, darlin',\" he said in a low tone of voice.\n\n\"Please\u2014\"\n\n\"Please? You begging now?\"\n\nShe was sure her mouth dropped open, but she saw he was trying not to grin. Was he baiting her to make her angry, or had he changed his mind? She gave him a half-smile. \"I don't think I'd need to beg,\" she said with a shrug and glanced back to the TV.\n\nRyder laughed. \"Damn right you wouldn't.\" He pulled his tall frame from the recliner and it came up right with a thud drawing her attention back to him. \"I better find some candles. I have a feeling we may need them.\"\n\n\"I can't believe this snow,\" Kelsey said as she gazed out the front window, grateful for the change in subject. The snow was coming down so heavily that it looked like a whiteout or what she thought a whiteout would be like since she'd never experienced one at home in Georgia. She just knew she couldn't see the driveway at all. \"Are your horses in?\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed. I always make sure the babies are in when it gets this bad.\"\n\n\"Babies?\" Kelsey grinned.\n\nRyder chuckled. \"Yep, those horses are my babies.\" He left the room.\n\nKelsey couldn't keep from watching the snow. Watching it fall was fascinating. She'd only seen snow like this on television or in the movies. Never in person. She glanced toward Ryder when he returned. \"Did you find candles?\"\n\n\"I did. Flashlights and a deck of cards too. If the power goes off, we'll most likely get bored so we can always play cards.\" He raised an eyebrow. \"Unless you've got some better ideas on how to pass the time?\" He laughed when she shook her head feeling the heat in her cheeks again. \"I need to check the generator. I'll be right back.\"\n\n\"Where is it?\"\n\n\"In the shed next to the house.\"\n\n\"You're going out in this?\" she asked in a shocked voice.\n\n\"I've done it before.\" He walked out of the room and headed to the kitchen. A few minutes later, she heard the back door open and close. His dogs ran from the back room to the kitchen.\n\nKelsey called to them and they ran to her, but kept whining. \"I'm sure he'll be fine. Maybe you two can sleep with me, if I need to keep warm, huh. Can you keep me warm, Badger? How about you, Buttons?\" She laughed when the dogs tried to push each other out of the way to get to her.\n\nShe heard the back door open and close then a sound like he was stomping his feet. Ryder walked into the living room rubbing his hands together. He wore a frown of frustration.\n\n\"Let's hope the power stays on. There's almost no fuel in the generator. I can't believe I didn't think to get any for it. Always be prepared. Son of a bitch,\" he muttered.\n\n\"The fire should keep us warm.\"\n\n\"Yeah, we do have plenty of wood. I'll keep it going all night. I'll even light the one in my bedroom.\"\n\n\"You have a fireplace in your bedroom?\"\n\n\"Yes. Why?\"\n\n\"Well, it's just...you know, so romantic.\"\n\nRyder stared at her and then burst out laughing. \"There's nothing romantic about it. I put one in there for just this reason...snow storms and power outages.\"\n\n\"You really know how to burst a woman's bubble, Ryder.\"\n\n\"Why? Because I'm not romantic?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Well, if you're really game, darlin', we can sleep in there and I'll show you just how romantic I can be,\" he said with a dangerous waggle of his eyebrows.\n\nKelsey was about to answer when the lights went out again. She looked up at Ryder. \"I wonder how long it will be out this time.\"\n\nThe wind picked up outside, howling as it blew snow against the windows.\n\n\"I guess we'll find out.\"\n\n\"I can't believe it's snowing like this. It's only mid-October.\"\n\n\"Well, as I said before. Welcome to Montana.\"\n\n\"Should we go ahead and start a card game?\"\n\n\"Or we could make-out.\"\n\nShe could hear the laughter in his voice and threw a couch pillow at him. He dodged it and laughed.\n\n\"I'm not the one who threw ice water on things last night so be careful or I'll take you up on your offer.\" She picked the cards up and started shuffling them. She nearly laughed at the incredulous expression on his face. She suspected she'd shocked him.\n\n\"Poker?\" she asked him. \"Strip maybe?\"\n\n\"Now who's teasing?\" he countered.\n\n\"Don't throw out innuendoes if you can't handle getting them back, Ryder. You make me think you've only got sex on the brain.\" Ha! Like she didn't as well.\n\nHe burst out laughing. \"I'm a man, remember?\"\n\nOh, she remembered all right. How could she not? She looked at him from under her lashes. The firelight played over his hair. She'd love to take him up on that make-out session. She dealt the cards. Five card stud. They played for a few hours. She beat him one time. He was relentless and good.\n\n\"You do realize that if we'd been playing strip, you'd be naked by now.\" He winked at her, making her laugh.\n\n\"I can't believe we've been playing this long.\" She yawned. \"I'm getting sleepy now.\"\n\n\"Let's get the blankets ready and get some sleep.\"\n\nKelsey nodded and helped him get the blankets on the sofa and in the recliner. The fire was keeping the room warm but if it died, they'd both get cold.\n\n\"Don't worry. I'll keep the fire going,\" Ryder told her as if reading her mind.\n\n\"I know you will, but you'll need to sleep too.\"\n\n\"I will. Get some sleep, Kelsey. Maybe the power will come back on before the night is over.\"\n\nShe nodded and crawled between the blankets. She'd taken the couch and he lay back in his recliner. The fire felt good but she prayed the power came back on.\n\n****\n\nRyder pulled his boots off dropping them to the floor alongside the chair, and then lifted the lever on the recliner to lift the footrest and lower the chair's back. He put the pillow behind his head and tugged on the blanket to cover his chest. He glanced over at Kelsey, but she had her back to him with the blanket almost covering her entire head. All he could see was the top of her blonde head.\n\nHe wasn't sure how long he sat there staring at her but when she moaned in her sleep, his dick woke up. Christ! He threw the blankets off and stood to add wood to the fire, although he thought it was already hot as hell in the room. The damn woman was going to be the death of him. He should have told Frank he couldn't keep her in his home. She was too beautiful. Her body was fantastic and he walked around with a constant hard-on. A hard-on that was only going to go away once he had himself buried deep inside her. He groaned.\n\nAs quietly as he could, he laid the logs in the grate and moved them around with the poker.\n\n\"Ryder?\"\n\nHe glanced over his shoulder. \"What?\"\n\n\"The power is still off?\"\n\n\"Yes. Go back to sleep.\"\n\n\"What time is it?\"\n\nHe looked over to the grandfather clock in the corner. \"Three.\"\n\n\"Have you slept at all?\"\n\n\"Christ, Kelsey. Go to sleep,\" he growled at her.\n\n\"What are you so angry about?\"\n\nRyder stood and ran his fingers through his hair. \"I'm not angry.\"\n\nKelsey snorted. \"Yeah, okay...right.\"\n\nHe spun around and glared at her. \"Could you just let it go and go back to sleep?\"\n\n\"Maybe I'm not sleepy anymore.\"\n\n\"Holy shit! Fine then you can take care of the fire and I'll go to sleep.\" He watched her sit up.\n\n\"It's not the fire keeping you awake. You're suddenly in a piss ass mood for some reason.\"\n\nHe strode over to the couch and stood over her, his hands at his hips. \"You want to know why I'm in a piss ass mood. Because of you. All right? I can't sleep because I can't stop watching you sleep. I'm wide-awake because of you. You're making my dick hard. Happy now?\"\n\nKelsey sat there staring up at him just blinking those big blue eyes. Then she narrowed them at him, threw back her covers, and slowly stood, her eyes never wavering from his. \"Whose fault is that? Yours, Ryder. Not mine. I wasn't the one who put the brakes on things. That's all on you.\"\n\n\"You know why\u2014\"\n\n\"Bullshit, Ryder. We're adults. This has nothing to do with Frank. So grow some balls and man up.\" She placed her hands on his chest and shoved him. He stepped back from her.\n\n\"The hell it doesn't have anything to do with Frank. He trusted me to keep you safe, not take you to bed,\" Ryder shouted at her.\n\n\"But you want to,\" she shouted back.\n\nRyder clenched his hands into fists. \"Hell yes, I want to. I'm a man, damn it, and you're a beautiful woman.\"\n\nKelsey stepped closer to him, resting a hand on his chest, and speaking in a lower voice. \"Prove it.\"\n\n\"Prove what?\"\n\n\"That you're a man.\"\n\n\"Go back to sleep,\" he growled as he started to turn away from her.\n\n\"Pussy,\" she whispered the challenge bold in her tone.\n\nHe spun around to face her. \"What? What did you just call me?\"\n\n\"You heard me.\" Her chin went up.\n\n\"I don't think I heard you right. Say it again.\"\n\n\"I called you a...pussy. Want to hear me say it again? You. Are. A. Pussy.\"\n\nRyder reached out, grasped her arms, and pulled her up against him. His mouth slammed down on hers and he thrust his tongue into her mouth. She moaned and when he let go of her arms, she wrapped them around his neck. He groaned when she pushed her hips against him. He moved his hands, down along her waist to cup her butt and lift her up. Her legs locked around his hips, and she moved against his hard cock. If she didn't stop, he was going to come right there.\n\nWithout releasing her mouth, he carried her to his bedroom and to the bed, laying her in the middle of it. He stared down at her, at her already swollen mouth and wanted more. He had one knee on the bed, and his eyes on her, as he removed his shirt, and then lay down beside her. He traced his fingertips over her eyebrows, nose, and lips then down her neck to the top of her shirt. He leaned down to kiss her while he rolled her sweatshirt up, stopping only long enough to lift it over her head. He groaned when he saw her breasts. She had fantastic breasts. His mouth covered hers again, slipping his tongue into her mouth, while he cupped her breast in his hand and kneaded it gently. His cock was so hard he ached.\n\n\"God, Kelsey. You're so beautiful. You're pure perfection.\"\n\nRyder ran his tongue down her neck to her breasts where one at a time, he took a nipple into his mouth. Kelsey grabbed fistfuls of his hair in her hands pressing his face closer and he gave her what he wanted. He tugged on her nipple gently with his teeth, swirling his tongue around it. Her hands ran down across his back, raking her nails lightly against his skin until her hands reached his hips, slipping around front to the snap on his jeans. She opened it and slowly lowered the zipper. His hard cock pressed against the back of her fingers, through the cloth of his boxer briefs.\n\nHe lifted his head, his eyes meeting hers while his hand slid along the top edge of her sweatpants, slipping inside, and then into her panties. She squirmed against his touch, her eyelids fluttered shut, and she moaned. He lowered his mouth over her lips and brushed them in a soft caress.\n\n\"Do you want me to stop?\" he whispered against her lips.\n\nKelsey's eyes flew open and she drew back slightly. \"Are you friggin' nuts? No!\"\n\nRyder chuckled. \"I was hoping you'd say that.\" He pressed his lips to hers, kissing her deeper, tasting the sweetness of her mouth. His fingers moved into the folds of her sex. She was wet, making him moan. He almost shot off the bed when she wrapped her hand around his hard dick. She smiled up at him. \"You don't seem to be lacking in any areas, Ryder.\"\n\nHe grinned against her lips, and then pressed his lips to hers again. He felt her push his jeans down past his hips but he had no plans to let her take control. He broke the kiss and pressed his lips in quick kisses and the occasional lick of his tongue along her neck, down her chest and across her stomach, removing her sweatpants as he did.\n\nSnagging her red panties in his teeth, he pulled them down. She was panting and he heard her giggle when he used his teeth. He moved his tongue through her curls, stroking his tongue across her clitoris turning her giggle to a gasp. He pushed her panties down over her legs and off. He kissed his way up her legs, stopping at the scar on her outer left thigh. He pressed his lips to the mark, tracing his tongue against it before moving along to the sweet wet heaven where her legs come together.\n\nRyder flicked his tongue against her clitoris, hearing her moan, and then put his mouth over it to suck on it. She squirmed and lifted her hips, pressing her body against his face. He slowly inserted two fingers into her as he continued to suck her. He reveled in the feel of her hot body coming and clenching around his fingers right before she cried out his name. He pressed his cock against her leg before spreading her legs with his knees and settling between them. He was so ready to inch into her, but then he made himself stop.\n\n\"Don't stop now, Ryder,\" Kelsey whispered in pleading voice, cupping his face, and gazing into his eyes.\n\n\"I need a condom,\" he muttered. He pulled away long enough to retrieve a condom from the drawer in the night table by the bed. After ripping the packet open, he sheathed himself, and then settled between her thighs once more. He cupped her face, brushing hair away from her cheeks, and stared down into her flushed face. \"Are you sure?\"\n\n\"Yes, I've never been so sure of anything in my life,\" she said in a breathless voice then gasped and moaned as he began pressing into her. Her legs wrapped around his hips and she quickly matched his rhythm.\n\n\"You feel so fucking good,\" Ryder whispered against her ear. He smiled when he felt her tremble, and then pressed her mouth to his neck.\n\n\"Oh, God. Ryder, you feel amazing,\" she whispered in his ear then she caught his earlobe with her teeth, making him shudder.\n\nHe kissed her hard, moving his tongue into her mouth and growled against it when she sucked on it. He was breathless, his voice hoarse when he lifted his head. \"When you suck on my tongue, it shoots straight to my cock.\"\n\n\"I want to suck on that too,\" she whispered, and then gasped, her eyes wide as if in surprise. \"I've never said anything like that in my life.\"\n\nRyder chuckled and kissed her again. \"Say whatever you want. I love it and as far as doing that, I'll let you...later.\"\n\nKelsey laughed as she tightened her legs around his waist. He picked up the pace and moved into her harder and faster. Her inner muscles clenched around his cock and her head went back against the pillow as she screamed out his name. Ryder tried to hold out, but he couldn't. Feeling her squeezing him sent him over the edge. He growled out her name and came. Hard. It had never felt anything like this before. He collapsed on top of her with both of them trying to catch their breaths. Their bodies still pressed against each other were slick with sweat.\n\n\"So, that's what a mind-blowing orgasm feels like,\" Kelsey whispered breathlessly.\n\n\"It must be. Never felt like that for me before.\" Ryder rolled off her and lay beside her, closing his eyes against the way his body felt...like every ounce of energy had been sucked out of him.\n\n\"Really?\"\n\nIt took him a moment to answer. \"Yes. Really.\"\n\nCool air settled over his skin raising gooseflesh. He moved to sit on the side of the bed and removed the condom. It wasn't something he wanted her to see.\n\n\"Where are you going?\"\n\n\"I need to put more wood on the fires. I'll be right back.\" He stood, pulled on his jeans then headed out the door, dropping the condom in the trash as he left the room to go to the living room.\n\nThe fire was still going strong but he wanted to keep it going to keep the house warm. He added logs, stoked it to a blaze, and then carried some wood back to the bedroom. He crouched down, added logs to the fire, and used the poker to move them around until the fire was fully alive again. He glanced over his shoulder to see Kelsey sitting up and watching him. Her breasts gleamed in the firelight. He felt his dick start to swell again. Son of a bitch! She reached her arms out to him.\n\nHow could something that left him feeling so distasteful, feel so totally amazing?\n\n\"Come back to bed, Ryder.\" She was so beautiful, so alluring. He couldn't resist her even when he knew he should.\n\nHe pushed to his feet, removing his jeans as he moved toward the bed. His conscience told him, he should leave them on as a protective barrier but he resisted that thought knowing full well, the cloth wouldn't stop him. After climbing back into the bed, he gathered Kelsey close and wrapped his arms around her. She wrapped an arm around his waist and rested her cheek on his chest. He shifted making her groan in disappointment. But when he reached for the quilt at the bottom of the bed and pulled it over them, she smiled up at him.\n\n\"We need to get some sleep. It's late.\" He kissed the top of her head. He stared at the flames flickering shadows across the ceiling until he heard her breathing change. He knew she'd fallen asleep. Now, if he could just do the same.\n\n# Chapter Five\n\n\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\n\nThe next morning, Kelsey awoke to an empty bed. She glanced around the room. The light from the fireplace hadn't been enough to allow her to see it last night, not that she was very interested at the time. It was definitely a man's room. A beautiful cedar dresser sat against the far wall, next to the fireplace, with a door between them leading to a bathroom. French doors leading to a covered deck and a closet sat on another wall. Her eyes traveled back to the fireplace. It was open on both sides. She threw the covers back and walked into the bathroom. Inside, she found a large Jacuzzi tub next to the fireplace and a stand-up shower against the opposite wall. She smiled with delight. A large skylight allowed sunshine through, lighting up the room. She sat on the side of the tub, fantasizing about lounging in it with Ryder, and desperately wanted to try it out. She'd never seen a fireplace in a bathroom before. It was so romantic. Sighing, she pushed any romantic thoughts from her mind, and decided to take a shower before getting some breakfast.\n\nAfter returning to her room for fresh clothes and dressing, she entered the kitchen to find Ryder standing at the stove frying bacon. She cleared her throat and then blushed when he turned toward her not knowing how he'd receive her this morning. He smiled at her and walked to her, cupped her face in his hands and kissed her lips.\n\n\"Good morning,\" he murmured against her lips.\n\n\"Good morning. You were gone when I woke.\"\n\nHe chuckled. \"I was starving. You made me work up quite an appetite.\"\n\n\"Oh sure. It was all me.\" She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back.\n\n\"Go sit down. I'll make you some breakfast then I need to head to the barn.\"\n\n\"You're leaving me for the barn?\"\n\n\"I have horses to take care of, darlin'.\"\n\n\"What if I need taking care of?\" she asked with a teasing tilt of her head\n\nRyder groaned. \"I'll be back later.\"\n\n\"Okay, those horses must really be something if you'd rather spend the morning with them than me.\"\n\n\"Oh, they are. Dark brown eyes that look so sad when I leave them. Except Tramp. He has blue eyes.\"\n\n\"I can look sad,\" she told him frowning and pouting out her bottom lip.\n\nHe leaned down and nibbled on her lip. \"I promise I'll make it up to you. They need to be fed and the men didn't make it in.\"\n\n\"Did we get a lot of snow?\"\n\n\"A foot, but it will be gone by tomorrow. It's supposed to warm up.\"\n\nKelsey sighed. \"Darn...I guess that means no power loss and no snuggling.\"\n\n\"Really? Who made up that rule?\" He nibbled on her neck.\n\n\"I think your bacon is burning.\" She grinned.\n\n\"Shit.\" Ryder hurried back to the stove and saved the bacon. \"What kind of eggs do you like?\"\n\n\"Scrambled.\"\n\n\"I like mine over-easy\u2014for future reference.\"\n\n\"If you're going to abandon me at first light, you'll get them over-easy your head,\" she muttered.\n\nRyder burst out laughing. \"I'll make my own breakfast then. I'm usually up at three-thirty but someone had other ideas last night.\"\n\n\"Oh yeah, blame me. You happened to be up at three.\"\n\nHe waggled his eyebrows at her. \"I was up after that too.\"\n\nKelsey laughed. \"Yes, and I'm so glad you were. It was a first for me. I've never had an orgasm during sex before.\"\n\n\"What? Are you serious?\"\n\n\"Yep. Sad, huh?\"\n\n\"What the hell kind of men have you been with?\"\n\n\"Not very sexually skilled ones obviously, including the last one who I thought I was in love with. He was only interested in getting himself off.\"\n\n\"And you thought you loved him?\"\n\n\"I did. I figured if I had love then I could live with bad sex.\"\n\n\"No one should have to live with bad sex,\" Ryder muttered.\n\n\"I know that now. I'll never settle again.\" She pulled a chair out from the table and sat down. Ryder placed a plate in front of her and her stomach growled in reaction to the wonderful aromas.\n\n\"Sounds like you worked up an appetite too.\"\n\nKelsey grinned, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. \"Honestly, I had kind of hoped to work up a greater appetite before getting up.\" She shrugged.\n\nShe heard Ryder groan. \"I won't be in the barn long and perhaps we'll work one up for lunch.\" He winked at her and grinned when she blushed yet again.\n\nShe was in so much trouble here. The man was way beyond hot and sexy. The things he'd done and whispered to her made her face heat up just thinking about them. Damn. It was getting hot in here. She smiled shyly at him, picked up her fork, and dug into breakfast. She moaned at the first taste and saw his eyebrows lift. Hoping to distract him from all the sex talk, she changed the subject.\n\n\"These are fantastic. You can cook breakfast for me anytime.\"\n\nRyder seemed surprised but then he grinned. \"Deal.\"\n\nThey finished their meal in relative silence. When he was finished, he stood then carried his plate to the sink. He glanced over his shoulder at her but then grabbed his coat and hat, putting them. \"I'll be back later.\"\n\n\"Can I come out there?\"\n\nHe looked startled by her question so he hesitated, but then grinned. \"Sure, if you want to, but its damn cold out there.\"\n\n\"I'm not some delicate flower, Ryder. I've never been in snow like this. I want to go outside.\"\n\nHe chuckled. \"Okay, No need to get testy. Get dressed, and come on out. I have to clear a path to the barn, so give me a few minutes.\"\n\n\"All right. Thank you.\" She smiled.\n\nHe shook his head as he opened the door. \"She wants to go outside,\" he muttered before closing the door behind him.\n\nKelsey laughed and then finished her breakfast. She'd clean up the kitchen before going out to join him. She hoped she packed her mittens. Her mom was supposed to be shipping her more clothes but she hadn't expected snow so soon after arriving here.\n\nKelsey sighed. She was hoping she wouldn't need more things but it looked like she was going to be here a while longer. Her mother told her that letters were still showing up at her apartment. As for emails, she hadn't received anymore but she wasn't sure if that was because her stalker feared they were too easy to trace or the blocking really worked. She couldn't help but wonder if her stalker could still find her and what would he do if he found her?\n\nEver since arriving in Clifton, she'd thought about going home. It was her first thought in the morning and her prayer at night. She wanted to go home. Or did she? After last night, she wasn't sure anymore. Being here with Ryder wasn't easy, and the man was hard to ignore.. He was gorgeous and sexy as sin, which was just bad for her. The most this could ever be was a fling...a lusty, mind-blowing sexy fling. She would go home someday. Right?\n\nHer insides quivered and she swore her heart skipped a beat thinking about last night. Sex had never been like that for her\u2014ever. Lord, what she had been missing all this time.\n\nRyder had pulled her from a deep sleep with his hands and mouth once more during the night and it had been just as mind-blowing. He could bring her to orgasm so easily with his mouth, his hands, and his body. Shit. Now she was horny. She had to stop lusting after him. He was right, it wasn't why she was here and it could only lead to disappointment in the end. Right?\n\nShe needed to get her coat on and go see the man in the barn. Hey cowboy, how about a roll in the hay? She laughed at the dirty thoughts rushing through her mind and even wondered if he'd go for it. She imagined kissing every inch of him and wanting to since, she hadn't gotten that chance yet. He had made it all about her last night. How she wanted time to explore that gorgeous body. The thought of running her fingers, and tongue, over his solid pecs and a six-pack stomach gave her chills and heat flashes at the same time. He said working the ranch and lifting bales of hay all day was more than enough workout to keep him in shape. You can say that again!\n\nKelsey quickly donned her coat and pulled a beanie over her head. Luckily, she did have her mittens. After putting them on, she stepped onto the porch. The cold hit her hard. She knew it would be cold but this snatched her breath away. Ryder had cleared a path that led directly to the barn. She hurried along the path and stepped inside the barn. She let her eyes adjust, and the warmth of the building washed over her, and then walked down the aisle. Horses stuck their heads over their stalls as if eager to see who the visitor was to their home. She rubbed their noses as she passed them, smiling at the noises they made in response. She saw Ryder come out of a room carrying a bucket. Her heart nearly stopped at the image he presented. He was the quintessential cowboy. She'd always been into cowboys and she was definitely into this one. He stopped when he saw her, smiled, and then walked toward her. He stopped in front of her.\n\n\"Hi, darlin',\" he said. \"I see you made your way here.\"\n\n\"Hi, yourself,\" she responded a bit disappointed he didn't kiss her. \"Yeah, the yellow brick road was easy to follow.\"\n\nHe chuckled and walked around her. \"Come on, I have to feed Tramp, and then we can go back to the house where it's much warmer.\"\n\n\"Why do we need to go to the house? We could always have a roll in the hay, as they say.\" She was trying not to laugh.\n\nRyder spun around, raised an eyebrow, and laughed. \"Have you ever had a roll in the hay? It pokes you.\"\n\n\"Oh, well I'd rather have you poke me,\" she told him with a grin.\n\nRyder burst out laughing and turned away.\n\nShe frowned at his lack of eagerness at her idea. She followed him through the barn watching him work. She couldn't keep her eyes off the way his jeans hugged his tight butt. Damn. She'd really hoped he'd be more in the mood. Maybe things looked different to him in the light of day.\n\nSome while later, Kelsey entered the kitchen with Ryder behind her. She was freezing. Georgia didn't do cold like Montana does. Her fingers felt numb, and she wasn't sure she if she could even smile the way her cheeks felt. She stood in the kitchen shivering.\n\n\"Take your coat off,\" Ryder said from behind her.\n\n\"No. I'm too cold.\"\n\nHe put his hands on her shoulders and leaned close. \"I'll have you warm in no time.\" The sound of that had her smiling as he turned her to face him and started unbuttoning her coat.\n\nShe kept her eyes on his face. He glanced up and their eyes met. She took her bottom lip between her teeth. She watched as he closed his eyes for a few seconds. When he opened them, she gasped at the heat in them.\n\n\"Ryder?\"\n\n\"I want you, Kelsey, honestly I do, but...,\" he paused, his fingers fell away from the front of her coat and he raked his fingers through his hair. He stepped away and pulled his coat off, hanging it on a hook alongside his hat. \"I'm going to get a fire going.\"\n\nKelsey stood there, silent, watching his back disappear into the living room. He wanted her, but... But what? She yanked off her mittens, hat, and then her coat, tossing them onto one of the kitchen chairs. Rubbing her hands to warm them, she walked into the living room and stood watching Ryder stoke the fire. Soon she was warm again, but she wasn't sure if it was from the blazing fire or the anger building inside her.\n\n****\n\nRyder could feel her eyes on him and knew what she expected of him since they had flirted wildly before he left to work in the barn. He hadn't meant to, he had intended to stay cool as usual but he wasn't used to having women stay overnight here and she looked so sexy sleeping in his bed. By the time she'd come in for breakfast, he thought he'd convinced himself it was only the one night. Nothing more. But then she was there, so beautiful and so sweet. She'd all but said he was the best she'd ever had. Hearing that made his body stand up and take notice again. When he left her, he was serious about coming back and working up an appetite for lunch and much more. It wasn't until he was in the cold light of the real world that things slapped him in the face. She was here for his protection. She could be gone tomorrow for all he knew and besides, he wasn't looking for anything permanent and Kelsey Sullivan had commitment written all over her.\n\n\"Warmer now,\" he asked standing and placing the poker in its stand. She was frowning at him and as he moved away to take a seat in his recliner, he silently begged her not to go there.\n\n\"Did I do something wrong?\"\n\nDamn. She was going there.\n\nHe shook his head and stared at the fire. \"Last night...\"\n\n\"Last night was amazing,\" Kelsey interjected coming to stand between him and the flames. \"You can't deny that it was.\"\n\n\"I'm not, darlin', but I am going to admit that it was a mistake.\"\n\nKelsey stepped back, her arms dropped to her sides and she turned to stare at the fire. He knew it wasn't what she wanted to hear but it was the truth. He might be a lot of things, but he was honest.\n\n\"Look, it was great, really great, but I'm not boyfriend material, Kelsey,\" he said rubbing his hand across the back of his neck.\n\nShe turned slowly, folded her arms across her chest, the action pushing her deliciously beautiful breasts high and making him all the more aware of them.\n\n\"Did I ask you to be my boyfriend, Ryder?\"\n\n\"No...but...well, I know how women get,\" he stumbled trying his best to crawl out of the hole he'd somehow dug for himself.\n\n\"Oh, you do, do you? Well, maybe I'm not like other women. Maybe I just like to have some fun. Maybe I'm not looking for a boyfriend,\" she exclaimed with a saucy toss of her silky blonde hair.\n\n\"It's just...well, you'll be leaving to go home once they find this guy and my home is here. So...there's just...\"\n\n\"Ryder, I get that you're uncomfortable with me here. Hell, I'll bet I'm the first woman to sleep in that bed with you...\" When he glanced down at her accusation, she laughed. \"I am, aren't I?\"\n\nHe nodded. \"This is my place. My sanctuary. I don't bring women here. My grandmother was the last truly good woman to live on this land...\"\n\nKelsey moved forward, perched on the edge of the coffee table, and reached a hand out. Her fingers gently stroked his hand and his eyes met hers. What was it about her that made him want to talk? He hated to talk.\n\n\"Frank told me a bit about how you came to live with him and Grace. He told me...about your parents.\"\n\nHe glanced at the fire. The thought of her knowing how unwanted he was by his own parents made him want to crawl into a hole and pull it in after him.\n\n\"You owe your parents nothing, they owe you. They brought you into this world and it was you that they owed a good life.\"\n\nHe looked at her and saw true compassion in her blue eyes. What she said was true and it wasn't the first time he'd heard that. Grace had told him that more than once until she'd won him over. He owed his parents nothing but he owed Frank and Grace the world for saving him.\n\n\"I loved my grandfather, much more than I loved my parents. He knew how they treated me and did everything he could to protect me, but he got sick and couldn't take care of me. I'd stay with him in the summertime, here on the ranch. I hated when school would start and I'd have to go back to them. I'm sure Frank told you how they treated me. They were drunks. All they did was lay around the house and make me wait on them. If I didn't do something they told me to do, I got a beating. The bigger I got, the worse they got. I wanted to live with my grandfather.\"\n\n\"Why didn't you or your grandfather report them?\"\n\n\"The same reason every child who's beaten doesn't. Embarrassment. My grandfather didn't report them because they threatened to take me away and he'd never see me again. They were ruthless enough to do it, and he knew it. The only ones who knew about how it was were my friends. The ones you met here. I made them promise not to tell anyone\u2014ever. To this day, no one mentions it.\" He paused, and she squeezed his hand.\n\n\"One of my friends, Riley Madison, lived through it with his own father. We were close. I tried to get him to run away with me, but he wouldn't go. He was afraid if he did and his father got him back, the beatings would be worse. Our parents were smart in the way they beat us. They never left a bruise where anyone could see it. If I had bruises and had to take gym, my mother would send a note in that I was sick and couldn't attend the class.\" He shook his head. \"I hated them both and I still do.\"\n\n\"They're still alive?\"\n\n\"Oh yeah, in fact, they call me almost monthly to ask for money. It will be a cold day in hell when I give them any. My grandfather died when I was fifteen. I was heartbroken. I loved him so much. I couldn't take it anymore so when I turned sixteen, I ran\u2014as far, and as long, as I could. I was heading for Florida and had made it as far as Georgia. I was so tired. I came upon a dirt road. Well, at least I thought it was a dirt road. It was Frank and Grace's driveway. I followed it until I came to a barn. I figured I'd just rest there for the night.\" He laughed. \"I was woken up by someone kicking my foot. I jumped up and tried to run, but Frank caught me by the collar. He told me he was taking me inside while he called the cops. But Grace wouldn't let him make the call. She told him to leave me alone and asked me if I was hungry. I told her no but when she put two ham sandwiches in front of me, I wolfed them down. She told Frank I was going to sleep on the couch. Of course, he told her if everything she owned was gone in the morning along with me, not to bitch to him. She winked at me and I knew right then, I wanted her to be my mom.\"\n\nKelsey reached over with her other hand and with both, she cupped his hand gently. She reminded him of Grace sometimes. \"They are both amazing people.\"\n\n\"I know, and I'm very fortunate to have them in my life. I call them Mom and Dad. They are my parents as far as I'm concerned.\"\n\nKelsey laughed. \"Frank told me about taking you fishing.\"\n\nRyder chuckled. \"I couldn't believe anyone could be that angry and not want to hit something, or someone. He's the one who talked me into trying my hand at building furniture. I had so much anger in me, and he said to take it out on something with a hammer. I thought he was joking but once I started doing just that, I began to love it.\"\n\n\"So how did you go from making furniture to having this ranch and breeding horses?\"\n\n\"My grandfather left me this ranch when he died, but I couldn't take possession until I turned twenty-one. Thing is, I didn't come back until I was twenty-three. I was traveling for two years and hard to track down. The lawyer finally contacted Frank. It seemed he never knew I'd been living with Frank and Grace. My parents were living here on the ranch in the original house. The house they burned to the ground by one of them falling asleep with a cigarette in their hand. They both got out but everything was lost. When I came back to the ranch, they had an RV hooked up, and they were living out of it. I told them to get off the ranch but they refused, so I called the sheriff and had them evicted. They weren't happy but they went. My grandfather had left me a lot of money too. He knew I dreamed of owning a Paint horse ranch.\"\n\nRyder took a deep breath. \"He left me a letter, telling me how proud he was of me and to follow my dream. I did. I started going to auctions and buying horses. I bought a few horses from Becca when she decided to turn the house into a bed and breakfast. She needed gentle riding horses, so I took the Paints off her hands. When I bought Tramp, I knew he was the perfect stud. I was right too. People come from across the states to have their mares bred with him. I make a ton of money on stud fees alone. Jake, Gabe, and Wyatt helped me get things established. They raise and sell Quarter horses along with training them. Because of them, I was well on my way.\"\n\n\"They seem like great friends. I like all your friends.\"\n\nRyder narrowed his eyes at her. \"Is that so?\"\n\n\"Yes. It's too bad Trick is married. He is really hot and don't even get me started on the sheriff.\" She squealed when he suddenly pulled her onto his lap. She wrapped her arm around his shoulders and smiled down at him.\n\nHe felt better telling her his past. He'd never shared any of it with a woman before.\n\n\"Trick would never leave Kaylee, so no hope for you there.\"\n\n\"Oh, okay. What about Sam?\"\n\n\"You're really pushing it, darlin'.\" Ryder laughed. \"Sam is seeing someone, so leave him alone. Christ, we all grew up with the girls, and then women, chasing after Wyatt, Trick, and Sam.\"\n\n\"Oh yeah, like the rest of you are chopped liver.\"\n\nRyder burst out laughing. \"We had our share, but it got to be where it was a competition. When we were in our twenties, we were terrible with the girls at least until Sam took off to college, then the playing field got a little easier. When Trick married Kaylee, it was down to Wyatt. Then he left for the Marines. Finally, the rest of us had a chance.\"\n\n\"Oh please. I don't believe that for a minute.\"\n\nRyder grinned. \"No?\"\n\n\"Nope.\" Kelsey brushed a kiss along his lips, and then frowned. \"What kind of name is Trick?\"\n\n\"His real name is Patrick but when he was little, he couldn't say it. He called himself Trick and it stuck. The only one who gets away with calling him Patrick is Kaylee. That woman could call him hey you and he'd be fine with it. He loves her very much.\"\n\n\"They seem very happy. All of them do. I really liked the women I met.\"\n\n\"They're all great and have made their men very happy.\"\n\n\"Don't you ever want to get married? Be happy like that?\"\n\n\"No. It isn't that I don't want to be happy. I just don't want kids. I never want to be like my parents were, and mistreat anyone.\"\n\n\"That's bullshit, Ryder. In fact, you'd be a great parent because you know what it's like, plus the fact that Frank and Grace raised you right.\"\n\n\"It doesn't matter.\"\n\nShe didn't respond but he saw her brow furrow, and she glanced past him for a moment. When she looked at him again, she reached up and touched the scar by his eye. \"How did you get this?\"\n\n\"I brought my old man the wrong beer so he threw the bottle at me. I didn't duck fast enough.\"\n\nKelsey gasped. \"How can people be like that?\"\n\n\"I have no idea. If they didn't want a child, they shouldn't have had one. Unless they had me just so they'd have someone to wait on them. I did everything around the house.\"\n\n\"Where are they now?\"\n\n\"I don't know. Last month when they called, they were in Utah. I don't care where they are. I never want to see them again\u2014ever. It's bad enough when they call me. Always asking for money.\"\n\n\"You don't send them any, do you?\"\n\n\"No. I never will. It's my money. I made it, not them. They didn't do anything but lie around the house collecting disability. For what, I have no idea. They aren't disabled. They're just lazy. I think they found a doctor who would say they are, though what kind of doctor would lie for them I have no idea.\"\n\n\"It's hard to tell.\"\n\n****\n\nKelsey stared into his green eyes and saw the pain there. She lifted her hand and gently caressed his cheek. He closed his eyes and leaned into her hand. Her heart broke just a little for him knowing how unwanted he'd felt for most of his life. She wanted to tell him she wanted him, but it wasn't the way he needed someone to want him. She closed her eyes a moment against the ache in her chest. When she opened them, he was staring at her and the heat in his eyes could have rivaled the flames in the fireplace.\n\nHe slid his hand along her neck beneath her hair and pulled her face down close to his. He pressed his lips to hers. He moved his tongue along the seam of her lips until she opened for him. She groaned when his tongue moved into her mouth, dueling with hers. She wanted him, even if not the way a parent wanted a child, she wanted him the way a woman wanted a man.\n\nShe pulled back from him and kept her eyes on him as she moved to get off his lap. He moved to pull her back to him but she shook her head. He frowned at her. She dropped to her knees between his knees. Reaching out, she pulled his T-shirt over his head and smiled.\n\n\"If you remember, I told you last night there is something I want to do to you,\" she whispered as she unhooked his belt buckle and opened the snap of his jeans. She slowly lowered the zipper and moved her hand inside, wrapping it around his hard cock. She heard him groan.\n\n\"Lift your butt a bit,\" she ordered him with a grin. He laughed but did what she told him. She pushed his jeans, along with his boxer briefs, down to his thighs. She leaned forward and kissed the head of his hard eager cock.\n\nRyder fisted his hands in her hair, the sensation thrilling and encouraging her to run her tongue along the length of him from top to bottom. She cupped his balls in her hand as she put her mouth down over him as far as she could. She moaned and he shuddered. Dropping her hand from him, she gazed up at him as she sucked on him. His eyes met hers. Her mouth was making his shaft slick. She sucked hard and his head went back as he moaned out her name.\n\nKelsey had honestly never enjoyed this before but with Ryder, she wanted to make him come apart for her just as she had for him. She felt his thighs tremble beneath her arms and she loved that she was making him weak in the knees.\n\n\"Kelsey, you have to stop, darlin',\" he groaned through gritted teeth. He was holding back and she didn't want him to.\n\n\"Just let me do this, Ryder.\"\n\n\"I'm too close.\" He tried to pull back, his fingers tangling in her hair.\n\n\"Good.\"\n\nRyder blew out a laugh. \"No, not good. I want to be inside you.\"\n\n\"Later,\" she told him, and then took him deep into her mouth and sucked hard.\n\nHe stiffened as a low groan tore from his chest and he came. Kelsey licked him clean and kissed her way up his chest to his lips. He deepened the kiss and pulled her tightly against him.\n\n\"You didn't have to do that,\" he told her with a grin. She knew he enjoyed it.\n\n\"I know. I wanted to.\" She leaned in and kissed him again.\n\n\"Well, thank you. It was amazing. Now I owe you.\"\n\n\"No. I owed you...for last night.\" She smiled.\n\n\"I think we need to head to the bedroom and work up our appetites for lunch.\"\n\n\"Can we get in that big Jacuzzi of yours first?\"\n\n\"Sure.\"\n\n\"Can you make a fire in there?\"\n\n\"Whatever you want, darlin'. Come on.\" She pushed to her feet and watched him stand, pulling his jeans up but leaving them undone. He took her hand, and led her to the bedroom.\n\nOnce they reached the bedroom, she entered the bathroom and started the water in the tub while Ryder added logs to the fireplace. The fire had gone out earlier, so he had to light it again but she could hear the snap and crackle of the wood so she knew it was strong. While she stripped off her clothes, she watched the blue and orange flames flicker around the logs. She stepped into the tub and sank down into the water. The hot water felt amazing after being out in the cold even though she'd warmed up by the fire. She watched as Ryder stripped off the rest of his clothes before stepping into the tub. He turned the jets on and Kelsey moaned at the sensations.\n\nRyder moved closer to her and kissed her. His mouth moved across her cheek to her ear where he tugged on her earlobe. \"Sit on the edge of the tub, baby,\" he whispered in her ear.\n\nShe opened her eyes wide. \"What?\"\n\nHe smiled at her. \"Trust me.\"\n\n\"All right.\" She scooted up and sat on the edge of the tub. The air cooled against her skin but the warmth of the fire behind her was keeping her warm. When he spread her legs and settled between them, she knew what he was going to do. \"Ryder...\"\n\n\"Shhh. Relax,\" he said as he kissed her inner thigh and slowly moved closer to his target.\n\nHer legs started shaking as he moved them over his shoulders. She grasped the edge of the tub and moaned when he moved his tongue through her strip of curls. Her head fell back as his tongue moved against her clitoris, and then he sucked on it. She felt him inching his fingers inside her. He moved them against her G-spot as he continued his assault on her clitoris. When the orgasm hit her, she screamed and almost slipped off the tub edge into the water but Ryder caught her and held her against him. Slowly, he lowered her into the tub.\n\n\"Are you all right?\"\n\n\"Oh my God! That was amazing.\" She was breathing hard, almost painfully. She'd never experienced anything like that before.\n\nRyder kissed her. \"I love how you taste.\" She blushed tasting herself on his lips. He ran his fingertip over the scar on her thigh. She stiffened up. \"Don't be embarrassed by this. It's a part of you and there is nothing ugly about it. That man who told you that was an ass.\"\n\n\"I know he is, but it's hard to get past it.\"\n\n\"Trust me when I tell you that you are beautiful.\" His gaze traveled over her making her suddenly self-conscious yet feeling exquisite, sexy, and for perhaps the first time in a long time, beautiful.\n\nRyder sighed, brought his eyes up to meet hers, and grinned. \"I'm hungry. I guess I came through with that promise to make sure we worked up an appetite for lunch, huh?\"\n\nHe stood and put his hand out to her. She accepted it and stood. He pulled her to him and kissed her lips quickly. \"What do you say we get some lunch.\"\n\nKelsey nodded. Ryder helped her from the tub and both of them dried off. She wrapped the towel around her. \"I need to go put some clothes on.\"\n\n\"Your robe is fine.\" He winked at her. She smiled and ran from the room. She put her robe on and met him in the living room. He was stoking the fire back to a roaring blaze.\n\n\"I love the way both fireplaces are open on both sides.\"\n\nRyder glanced at her over his shoulder. \"Just seemed like the smart thing to do to keep the house warm, if I needed to.\"\n\n\"It works well. What would you like for lunch?\"\n\nHe grinned at her, making her laugh then he scooped her up into his arms, kissed her hard and she knew exactly what he wanted. They walked to the kitchen, where she fixed lunch, and then spent the rest of the day in bed.\n\n# Chapter Six\n\nThe next day, the weather was indeed warmer, which made the snow start melting away. The sun was high in the sky and shining down brightly. Water dripped from the remnants of icicles hanging from the gutters around the house. Kelsey sat at the kitchen table, tapping her fingers while Ryder finished his lunch. She sighed. She felt Ryder's eyes on her so she shifted her gaze and met his straight on.\n\n\"What is it?\" he asked her.\n\n\"I'm bored. Can we go to town? I'd like to get off this ranch for a while.\"\n\n\"So you hate the ranch?\" His expression told her just how much he took that as a personal affront.\n\n\"No. I love the ranch. It's just that I'd love to see some more of the area. I didn't get to see much when we went to the party the other night.\"\n\n\"Oh. All right. I guess we can go to dinner in Hartland tonight if you'd like and see a movie.\"\n\n\"Hartland?\"\n\n\"Next town over. It has a nice restaurant. The only thing in Clifton is the diner.\"\n\nKelsey smiled. \"Oh, I'd like that very much.\"\n\n\"Good. We'll leave here around six. I'll call and make a reservation.\"\n\n\"Is it a fancy place? I just need to know what to wear.\"\n\n\"It's not really fancy. I've seen women in there, wearing dresses, jeans, or dress slacks. So wear whatever you want.\"\n\nKelsey was thrilled to be going out. They hadn't been anywhere since the party and as much as she loved the ranch and being with Ryder, she needed to get out before she went stir-crazy.\n\n****\n\nRyder walked in the back door at five to get a shower but when he entered the living room to find Kelsey on the sofa watching TV, he stopped to stare at her.\n\n\"Aren't you going to get ready? We leave in half an hour.\"\n\n\"All I have to do is get dressed. I'm waiting on you.\"\n\n\"Give me a few minutes to shower.\" He walked down the hallway to his bedroom, stripped out of his clothes, and entered the bathroom. He couldn't help but think it was a shame she only had to dress because he would like to have tempted her into taking a shower with him.\n\nDamn, his dick started to rise just at the thought of her in here with him. He really liked shower sex and frankly, didn't get the opportunity much since he didn't tend to hang around at any woman's place long enough.\n\nShit! His damn cock was more than ready for her. Lowering the temperature of the water some, he placed his hands on the wall under the showerhead and watched as the day's dirt swirled down the drain. After quickly washing his hair, he stepped out of the stall and grabbed a towel. After drying off, he proceeded to the bedroom to dress. His glance going to the bed, the memory of Kelsey there with him was so strong he thought he could smell her in the room as if she was still there. He stared at the bed, and a wave of guilt rushed over him. He knew he'd let things get too out of control. As attracted to Kelsey as he was, things needed to slow down. He needed her to understand how it was.\n\nRyder pulled out clean jeans and a black T-shirt, and after dressing, he headed toward the living room. He came to a dead stop when he entered the room. Kelsey stood in the center of the room wearing a short black dress that fit like a glove. She had her hands clasped in front of her. On her feet were black stilettos. She walked to him and stopped in front of him.\n\n\"Do I look all right?\" she asked him. In her heels, she was almost as tall as he was.\n\nHe ran his gaze down over her. The dress was a good bit above her knees. He knew she had great legs, but they looked even better in the dress, and even longer. Her hair was in waves over her shoulders and her makeup was perfect. Her lips were full with red lipstick. He closed his eyes and groaned fighting the urge to scoop her into his arms, carry her to the bedroom, strip that dress off and make her scream with delight.\n\n\"Do you look all right?\" He swallowed hard. \"You look great. Perfect for dinner.\" He reached out to touch her hair but then pulled back. \"I'll have to keep the guys from wanting to peel that dress off of you.\"\n\nKelsey laughed softly. \"Oh, don't worry. You're the only one I'd like to have peel it off me. You can do that when we come back. In the meantime, you promised me dinner and a movie.\"\n\nWhen he didn't say anything, Kelsey looked at him. \"You look yummy too.\" She lightly kissed his lips.\n\nRyder pulled away, and stepped to the chair where she'd laid her coat. He shook his head and held her coat for her. \"Let's get it done with then.\"\n\nKelsey frowned at him. \"I'm sorry. You really do look so good, Kelsey.\"\n\nShe nodded and slipped her arms into her coat. He lifted her hair from her coat, and pressed a soft kiss against the back of her neck. He felt her tremble and tense. He wanted her it was true, but what then?\n\nShe turned to face him. \"You're being bad, Ryder.\"\n\nRyder laughed wishing it were that easy. \"Okay, let's go. It's about a twenty minute drive.\"\n\nOnce they arrived, a hostess showed them to their table and handed them menus. A few moments later, a server came to take their order for drinks while they perused the entrees.\n\n\"Any ideas about what you want?\" Kelsey asked him, her eyes roaming the menu. When she glanced up their eyes met and he knew she was thinking about something other than food.\n\n\"It's been a while since I ate here last but the steak is good,\" he answered before taking a sip of water.\n\nKelsey quickly glanced around. \"Right, steak?\"\n\nThe server came back to take their orders and both decided to with the steak.\n\nKelsey smiled at him after the server left. She leaned forward. \"I'm not wearing panties under this dress.\"\n\nRyder choked on his beer, almost spitting it out. He glared at her.\n\n\"You're telling me this now, why?\"\n\nKelsey nodded her head and laughed. He sat back in his chair and stared at her. She smiled at him and fluttered her eyelashes. He groaned.\n\nWhen their dinner arrived, Ryder picked up his knife and fork.\n\n\"We need to talk, Kelsey,\" he said without looking at her and trying not to imagine what was not under that dress.\n\nAs if she thought he was playing with her, Kelsey cut her steak, gazed at him, put the piece of meat in her mouth slowly, and chewed even more slowly. Closing her eyes, she moaned. \"This is so good.\" She drew the word so out very long. \"I need to savor the flavor.\"\n\nRyder dropped his fork on the plate. Everyone in the restaurant turned to look at him. He glanced around then back to Kelsey. He closed his eyes a moment then took a long pull on his beer.\n\n\"You're gonna regret that, darlin'. Trust me.\"\n\nKelsey laughed. \"Can't wait.\" She leaned across the table, showing her cleavage. \"Bring it on.\"\n\nRyder hissed out a breath. \"I'm serious, Kelsey. We've got to stop playing games.\"\n\nShe sat back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest. \"Is that what we've been doing, Ryder, playing games?\"\n\nShit! He hated confrontation and complications, and right now, he was up to his ass in both. He cut a piece of meat and put it in his mouth. He chewed it, not really tasting it. He'd lost his appetite.\n\n\"So what are we doing, Ryder,\" Kelsey asked pushing her food around on her plate.\n\n\"I told you from the start that I wasn't looking for anything serious and that I didn't feel right about taking advantage of you when you're supposed to be under my protection. The last couple of days...well, they've been...it shouldn't have happened.\"\n\n\"Is this why you offered to take me out to dinner and a movie? To placate me? Oh, take her to a nice place and lower the boom on her, she won't make a scene in public,\" Kelsey hissed. He knew that look, and that tone. He was screwed now\u2014royally.\n\n\"I hadn't planned anything of the sort, I simply wanted to take you someplace nice,\" he said without looking at her. \"But then you told me that you weren't wearing any...you know.\" He waved his knife in her general direction.\n\n\"Oh, so that bothers you, Ryder. Why? Are you worried some other man is going to...what? Smell my desire for a strong man between my legs. Well, I thought that was you, but maybe I was wrong. You've turned out to be a pussy after all. I'm not interested in anything long-term, forever or whatever it is, you think I want. I just want your hot hard cock,\" she lowered her voice to a sexy hoarse whisper on those last words and that was all it took him to tell his conscience to just fuck it.\n\nHe jumped up and grabbed her wrist. \"Damn it, we're leaving.\" He paid the check and pulled her along behind him. She practically ran to keep up with him.\n\nThey didn't make it to the movie. In fact, if Ryder hadn't kept his eyes glued to the road in front of the truck he would have pulled over to the side and had her right there. As it was, he drove them home as fast as he could without getting into trouble. Even though he had convinced himself that he wasn't going to give in to his desire for her again, he had to have her.\n\nHe steered the truck into his driveway and didn't bother closing the gate behind them. Pulling up alongside the house, he slammed on the brakes, shut off the engine, and climbed from the truck. Kelsey was already out when he got around to her side, but barely. She smiled at him and he wanted to take her right there. He slammed the truck door, grabbed her hand, and nearly dragged her to the back door. He threw the door open, was greeted by the dogs, who he ushered outside, and pulled her into the house. Without taking off their outer clothes, except his hat which he tossed toward the hook on the wall and made Kelsey squeal with delight when it caught and stayed hanging there, he led her to his bedroom, and then to the bathroom.\n\n\"You need a shower?\" she exclaimed with a bold laugh.\n\n\"I've been thinking of shower sex with you since I had a shower earlier. I want you, and I want you now and in the shower. Get your clothes off,\" he said as threw off his coat, followed by his shirt off over his head. He reached for the snap of his jeans but stopped when he saw her standing there staring at him with a pouty mouth and a woeful expression.\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Where's the foreplay? The romance?\"\n\n\"Seriously? I'm so fucking hard for you right now that I might not make it out of my clothes.\"\n\nShe placed the back of her hand against her forehead and in an exaggerated southern voice said, \"Ah do declare, that is the sexiest thing ah have ever heard.\"\n\nRyder stared at her. \"Christ, you're a smart ass.\"\n\nKelsey laughed, and then squealed when he spun her around, yanked off her coat, and then lowered the zipper on her dress. He pushed it down her arms to her feet. He turned her back around and realized just how near naked she was all this time. She was standing there in nothing but those hot stiletto heels. He allowed his gaze to travel slowly over her flushed body.\n\n\"You are so beautiful,\" he whispered as he lowered his face toward hers. \"Kiss me,\" he said against her lips.\n\nShe pressed her lips to his and moved her tongue into his mouth. He groaned when he felt her lowering the zipper on his jeans. She pulled back from him and stared up at him.\n\n\"You weren't kidding. You're so fuckin' hard that I can't get the zipper down.\" She smiled up at him.\n\n\"Fuck it,\" he said as he reached between them and lowered the zipper. Then he pushed his jeans down. After toeing off his boots, he removed his jeans and boxer briefs. His hard cock sprang forward. When she wrapped her hand around it, he growled low in his throat.\n\n\"In the shower, woman. Now,\" he ordered, and then reached down and into the back pocket of his jeans. He retrieved a condom while he watched her step from her shoes. \"I'd like to play with those later,\" he said pointing at the heels. With a grin, he turned the shower on, then stepped in, and pulled her against him, taking her lips in a deep kiss. \"I can't wait. I have to have you.\"\n\n\"I want you too. Please...\"\n\nRyder pushed her against the tiles of the shower and placed his hands under her butt, lifting her. Her legs wrapped around him. He moved his hand between her legs to her wet, hot folds.\n\n\"Fuck. You're so wet.\" He handed her the condom, which she rolled down over him, making him grit his teeth. Then he moved closer and inched into her. Both of them groaned as he slid into her hot depths. \"Hard and fast, darlin'. This time it has to be hard and fast.\"\n\nHe gazed into her eyes to see if she agreed. When she nodded her head, he pulled out and slammed back into her making her gasp. Her arms wrapped around his neck as she held on while Ryder pounded into her. He knew he wasn't going to last so he hoped she came before he did. When she bit his shoulder, he felt her clench around his cock and so moved faster against her. Kelsey screamed out right before he groaned out her name. Coming hard. He leaned his forehead on her shoulder, trying to catch his breath. She was breathing hard too.\n\n\"Damn, that was good.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she whispered against his neck.\n\nRyder pulled back and looked into her eyes. \"Are you all right?\"\n\nShe smiled at him. \"Wonderful.\"\n\nHe chuckled. \"More than wonderful, sweetheart.\" He let her down slowly. When her knees buckled, he caught her. \"Let me wash you off.\" He picked up the soap, created a thick, foamy lather, and then washed her. When he moved up her legs to her strip of curls, he felt himself getting hard again. Is that even possible? He looked at Kelsey and saw her looking at his growing cock. She raised her eyes and looked at him with a sly smile on her lips.\n\n\"What?\"\n\nShe burst out laughing. \"Do you think you should bother washing me, when you're ready to go again?\"\n\nRyder grinned. \"I suppose I can wash you later,\" he told her as he stepped from the shower, and then reached his hand out to her. She took it and stepped out with him. He grabbed a towel and dried them off before leading her to the bedroom. He watched as she climbed onto the bed. He pulled a condom from the drawer beside the bed and sheathed himself.\n\n\"That is so sexy,\" she said.\n\n\"What is?\"\n\n\"Watching you putting a condom on.\"\n\nRyder climbed onto the bed beside her and lay out on his back. \"I want you to ride me.\"\n\nKelsey straddled his waist and lowered herself down over him. He placed his hands on her hips and tried to lift her.\n\n\"No. I'm in charge on this one so behave, Ryder.\"\n\nHe growled but took his hands from her hips and placed them on her thighs instead. She started to raise and lower herself on him. He clenched his jaw as she moved slowly, wishing he could replace his hands on her hips to guide her.\n\n\"I can't take this,\" he gritted out through his teeth, right before he flipped her to her back and thrust into her. He pulled out, rolled her to her stomach, and lifted her hips. He slowly inched into her from behind. \"Get on your hands and knees.\"\n\n\"Oh, I've never done it like this, Ryder.\"\n\n\"Do you want me to stop? I will.\"\n\n\"No, please don't stop,\" she groaned out and thrust her hips back at him.\n\nRyder slammed in and out of her, and then sat back on his heels pulling her into his lap. She immediately took over. It wasn't long before he felt her body clenching around his cock, and then she cried out. He pushed her forward and pounded into her. Hard. His orgasm, when it grabbed him, had him seeing stars. He collapsed on top of her sweat-slicked back.\n\n\"You just couldn't let me be in charge, could you?\" she asked in a breathless voice.\n\nHe chuckled. \"Next time. You were killing me.\" He rolled off her. \"I think we both need to shower and then get some sleep.\"\n\n\"I'm taking a shower first,\" she said as she climbed out of the bed without even a glance.\n\n\"We can't shower together?\"\n\n\"No, not this time. I'll be right back.\"\n\nHe nodded even though she couldn't see it. He knew it was better he didn't join her. \"I'll be right here.\" In the meantime, he'd just rest his eyes while he waited.\n\n****\n\nKelsey sat in the window seat and stared out the front window. It was now the second week of November and more snow would be moving in. Where had October gone? She'd been here a month and since the first time they had sex, she'd slept with Ryder every night. He'd hold her close to him all night but nothing more. No words, not even a clue of how he felt about her other than the occasional bout of silent treatment. Ever since that night at the restaurant, he hadn't told her again that it was a mistake but then, she'd brought that on by telling him she hadn't wanted more. That he could be any man. Now, thoughts of him filled her brain even when she tried not to think of him. She was feeling more than she should. She was falling in love with him and if he knew, he'd send her packing.\n\nShe heard the back door open and close. She knew Ryder had just come in from working in the barn. The man never seemed to stop. Just then, the phone rang and she listened as he answered.\n\n\"Wolfe Ranch.\" A pause. \"Hey Dad, how are you?\"\n\nKelsey could hear the smile in Ryder's voice. She stood and walked to the kitchen and leaned against the doorjamb, watching him. As he talked, he shrugged out of his coat, strolled to the mudroom to hang it up, and removed his hat, hanging it on a hook in the hallway as he returned to the kitchen. When he saw her and smiled at her.\n\n\"No. Don't worry about that. Go ahead and have fun. I wouldn't be able to anyway.\" He poured himself a cup of coffee. \"Kelsey's fine. Probably a little bored, but fine.\" He winked at her, and then grinned when she blushed.\n\n\"Can I say hi?\" she asked with an eagerness she hadn't expected. She wasn't sure if she wanted to know if things had settled enough to go home or not.\n\n\"Hold on, Dad.\" Ryder handed her the phone and leaned a hip against the counter. He poured a cup of coffee and sipped as he watched her.\n\nShe put the phone to her ear. \"Hi, Uncle Frank.\"\n\n\"Hi, Kels, hon. How are things going?\"\n\n\"Things are going good. Seriously, I am not as bored as Ryder told you,\" she told him with a grin.\n\n\"That's good, hon. I'm sorry to say there's not much going on here with regard to Dowling either. They haven't found him yet, so he could still be looking for you. As much as I'd love for you to come home, we can't take the chance of you coming home yet.\"\n\n\"I know. It's okay, really. I'm doing fine, really I am.\"\n\n\"I'm hoping we can get you home in time for Christmas.\"\n\nShe was torn about going home. She didn't even want to think of that right now. \"That sounds good.\"\n\n\"Ryder's treating you well, then, is he?\" Frank laughed as if surprised by the idea.\n\nKelsey glanced at Ryder. \"Ryder's treating me very well. He's been most hospitable in making me feel comfortable.\" She grinned when she saw him raise an eyebrow. \"He's very good at what he does.\"\n\nRyder grinned and glanced away. She recognized the guilt attacking him.\n\n\"Are you talking about the wood he works with?\"\n\n\"Yes. I'm talking about his...wood.\" Her eyes traveled down to Ryder's fly.\n\nRyder inhaled quickly then choked on his coffee. He coughed a couple of times and grabbed the phone. \"Dad? Don't worry about Thanksgiving. You and Mom go and have a nice time.\"\n\nKelsey burst out laughing when he hung the phone up. She started backing up when Ryder strode toward her.\n\n\"You love being bad, don't you?\" he asked as he advanced.\n\n\"I was bad?\" she asked widening her eyes in an innocent manner. \"I just said you were good with your wood.\"\n\nRyder growled and reached for her. She spun around and ran from him. He caught her in the living room and pulled her down onto the sofa. He pressed his face in her neck and nibbled. She combed her fingers through his hair and pulled his mouth to hers. When his tongue entered her mouth, she moaned and then pulled back from him.\n\n\"Wait. What was that about Thanksgiving?\" she asked.\n\nRyder sighed. \"Since I'm not going home for it, they're taking a cruise.\"\n\n\"You can't go home because of me. Oh Ryder, I'm sorry. You should go. I can stay here. My parents are going to Canada.\"\n\n\"No. It's fine. I think they'd rather go on the cruise. I could hear the excitement in his voice.\"\n\n\"Should I cook a turkey for us? What about the men?\"\n\n\"The men all have homes to go to. I'll call Emma. Every year she invites me, but some years I go home. Sometimes, I'm just too busy to go home and I go eat with Emma and Gabe. The other Stones and their wives will be there too.\"\n\n\"They don't have family?\"\n\n\"They're the only family they have. Emma's parents are still alive but they usually go to Colorado for skiing.\"\n\nKelsey glanced away from him and bit back a smile. \"What about Sam?\"\n\n\"What about Sam?\" Ryder asked pulling back, a frown darkening his face.\n\n\"I was just wondering if he'll be there.\"\n\n\"No. He'll be having dinner with his parents and sister and probably the woman he's been seeing.\"\n\nKelsey pushed out her lower lip and when she heard Ryder growl low in his throat, she burst out laughing. \"I'm teasing you. I told you before none of them have anything on you, although if I had to choose someone other than you, I'd have a tough time choosing between Sam, Wyatt, and Trick. Sam's blue eyes are simply gorgeous.\" She wondered if he was truly jealous. She found herself hoping so.\n\n\"I sure as hell hope you never see Riley then.\"\n\n\"Ooh, so Riley's hot too?\"\n\n\"He must be. He has no trouble getting a woman, although he doesn't seem to keep 'em long.\"\n\n\"I seriously doubt any of you would, Ryder. And maybe he's just got fear of commitment issues...like you.\"\n\nHe frowned down at her. \"No comment.\"\n\nShe leaned toward him. \"Just shut up and kiss me,\" she whispered against his lips.\n\nKelsey felt him grin against her lips before pressing his to hers and sliding his tongue between hers. He hadn't denied his fears, but he also hadn't let guilt over what Frank would think of what they were doing stop him. That one small victory satisfied her as he picked her up and carried her away to the bedroom.\n\n\"I know a great way to spend the afternoon.\"\n\n\"Don't you have work to do?\" She pressed her lips to his neck, making him falter a bit in his pace.\n\n\"I'm the boss. I'm taking the rest of the day off,\" Ryder told her as he entered the bedroom and kicked the door closed.\n\n# Chapter Seven\n\n\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\n\nThanksgiving morning was cold, blustery, and snow was starting to fall. Ryder and Kelsey were getting ready to leave for Emma and Gabe's house.\n\n\"I'll start the truck so it's warm. They only live a few miles from me, but it will still be cold.\"\n\n\"All right. I can't wait to see them all again. I really enjoy Becca, Emma, and Olivia.\"\n\n\"They're great women. Liv tends to have a potty mouth, so prepare yourself for it.\" Ryder laughed and then went outside.\n\nKelsey got her coat from the mudroom and while she waited for him to come back inside, she stepped to the back door and peered out. She watched as he cleaned the truck off and couldn't help but notice the snow was getting heavier. He bounded up the steps and entered the kitchen.\n\n\"It should be warm enough now,\" he told her, knocking snow off his hat.\n\n\"You're sure it's okay to go out in the snow?\"\n\n\"This isn't much really. My truck can handle this and more. Trust me.\" Ryder took her coat from her hands. \"Of course, if you're worried, we can stay home.\"\n\nShe glanced up at him. If he were so confident, she wouldn't question his ability to drive safely in the snow. She shook her head, and smiled. \"Let me get the cake.\"\n\nShe had made a chocolate cake although Emma told her it wasn't necessary for her to bring anything. Ryder helped her put her coat on, and then she picked up the cake from the counter and they headed out into the snow and to the Stone home.\n\nWhen Kelsey and Ryder arrived at the Stone ranch, the snow had really begun to collect on the ground but the roads were still clear. As they entered the kitchen, the delicious scents of Thanksgiving filled their noses, and all eyes turned to greet them.\n\n\"What? Is my blouse buttoned wrong?\" Kelsey asked feeling suddenly self-conscious.\n\nEveryone laughed. Ryder took her coat and his to the mudroom to hang them up.\n\n\"I seem to remember another couple who's been late for Thanksgiving dinner.\" Becca and Emma looked at Wyatt.\n\n\"I have no idea what you're talking about.\" Wyatt grinned at them.\n\nKelsey was happy she'd made the cake since Becca brought pumpkin and apple pies, and Olivia brought Jell-O, the only thing she could make. It seemed the family, especially Wyatt, knew she couldn't cook worth a damn, but they all loved her anyway.\n\nShe glanced around the big kitchen. Gabe and Emma had a gorgeous home. Ryder had told her it was the original farmhouse where Gabe's parents had lived. When they passed away, Gabe took the house along with eleven hundred acres. He'd remodeled the kitchen with new black appliances.\n\n\"Let me show you our home, Kelsey.\" Emma took her arm and led her from the kitchen. They walked down a hallway to the front foyer. The entry door was wood with leaded glass, and sidelights on each side of it. The floors were dark cherry hardwood. Emma guided Kelsey to the left and they entered the living room. Dark green carpeting covered the floor. The fireplace had a dark cherry wood mantel, and there was a fire blazing in it. There were windows on each side of the mantel.\n\n\"We had this room carpeted after the baby was born. She plays in here a lot, so it was more cushion for her if she falls.\" Emma led her across the foyer to the dining room. A large mahogany table sat in the center with place settings. A large window on the sidewall, with a window seat, and a china cupboard on another wall, a long buffet ran along the other wall. A doorway led back to the kitchen. They went back through the foyer and up the carpeted stairs. Emma showed her the rest of the home. Kelsey fell in love with it. All of the bedrooms had working fireplaces in them.\n\n\"I envy you, Emma. It's a beautiful home and one that's obviously filled with love.\"\n\nEmma smiled at her. \"Thanks. I love it too.\"\n\nThey headed back downstairs. The men had gathered in the living room to watch football and the women were in the kitchen. Sophie, Emma and Gabe's daughter, was playing in the living room. The kitchen was buzzing with the women talking and laughing. Olivia hugged Kelsey when she joined them.\n\n\"I'm so glad you came. You'll love having Thanksgiving here.\"\n\n\"I'm sure I will. I'm glad my parents decided to go on a vacation, and Frank and Grace went on a cruise.\"\n\n\"I invite Ryder to join us every year. I'm never sure if he can take the time to go home to see Frank and Grace. He's been coming here a few years.\" Emma smiled at her.\n\nThe women worked together to finish getting the food ready and had just pulled the turkey out of the roaster when Wyatt entered the kitchen. He wrapped his arms around Olivia from behind and kissed her neck. She leaned back into him, putting her hands over his. He reached around her to grab a piece of turkey.\n\nBecca smacked his hand away and glared at him. \"That's why you came out here...to steal some food.\"\n\n\"Not the only reason.\" Wyatt grinned and kissed Olivia again, and then he left the room.\n\nOlivia sighed. When she looked at the other three women, she grinned. They all burst out laughing. Emma was shaking her head.\n\n\"You two amaze me. It's like you're not even married. Don't get me wrong. Gabe and I love each other immensely, but with Sophie, we don't get much privacy. You two have been married for five months now, is the honeymoon ever going to end?\"\n\nOlivia laughed. \"Are you serious? With that man...no, it's never going to end. It took me a long time to get him and I plan to make him happy every day.\"\n\nBecca groaned. \"Good Lord, Olivia. Does he ever get any rest at all?\"\n\nOlivia smiled. \"Not if I can help it.\" Making them all laugh again.\n\nKelsey was having so much fun. She was quickly coming to love these women.\n\n****\n\n\"What's so funny out there?\" Gabe obviously wanted to know, cocking his head in the direction of the kitchen to try to hear the conversation.\n\n\"I'm not asking. You get Emma, Becca, and Olivia together and there's no telling.\" Jake raised his hands and glanced at Ryder. \"Now they've included Kelsey in the mix.\" He shook his head. \"Not good, Ryder, not good at all.\"\n\nThe men laughed. Ryder stood to get another beer. Jake, Gabe, and Wyatt begged him to bring them each one too.\n\n\"Jesus, how many hands do you think I have?\" Ryder stared at them.\n\nWyatt got up. \"I'll go too. I need to see what Olivia's up to anyway.\"\n\nWhen the men walked into the kitchen, the women quit laughing and drew quiet. Wyatt and Ryder looked at each other then back to the women. Becca reacted first.\n\n\"You're just in time. Can one of you carry the turkey to the table?\"\n\nWyatt grinned, picked up the platter, and carried it to the dining room. Each of the women picked up something and carried it to the table too. When Kelsey came back into the kitchen, Ryder was still standing there, waiting for her. When she smiled at him, he stepped forward, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her. He felt her hands slide along his waist.\n\nRyder raised his head, and grinned when Becca, Emma, and Olivia walked back into the kitchen. \"Sorry, but I needed that.\"\n\nHe kissed Kelsey again quickly, and then left the room carrying bottles of beer.\n\nAfter returning to the living room, he handed each of the men a beer and told them the food was ready. Ryder followed the others into the dining room and took a seat beside Kelsey. He watched as Gabe carved the turkey. Ryder chuckled when he heard Kelsey's stomach growl.\n\n\"I'm starving and it all smells so good,\" she whispered rubbing her belly.\n\n\"Don't worry. Emma's one hell of a cook. She used to cook at the Clifton B and B until she got pregnant.\"\n\n\"Their daughter is just beautiful.\" Kelsey turned to Becca. \"How old is your son? He's such a handsome little fella.\"\n\n\"Of course, he's handsome, he's a Stone,\" Olivia said, acting the proud aunt.\n\n\"Can't argue with you there.\" Kelsey glanced at Ryder and grinned when he groaned at yet more adulation for the Stone brothers' good looks.\n\n\"Will is six months old,\" Becca said and laughed when Will slapped his hands on the highchair tray. When Sophie saw him doing it, she did the same thing.\n\n\"Remember when Thanksgiving dinners were quiet?\" Jake said above the noise.\n\n\"Quiet? How about the year, we had the food fight?\" Gabe laughed.\n\n\"I missed that one,\" Wyatt said narrowing his eyes at Olivia who glared back at him.\n\n\"Oh, yes. I remember it very well,\" Olivia remarked.\n\nWyatt grinned at her. \"I really pissed you off that day, didn't I, sweetheart?\"\n\n\"I'm still mad about it.\" She huffed. Wyatt put his arm around her and whispered in her ear, making her blush and laugh.\n\n\"What did he do to you, Liv?\" Kelsey asked.\n\n\"He didn't show up at all. It broke my heart.\"\n\n\"There was nothing going on between us then, darlin', so how could I break your heart?\"\n\n\"I know, but it did hurt. I was so looking forward to having you there that evening.\"\n\nWyatt kissed Olivia's temple. \"We have years of Thanksgiving dinners ahead of us to look forward to.\"\n\nOlivia smiled, and threw her arms around his neck.\n\n\"Holy shit. She honestly fell for that line?\" Gabe said.\n\n\"Daddy?\" Gabe gave his daughter his full attention. \"What's holy shit?\"\n\n\"Something you are never to say again, Sophie Ann Stone,\" Emma said, and then she looked at Gabe with a frown. \"Gabriel Stone, you know better.\"\n\nGabe looked embarrassed. Jake burst out laughing, and everyone joined in, including Emma and Gabe.\n\nKelsey stood. \"I need a refill on my drink. Anyone else?\"\n\nEveryone wanted refills, so the women headed to the kitchen to fill drink orders.\n\n****\n\nOnce they were in the kitchen, Olivia spun around, hands on hips, and narrowed her eyes at Kelsey.\n\n\"What?\" Kelsey asked, feeling everyone's eyes on her.\n\n\"Seriously? You're going to ask me what? You and Ryder. That's what,\" Olivia exclaimed.\n\nKelsey smiled. \"What can I say? We like each other.\"\n\nEmma burst out laughing. \"Like? Looked like more than just like to me.\"\n\nKelsey shrugged. She wasn't sure how Ryder would feel having all his friends know his business.\n\n\"How long has this been going on?\" Becca wanted to know.\n\n\"A few weeks now. One night, we got into it hot and heavy and the next thing I knew he was pulling away from me, telling me Frank wouldn't like it. I was so mad at him that night.\"\n\n\"I would have been too. So, did you do the nasty?\"\n\n\"Olivia Rene Roberts Stone,\" Becca scolded.\n\n\"Oh please. You want to know too.\"\n\nBecca laughed. \"Of course I do.\"\n\nKelsey laughed. \"Well, eventually we did but only because I challenged him. I called him a pussy.\"\n\nOlivia burst out laughing. \"I love this woman.\"\n\n\"We'd better get back. They'll start wondering what we're up to,\" Emma said.\n\n\"We're already wondering what you're up to,\" Gabe said as he stepped into the kitchen.\n\nThe women jerked in surprise, and then laughed. Emma walked over to him and stood on her toes to kiss his lips. He pulled her closer and wrapped his arms around her, pressing a kiss to her neck. He stepped back, and grinned.\n\n\"We should get back to dinner,\" he told them. Kelsey thought she saw a blush rise on his manly cheeks but perhaps it was the lighting. As a group, they nodded and Gabe helped them carry the drinks to the dining room.\n\nAn hour later, everyone sat in the living room, groaning. Olivia was lying on the floor in front of the recliner Wyatt was sitting in.\n\n\"Why did you all let me eat so much?\" she groaned, rubbing her tummy.\n\nWyatt stood, leaned down reaching for her. She put her hand up to his, and he clasped his large hand around her arm. When he pulled her up, he tossed her over his shoulder making her squeal.\n\n\"I'm sure we can work those calories off in some constructive way, sweetheart. Later everyone,\" Wyatt exclaimed as he carried his wife out of the living room. Olivia laughed, raised her hand, and waved at everyone.\n\n\"I think we'll head out too,\" Jake announced, and Becca nodded in agreement. She stood, gave everyone a hug, and went to get Will into his coat.\n\n\"Are you ready to go?\" Ryder asked Kelsey.\n\n\"Shouldn't I help Emma clean up?\"\n\n\"No. Go home. Gabe will help me,\" Emma told her with a bold grin as she hugged her husband around the waist.\n\n\"I will?\" Gabe's eyebrows rose in surprise.\n\n\"Yes you will, Gabriel, or you won't be working any calories off.\"\n\n\"Well hell. Sorry Ryder, uh...Kelsey, you both have to go.\"\n\nRyder and Kelsey laughed as they headed into the kitchen to retrieve their coats. After hugging Emma and Gabe, Kelsey took Ryder's hand, and together they ventured out into the snowy Thanksgiving evening.\n\nThey drove home in silence since Ryder had to concentrate on the slippery roads. Ice had mixed with the snow and Kelsey could hear it pinging on the roof and bouncing off the windshield. It made her nervous. She grabbed the handle above the door when the truck fishtailed slightly on the slippery road. She glanced over to Ryder.\n\n\"We're all right,\" he told her without looking at her.\n\n\"Okay,\" she whispered while saying a silent prayer. She'd experienced icy roads back home in Georgia, but not out in the middle of nowhere with several inches of snow in attendance too.\n\nShe blew out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding when he finally steered the truck into the driveway, not bothering with closing the gate, and parked it by the back door. Once the engine was off, Ryder opened his door and stepped out into the cold. Kelsey didn't wait for him, but threw open the door and stepped out. The icy snow stung her face, and she wanted to get inside where it was warm. As Kelsey moved toward the front of the truck, she hit a patch of ice and fell, landing on her butt. Ryder was by her side in an instant.\n\n\"You okay?\"\n\nShe gazed up at him, her pride stinging her. \"My butt hurts.\"\n\nRyder put his head down and she knew it was to hide his grin, but then he gazed at her. \"I suppose I could massage it for you.\"\n\nKelsey frowned. \"I don't know. Are you certified to give butt massages?\"\n\nRyder laughed and helped her up. She rubbed her butt as she entered the house. He helped her remove her coat and after hanging them up, he pulled her to him and kissed her lips.\n\n\"I really don't mind massaging your butt for you. I do like your ass.\"\n\n\"I'll think about it.\" She gave a little huff.\n\nRyder frowned at her. \"Spoilsport.\"\n\nHe took her hand and led her to the living room. After starting a fire, he pulled her down onto the couch next to him. The fire crackled and snapped as the flames reached up toward the flue. Kelsey snuggled against him and felt him rest his cheek on the top of her head.\n\n\"Are you asleep, Ryder?\" she whispered.\n\n\"Not yet. I could be any time though. It was a long day and big meal.\"\n\nKelsey stood and put her hand out to him. He looked up at her, and she smiled. He took her hand and pulled himself to his feet. They walked to his bedroom where he immediately took a seat on the edge of the bed and started to lift his T-shirt over his head but he was so tired, he was having trouble. Kelsey pushed his hands away and lifted it off over his head. She pushed him back onto the bed, pulled off his boots and socks, unbuckled and opened his jeans before pulling them off, quickly followed by his boxer briefs. He lay there looking so magnificent her mouth was watering. His eyes closed. She pushed his legs up onto the bed, and then covered him with a comforter. After kissing his forehead, she then left him there to take a hot bath in the Jacuzzi tub.\n\nLater, when she returned, she turned off the lights and crawled into bed beside him. He was sound asleep. Smiling, she pulled the covers up over his shoulders. She knew he'd gotten up early today to work in the barn before they headed to Gabe and Emma's for dinner. She smiled happily, when he pulled her close to him and wrapped his arms around her.\n\n\"Are you awake?\" she whispered.\n\n\"Uh huh, sorry I fell asleep.\" He kissed the top of her head.\n\n\"It's all right. Frank hopes I can get home by Christmas.\"\n\n\"I'm sure you'll be happy to get back to your home and job.\"\n\nThat wasn't anything like what she'd hoped to hear. She wanted him to tell her he didn't want her to leave. That she should stay in Clifton. That she should stay with him. She blinked tears away from her eyes.\n\n\"Do you...do you want me to leave, Ryder?\"\n\n\"It's where you belong, Kelsey.\"\n\nShe sat up pulling the covers with her. \"Is it?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Why?'\n\nRyder sat up and leaned back against the headboard. He rubbed his hands across his eyes and sighed. \"Because this will never amount to anything in the long run. I told you I wasn't interested in getting married and having kids. You're the kind of woman who wants all that and more, and frankly, you deserve to have it. I'm not the one to give it to you.\"\n\n\"You're crazy if you think you're anything like them. You're nothing like them.\"\n\n\"How the hell do you know?\" Ryder shouted.\n\n\"I know you would never hurt anyone physically. Not a woman and certainly not a child. You're not them, Ryder, and never will be. Frank and Grace raised you into the man that you are.\"\n\n\"I have their genes. I've read up on it. It could be hereditary...and I won't take that chance.\"\n\n\"Do you have any idea how stupid that sounds? I'm sure you've gotten angry many times over the years. Have you ever struck out at someone? The first night I met you, that big lug at Dewey's came after you but you didn't hit him, until he took a swing at you.\"\n\n\"You're not going to convince me.\"\n\n\"So, you're going to be alone for the rest of your life?\"\n\n\"If it's for the best, then yes. Let it go, Kelsey.\"\n\n\"I will not. Don't I have any say in this?\"\n\n\"No. Not in this you don't.\" Ryder swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. He didn't look at her. \"Go home when you can. It's the best thing that can happen here.\"\n\n\"After we\u2014\"\n\n\"Do not go there! I told you from the beginning. Before this even got started. You knew, Kelsey. You knew nothing would ever come of it.\"\n\nShe got out of the bed, pulled her robe on, and walked toward the door. She spun around and glared at him.\n\n\"Yeah, I knew but I didn't plan on this either. I didn't plan on falling in love with you\u2014\"\n\n\"Don't!\" He held his hand up as if to stop her from speaking, but he wasn't going to stop her.\n\n\"Fuck you, Ryder. I will say it. I love you and you're a fool if you let someone like me go.\" She left the room, slamming the door behind her and walked to the bedroom she'd slept in when she first arrived. She crawled between the cold sheets and wept.\n\n****\n\n\"Son of a bitch,\" he growled at the empty room. Damn her. She had to go home, didn't she understand? She might not think he could be like his biological father. But what if he was? He'd want to die if he ever hurt her, or a child. There was no way he was willing to take that chance.\n\nShit! He knew he wasn't going to get any sleep now. He crawled back between the sheets and glanced at the clock. Only midnight. It was going to be one hell of a long night.\n\nHe lay there staring at the ceiling. He decided he'd call Frank tomorrow, hell, later today, and let him know she was returning to Atlanta. Frank would watch out for her. Damn, the only thing wrong with that was, Frank and Grace were on a cruise until the first of December. And she'd said her parents were in Canada, so now what? Well, she'd have to stay here until either her parents, or Frank and Grace returned. Whether she wanted to or not. Hell, whether he wanted her to or not. He couldn't let her go back home and be there alone in case that maniac decided to go after her again.\n\nRyder frowned. He wondered if the creep was he still looking for her. Had he found out where she was? No, how could he? Why would he think she'd gone anywhere? Unless he'd called the hospital and found out, she wasn't there. No one would tell him where she'd gone. Or would they? Were the police still actively looking for him? Or had they lost interest in the case? He couldn't just disappear. He had to be somewhere and someone had to know where he was. Ryder was sure they'd checked with the man's family, so where was he?\n\nSuddenly, he wanted to call Frank and find out more about this jackass. He wanted to know who he hung out with, his friends, family\u2014hell, his enemies. Every fucking thing he could. Kelsey couldn't return home with that maniac still on the loose. She wouldn't be safe. He could just be waiting for her to return but then again, he could have taken off, never to return. Somehow, Ryder didn't think that was the case.\n\n# Chapter Eight\n\n\"I'm going home. I've called the airlines. You can take me to the bus station,\" Kelsey announced as she entered the kitchen.\n\nRyder wasn't in the mood for an argument as he was working on very little sleep.\n\n\"You're not going anywhere until either your parents, or Frank and Grace, get home.\"\n\n\"Nothing is going on. I'm going home. Either you take me to the bus station or I'll get a cab,\" she shouted at him from where she stood her back to the counter, and her arms folded across her chest.\n\n\"I'll tie you to the damn bed if I have to. You're not going anywhere,\" Ryder shouted back.\n\n\"Ha! That's the only way you'll ever get me in your bed again!\"\n\nRyder reached her in two strides and stared down into her face. She closed her mouth and her eyes widened. \"Really? Should I prove you wrong, darlin'?\" he said lowering his voice. He heard her gasp as she dropped her arms to her sides then clasped the edge of the counter as she leaned back.\n\n\"Back away, Ryder,\" Kelsey said between clenched teeth as she glared up at him.\n\nHe grinned down at her, leaning in slightly. \"Afraid I'm right?\"\n\n\"No. I know you can make me want you. I love you, so why wouldn't I want you?\"\n\nRyder stepped back from her, feeling as if he'd been slapped. \"Don't say that.\"\n\n\"It's true and whether you want to admit it or not, you love me too. I know you don't want to have kids, and I'm fine with that, but you'd never hurt a child, or me. I know that in my heart.\"\n\n\"You don't know shit. I'm not having this conversation with you yet again. It's done and over with. I will never get married, and I will never have kids.\"\n\n\"Then I'll live with you. I don't have to be married.\" Kelsey shrugged. \"I only have one close friend in Atlanta, Anne Llewelyn, and I'm sure she'd understand me deciding to stay here with you.\"\n\n\"God damn it, Kelsey,\" he roared wanting to punch something. \"You just don't get it. Just because we wouldn't be married, doesn't mean\u2014\"\n\n\"Bullshit, Ryder,\" she interjected then sighed. \"You know what? I'm the one who's done. I'll stay until the first, when Frank and Grace get home. It's only a week. Don't touch me or talk to me unless it's absolutely necessary.\" Kelsey spun on her heel and started to walk away when she suddenly stopped and turned back to look at him. There was disappointment in her blue eyes and it tore at him to see it there. \"You're a coward, Ryder Wolfe. A great big coward.\"\n\nRyder watched her walk away until she disappeared down the hallway. He winced when he heard the door slam. She just didn't understand. It would most certainly kill him if he ever hurt her, and it wasn't a chance he was ever willing to take. He'd spent so much time on the Internet and in libraries reading about how abusive behavior could be passed down generation to generation that he knew it was very possible he was just like his father. How could he ever take the chance? Shaking his head, he knew he couldn't. He'd live alone for the rest of his life before he'd take the chance of hurting anyone the way his parents had hurt him.\n\n****\n\nA week later, Frank called to let Kelsey know he and Grace were home. Kelsey's heart broke in to another million pieces. She knew the minute she walked out of this house, and Ryder's life, it would break beyond repair. She was sure Frank knew something was up by the way he talked to her.\n\n\"Are you sure you're all right, Kels?\"\n\n\"Yes. I suppose I'm just nervous about coming home,\" She was lying to him and somehow, she knew he knew.\n\n\"You're sure that's all it is?\"\n\nKelsey cleared her throat. \"I'm fine, Uncle Frank. Really. I'm just anxious to get back to my apartment, my job, and my life.\"\n\n\"We're all very happy to have you coming home but if something happens again, you're going right back to Ryder's place. Understood?\"\n\n\"I'm sure I won't be coming back here.\" Her throat was closing up, threatening to choke her. \"I need to get going for now but I'll call you when I know what flight I'll be on. Tell Aunt Grace, I love her. Goodbye.\"\n\nKelsey placed her hands over her face and sobbed. Where was she going to get the strength to call the airlines and make that reservation? When she'd told him she had a week earlier, she hadn't really because she'd hoped he would ask her to stay. She'd hoped she could get him to see that he loved her too but he was the most stubborn man she'd ever met. Now the thought of leaving Ryder and never seeing him again tore at her like a knife through her guts. How was she going to survive without him? No other man would ever completely own her heart because Ryder would always have it.\n\nTaking a deep breath, Kelsey gathered the strength to call the airline and make a reservation. She then called the bus station to reserve a ticket, and then order up a taxi to pick her up first thing in the morning to take her to the bus station. It took every bit of her willpower not to break down over the phone.\n\nShe pulled herself to her feet, took out her suitcases, and began to pack. It was a good thing her mother had sent an extra suitcase when she'd sent extra clothes. The thought of asking Ryder for assistance in getting her belongings home just went against any sense of pride she had left.\n\nKelsey couldn't keep the tears from falling as she packed. The hardest part was going to be telling Ryder she was leaving but she had to do it. She may be angry with him but she couldn't just leave without saying goodbye. She closed the suitcases and after wiping her face off, she left the bedroom to find him. It was time.\n\nShe walked to the living room but didn't see him there, so she headed to the kitchen. He wasn't there either. Opening the back door, she listened. Since it was Saturday, she was trying to hear if she could hear his saws running, but she heard only silence. It seemed strange and made the ache in her heart worse.\n\nGrabbing her coat from the peg, she put it on, and walked outside. The weatherman had said there was more snow moving in tomorrow, but she'd be gone by then. She'd come to love the snow. Ryder thought she was crazy for it, but she enjoyed it. Smiling sadly, she entered the smaller barn but the lights were out. Leaving there, she entered the main barn and after letting her eyes adjust, she walked down the aisle toward his office. Stopping along the way to talk with some of the horses and pet their velvet noses.\n\nWhen she reached the door of his office, she stopped. He was in there. She saw him through the window. She knocked and poked her head in. He glanced up at her. She stepped into the room.\n\n\"I'm leaving tomorrow. I ordered a cab to pick me up and take me to the bus station tomorrow then I'll take the bus to Butte.\" He didn't say anything as he continued to stare up at her. She blew out a breath. \"I'll be leaving first thing in the morning. The cab is picking me up at six.\" Still nothing, he didn't even blink. Kelsey could feel her temperature rising. \"Say something,\" she shouted at him, hoping for some kind of reaction.\n\nRyder stood slowly leaning his hands on his desk. \"There's nothing to say. You told me not to speak to you unless it was absolutely necessary.\"\n\n\"You're a real prick, Ryder Wolfe.\" She brushed a tear away from her cheek.\n\n\"I may be a prick, but I'm an honest one. I told you how I felt, from the very beginning.\"\n\n\"Fine. Goodbye then. Enjoy your life all alone. I may love you until I take my last breath, but I won't be alone. I'll find a man who will love me and give me children because he wants to.\"\n\n\"I'm happy for you. Goodbye.\" He sat back down, picked up a pen, and bent over a sheet of paper.\n\nShe was right. Her heart shattered. Damn him. Damn him to hell. He refused to look up again. He just went on working as if she'd told him the weather report. She turned, threw the door open wide, and ran out through the barn. Once inside the house, she ran to her bedroom, slamming the door once inside. Falling across the bed, she sobbed until she fell asleep.\n\nThe next morning, Kelsey carried her suitcases outside to the waiting taxi. The driver took her suitcases, and then helped her into the backseat. She glanced around but didn't see Ryder anywhere. What did you expect? He told you goodbye. She quickly blinked back the tears and stared straight ahead. She never wanted to see Wolfe Ranch or its owner again.\n\nLiar! Mentally shaking her head, she sat back and watched the countryside passing outside the window of the taxi. As she passed by each Stone property, she wanted to cry for the new friends she'd made but would never see again. She'd come to love the little town of Clifton, Montana. It would be a wonderful place to live, but that dream was gone. Just like Ryder Wolfe.\n\n****\n\nRyder stood in the barn and watched as the taxi took her away from him. It was for the best, he kept telling himself. He knew he couldn't give her what she wanted. She'd been right. He loved her, and he was a coward.\n\n\"Son of a bitch,\" he muttered to himself.\n\n\"You let her go?\" Cookie asked from behind him.\n\nRyder spun around surprised by the man standing there. \"Yes. What the hell was I supposed to do?\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know. Marry the woman, maybe? You're in love with her, Ryder. Anyone with half a brain can see that.\"\n\n\"Mind your own fucking business, Cookie,\" Ryder growled as he started past him.\n\n\"I can see how it's going to be around here now,\" Cookie said making Ryder stop in his tracks.\n\n\"Yeah, well, if you don't like it, then leave.\"\n\nCookie laughed. \"Like that's ever gonna happen.\"\n\nRyder shook his head. He shouldn't be taking his anger out on anyone, especially a friend. He had the problem, not Cookie. \"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.\"\n\n\"You know damn well I know you didn't mean it. But damn it, Ryder. You love her.\"\n\n\"I can't give her what she wants, Cookie.\"\n\n\"What's that? You? The hell you can't give her what she wants.\"\n\n\"I can't chance it. I'm not good for her.\"\n\nCookie sighed. \"Ryder, you're nothing like that son of a bitch, or your mother. He's a mean ass and she's a drunk. They didn't raise you. Hell, you were too busy raising yourself and taking care of their lazy asses. And when you couldn't do it anymore, Frank and Grace did, and they made you into the good man that you are now.\"\n\n\"I just can't chance it,\" Ryder repeated shaking his head.\n\n\"Then you're going to be a miserable cuss to work with, that's all I'm saying. I've got work to do.\" Cookie walked away down the aisle of the barn shaking his head and mumbling.\n\nRyder watched him walk away. No one seemed to understand what he feared. They hadn't lived what he had. He'd just have to go on without her. He could do it. He had to.\n\nYou sure as hell can't! He took a deep breath in and blew it out. His heart ached and he couldn't make it stop. She was right. He was a stupid fool for letting her go. But he was scared. So fucking scared. What if he lost his temper and hurt her? Physically hurt her. It would be far worse than the hurt he was causing her now. He'd hate himself.\n\nRyder walked through the barn and decided to work on the furniture. Maybe it would keep his mind off her. He had to concentrate completely on the wood, so he knew he'd at least get her out of his mind for a few hours. He dreaded tonight though, when he tried to sleep. Hell, he dreaded walking back into the house at all. It was going to feel empty. He'd never paid attention to being alone before but now, with her gone, it was going to be hell. Damn, he hated that she was so right.\n\nThree hours later, he walked into the house and the silence surrounded him. No food was cooking. No radio was playing. There was nothing but deafening silence. Even the dogs seemed mad at him for sending her away. They lay on the floor with their heads on their paws and stared up at him with sad eyes.\n\n\"What? You knew she wasn't staying.\" Ryder stared down at them. He raised his eyebrows when they both stood, left the kitchen, and headed into the living room.\n\n\"Wonderful. Now my dogs hate me too,\" he said aloud.\n\nHe thought about getting something to eat but he didn't have an appetite. After taking his hat and coat off, he decided to shower. He walked to the bathroom and stripped out of his dirty clothes. He turned the shower on and soon steam filled the room. As he started to step into the stall, he saw her shampoo on the shelf. She'd forgotten it. Fuck!\n\nHe couldn't seem to stop himself from reaching out and picking it up. He flipped open the cap and put it to his nose, inhaling the scent. Christ! It smelled like her. It brought back memories of the nights he'd nuzzled her hair as he lay behind her after making love. Shit!\n\nHe couldn't think of those times. He had to put them out of his head. It was bad enough that his cock was remembering. All he had to do was think of her and his body acted like a divining rod searching for her. He ran his hand down across his face and groaned. Damn. How was he going to get through this?\n\nTaking a deep breath, he scrubbed himself until he was sure he was taking skin off. After washing his hair, he stepped out, and then shaved. He was tired but he knew sleep wouldn't come easy. You did this to yourself, stupid.\n\n\"I know. But I had to,\" he told his reflection in the mirror then switched off the light, headed to the bedroom and crawled between cold and lonely sheets.\n\n****\n\nKelsey stood in the living room of her parents' home and stared out the front window. A fully decorated Christmas tree stood in the corner of the room. A symbol of the season's spirit that usually filled her with joy, the lights twinkling and sparkling but she paid them no mind. She used to love this time of the year but this season filled her sadness because she missed Ryder far too much to feel the joy.\n\n\"I don't think any of the scenery has changed in the last thirty minutes,\" her mother said from beside her as she placed her arm around her shoulder.\n\n\"I know.\"\n\n\"What happened in Montana, Kelsey?\"\n\nKelsey glanced to her mother and then back to the window. \"I wish we had snow.\"\n\n\"Snow? Are you out of your mind?\" Donna Sullivan laughed. \"Atlanta would shut down.\"\n\n\"I know you're right about that but I fell in love with snow in Montana. It was just so beautiful.\"\n\n\"That's not all you fell in love with, is it?\"\n\nKelsey blinked tears away. \"It doesn't matter.\"\n\n\"Of course it does, honey. Tell me.\" Donna took her hand and led her to the sofa where they sat down.\n\n\"I did fall in love...with Ryder but he says he'll never marry, and he never wants children.\"\n\n\"Then move on, Kelsey. I know how hard that seems right now but you have to if you can't have what you want with him. I know how much you've always wanted children. You love kids.\"\n\n\"How can I move on though, Mom? I love him so much.\" Her voice caught and her chest filled with pain. How was it possible for it to hurt so physically much?\n\n\"I know all about him. I know why he doesn't want the same things you do and even if he loves you, he probably won't settle down and give you children. I don't want to sound harsh, but you have to consider the future. What if you did marry him but he still didn't want children? You would become miserable and eventually you'd grow to resent him, even hate him. Unless you are willing to accept that kind of future, you have to move on. Without him. Honey, I want you to be happy and I don't think you will be, if you don't get a chance to have kids.\"\n\n\"You're right. I know you're right, but I need time to get over this, if I can.\"\n\nThe phone startled both of them when it suddenly rang. Laughing self-consciously, Donna answered the phone. Kelsey barely paid attention until she heard her mother's voice rise with excitement.\n\n\"That's wonderful. Yes. Thank you so much, Frank.\" She hung up and turned to Kelsey with a satisfied grin.\n\n\"They caught Wayne. He's back in jail. This time, without bail.\"\n\nKelsey felt a heavy burden lift off her shoulders. She placed her hands over her face and started crying. Wayne Dowling, her stalker, was finally back in jail with no chance of getting out. She'd been worried about that one thing from the beginning and couldn't help but wonder if he would have gotten jail time if he hadn't ran? He probably would have gotten probation but now since he'd jumped bail, she felt confident that he would get jail time. Thank you, God.\n\n\"What's wrong?\" Kelsey heard her father ask as he entered the room.\n\n\"That was Frank. Wayne Dowling is back in jail where he belongs with no bail this time,\" Donna told her husband.\n\n\"That's wonderful. Now we don't have to worry about sending you back to Montana,\" George Sullivan said with a happy smile.\n\nKelsey jumped up from the sofa and ran to her room. She knew her dad was probably wondering why she was upset, but she couldn't deal with all the questions right now. She was pleased that she could finally return to her job and apartment. After Christmas break, she'd return to the hospital and her nursing career. Why didn't she feel happier about it? She knew why...it was because of Ryder. She knew it would be a very long while before she felt good about anything again.\n\n****\n\n\"Do you want to spend Christmas with us?\" Olivia asked him as he filled one of the feed buckets. Wyatt and Olivia had dropped by to say hello, which meant they were checking up on him.\n\nRyder shook his head. \"No.\"\n\n\"You need to be around people. You're miserable, Ryder,\" Olivia growled at him even as she stepped away quickly from a nearby horse who was trying to sniff her hair. He almost laughed at her. He knew she was skittish around horses.\n\n\"Let it go, Liv.\"\n\n\"You love her. So go get her. Simple.\"\n\nRyder turned to glare at Wyatt. \"Can't you tell her to be quiet?\"\n\n\"Are you serious? You know how she is.\" Wyatt shrugged.\n\nRyder focused his annoyed glare on Olivia. \"Butt out, Liv.\"\n\n\"You're just mad because you know I'm right. You're in love with her, Ryder. Everyone can see it but you obviously. So why be miserable? I can't even begin to imagine how she felt when she had to leave you.\"\n\n\"It doesn't matter how I feel about her, I can't give her what she wants in life. What she deserves.\" He had no idea why he had to keep explaining himself to everyone. First Cookie and now Olivia Stone.\n\n\"She deserves a man who loves her\u2014\" Olivia started.\n\n\"She deserves kids\u2014\" Ryder interjected, but then was interrupted too.\n\n\"Christ, Ryder. You are so hell-bent on thinking you're just like him, it's fucking ridiculous,\" Wyatt exclaimed.\n\n\"How do I know I'm not, Wyatt? Huh? Tell me that.\" Ryder set the feed pail on the floor and pulled himself to his full height, folding his arms across his chest.\n\n\"When was the last time you hit someone just because they pissed you off?\n\n\"I haven't\u2014\"\n\n\"Exactly,\" Wyatt interrupted him yet again, and then he turned to Olivia. \"Let's go. We have more things to get for Christmas.\"\n\nRyder watched them walk out of the barn and even after hearing Wyatt's truck drive away, he stood there. He shook his head. He knew his friends meant well, but they just didn't understand. It was very possible that he could be like his old man. He didn't want to find out at the expense of someone he loved.\n\nDamn, he hated the thought of Christmas and being alone. Over the years, he had either gone to Georgia to visit with Frank and Grace or spent the day with the Stones and their families. This year, he just wasn't feeling the Christmas spirit and he knew it was because he missed Kelsey. He caught himself more than a few times the past few days wondering what she was doing for Christmas. Was she back to work yet or was she waiting until after the holidays?\n\nHe'd love to call Frank and ask about her, but he knew his dad was far too astute. It wouldn't take him much for him to figure it all out. He would know right quick that Ryder had fallen in love with Kelsey.\n\nHe blew out a breath, finished up with the horses and walked around to his workshop. He had a few pieces to finish before he could call it a day and relax. Relax? How the hell was he supposed to relax ever again when all he could think about was Kelsey? What she was doing? Was she okay? Was that asshole stalker still out there?\n\nDamn it! He couldn't take this any longer. He had to go to her. He had to tell her she was right and he wanted her back. He realized he did want to marry her and yes, perhaps he even wanted to have children with her. Let's take it one thing at a time.\n\nHe knew in his heart and in his gut that he would never, could never, hurt her or any child. It was time for him to man up and go after the woman he loved.\n\nRyder finished the last of his orders, and called Cookie on the phone.\n\n\"Can you take care of the furniture orders I have for pickup?\"\n\n\"Of course, but where are you going to be that you can't do it?\"\n\n\"Georgia,\" Ryder answered without hesitation.\n\nCookie laughed. \"About fucking time...bring her home, boss.\" Then he hung up.\n\nRyder knew he had to go and bring her home. She should be here with him. He wanted her to be happy. He wanted to be happy and he'd been happy, truly happy for the first time in his life\u2014with her. He deserved happiness, didn't he? He couldn't let his father win. If he gave into his fears of becoming like his old man, his father would win and he wasn't going to allow that. Ryder also knew he needed to let go of the hate he had for his father. It had been tearing him up for years. The memories of him hitting him had chewed at his insides for far too many years. He had to let it go and he had to get Kelsey to come back to him. He knew the latter was going to be the harder of the two.\n\n# Chapter Nine\n\n\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\n\nKelsey walked out of the department store and glanced up. It was a beautiful day for December. Christmas was only a week away. She wondered if it was snowing in Montana. Would she ever stop thinking of him? She shook her head, and started for her car.\n\nShe was unlocking her car when out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man across the parking lot. It was the cowboy hat on his head, which caught her attention. She glanced at him and her knees nearly buckled as her chest constricted. Then he disappeared behind a van. No, it couldn't be him. Did she miss him so much that she was hallucinating seeing him in the mall parking lot?\n\nClimbing into her car, she tried to put the key into the ignition but her hands were shaking so much, she had to stop and take a deep breath. When a sudden tap sounded on her window, she nearly screamed. She looked up and for a moment, she didn't believe her eyes. Ryder. He was real and standing alongside her car. She put her window down a little.\n\n\"Ryder? What are you doing here?\" she whispered because her chest was so tight, she hadn't enough air to speak louder.\n\n\"Looking for you...Kelsey, I...,\" he didn't say anymore but dipped his head, his hat shading his handsome face.\n\nKelsey blinked tears from her eyes. He looked so wonderful. She shook her head at him when he raced his head again, and wondered why he was in Georgia.\n\n\"Are you visiting Uncle Frank and Aunt Grace?\"\n\nHe looked away and gave a silent laugh, then looked back to her.\n\n\"I'm staying with them, but I came to see you.\" He leaned against the car lowering his upper body toward the open window. \"I want you to come home, Kelsey.\"\n\n\"Home? I am home, Ryder.\"\n\n\"No, you're not. Your home is in Montana with me.\"\n\nTears filled her eyes so she looked away and shook her head. \"You sent me away Ryder. I told you I'd stay but you didn't want me.\"\n\n\"Kelsey, baby, I do want you. Can we please go somewhere and talk about this? I've thought long and hard on this and I know I'm not like him. You saw it in me even when I didn't. I could never hurt you or a child.\"\n\nShe looked away from him and stared out the front window of the car. This was what she'd wanted to hear when she asked to stay so why now? Why come after her now? Was it the holidays? Was he just missing her and feeling lonely? Suddenly, he decided he wants her with him in Montana, so he comes all this way and what she was supposed to do? Drop everything and go with him? For how long? Until he decides, he can't trust himself again and tells her to leave? She can't go through that again.\n\nKelsey took a deep breath and turned her head to meet his pleading gaze.\n\n\"No. No, Ryder, we can't go talk about this. You ended this because of your fears. Fears you'll always have because loneliness isn't going to make them go away. You need to work through this and unless you do that, I can't go through this again. How am I supposed to trust that you won't wake up one day and decide you can trust yourself around me, and what if we do have a child...will you send both of us away?\" She shook her head, fighting back the emotion constricting her chest. \"I can't do it. I love you but I can't live on a tightrope waiting to fall. I told you, you were going to regret letting someone like me go. Well, I'm gone, and I'm done.\"\n\nShe blinked back tears, raised the window, put the car in gear, and drove off. Glancing into the rearview mirror she saw him standing there staring after her. Then she saw his head drop down, and felt a sharp pang of regret. She was tempted to go back then chastised herself.\n\nHow dare he come after her? How dare he! Did he think she'd just forget the pain he'd caused her by sending her away? He'd been so cruel to her the day she left that she'd cried the entire way home. Her heart had been broken and it wasn't going to mend just because he came to Georgia and declared that he suddenly believed he was past his fears. She slapped the steering wheel with her hand. Damn him!\n\n****\n\nRyder watched Kelsey drive away. You blew it, Wolfe. She no longer wants you. She says she loves you but obviously not enough. He knew he had to leave. He also knew it would be hard explaining why he was going home when he just got here, but there was no way he could stay now. Frank and Grace would have Kelsey's family over during the holidays and he knew he wouldn't be able to handle that. No. It was time to go back to Clifton and be miserable. Just as Olivia had predicted he would be.\n\nTwo days later, Ryder walked into his home and dropped his suitcases to the floor. It was over and his own damn fault he'd lost her. He'd had this extraordinary good thing with her and he'd made her go because he was afraid. He was a coward.\n\nHe pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down, dropping his head into his hands. Anger tensed across his shoulders when he realized that son of a bitch sperm donor father of his ruined his life in more ways than just the neglect and beatings. He'd left a lasting impression on Ryder and now he had pushed away the only woman who truly understood him. He'd made her go because he was afraid he was going to be just like the asshole who was his creator.\n\nRyder knew she was too smart for him. He should have realized she wouldn't believe he'd had a sudden change of heart and truly believed it himself when he tried to get her to come back home. Would he start thinking he'd turn into his old man and start this all over again? Damn, she did know him better than he knew himself. Until he believed it, she never would, no matter how much he tried to convince her.\n\nHe sighed, climbed out of the chair, and stripped off his coat and hat. Grabbing up his suitcases, he trudged off toward his bedroom, a shower, and bed. He was too tired to think right now. Maybe once he got it through his head there was no chance of her coming back, he'd move on with his life. He laughed aloud as he passed the room she'd stayed. Move on to what? A life without Kelsey? Christ! Just the thought of that hurt like a crushing weight on his chest. He'd always said he'd be alone for the rest of his life, and she'd fought him on that. She'd asked him if that was what he really wanted. No, it wasn't, but in the end, he'd been right.\n\n****\n\nChristmas Eve, Kelsey was in her car on her way to Frank and Grace's. It was another beautiful day for December, very much like the day Ryder had shown up to see her. Her chest tightened at the thought that Ryder had returned to Clifton. She'd half hoped he'd be here with Frank and Grace, but her mother had told her he was gone after speaking with Grace.\n\nShe steered into the driveway of the beautiful home of Frank and Grace Sanders. She really wasn't in the holiday mood but she would try. She climbed out, retrieved the presents from the back seat, and walked to the front door. Right before she rang the bell, Grace opened the door and greeted her. Grace hugged her around the armful of gifts she carried and laughed as she took some of the presents from Kelsey.\n\n\"It looks like you went overboard again, kiddo,\" Grace said with a big smile.\n\nKelsey grinned, and then gave a half-hearted laugh. \"Just a tad. I love you both, so I go a little crazy at Christmas.\"\n\nShe followed Grace into the living room, a cozy room filled with pictures of them with Ryder as a handsome young man. Frank stood when she and Grace entered and immediately grabbed up some of the gifts setting them under a beautifully decorated Christmas tree before greeting her.\n\n\"Hello, Uncle Frank.\" She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him.\n\n\"Kelsey, you get more beautiful every day.\" He told her in her ear as he hugged her back.\n\nKelsey smiled up at him. \"You're just biased.\"\n\nGrace wrapped her arm around her shoulder, giving her an affection squeeze then led her to the sofa where they both sat.\n\nFrank laughed. \"How about some eggnog and holiday cookies?\"\n\nShe smiled and nodded. \"That would be nice, thank you.\"\n\nShe watched him leave the room and now left alone with Grace, and surrounded by memories of their life with Ryder, she hoped the conversation wouldn't turn to Ryder. She glanced at Grace and frowned at her when she saw the woman staring at her.\n\n\"You're in love with Ryder, aren't you?\" Grace whispered, her arm pulling her close.\n\nKelsey started to shake her head, but her heart had its own plan and the tears quickly began to slide down her cheeks. \"Yes. But he sent me away, Aunt Grace. He's so afraid that he's going to be like his father, his real father.\"\n\nGrace snorted. \"Nonsense. Of course, we don't believe that at all and if he did, I think he's beginning to believe he doesn't have to be like him either. At least, that's what I got from him.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Well, he was here for a few days, but then he left suddenly, for some reason he wouldn't tell us why. But when I tried to press him for detail, he told me how he has always feared that he would become like that...that man who fathered him, but that recently he had come to understand that even though that man was his father, Frank was his dad. Frank was the one who taught him how to be a man. Frank was all he had needed in a real father.\" Grace's eyes were tearing up as she spoke. \"I knew he would never be like that despicable father of his, and I told him that. I know deep in my heart that my Ryder would never cause intentional harm to any living being because he just doesn't have that kind of mean in him. In all the years he lived with us, not once did he strike out, and trust me when I tell you that he was an angry and mistrusting young man back then. Something was pulling at him but he knows being the man he is today, he owes to Frank, and he told Frank that before leaving.\"\n\nKelsey had tears rolling down her cheeks. \"He came to see me, Aunt Grace, and I sent him away.\"\n\n\"Oh my, so that's the reason he came to visit when he said he wasn't, and then left in such a hurry. Then, Kelsey dear, you need to go after him and tell him you were wrong and that you believe in him.\"\n\n\"I do believe in him. I just worry that he doesn't believe in himself. After the way I treated him when he came all the way here for me, I doubt if he'll take me back now.\"\n\n\"Of course he will. You need to go to him, Kelsey.\" Grace placed her hand over Kelsey's hand.\n\nKelsey wondered if Grace was right. Had she caused him the same kind of pain she'd suffered through when he let her go? Perhaps he really did love her, but he had to believe that he would never hurt her or any child they may have. She looked at Grace. She thought about what she'd told her of his realizations. Suddenly, she nodded her head and stood. \"You're right. I'm going back to Clifton. I love him and that's where I need to be\u2014with Ryder.\"\n\nFrank walked into the room carrying a tray containing a plate of decorated cookies, and three tumblers filled with eggnog. He raised his eyebrows in question. Grace smiled at him.\n\n\"I think our goddaughter is going to become our daughter in-law.\"\n\nFrank smiled and laughed, setting the tray on the coffee table. \"I'd love nothing more!\"\n\nWhen he reached out to hug her, Kelsey shook her head. \"But what if he hates me now?\" She flopped back down on the sofa.\n\n\"Kelsey, you can't give up on him. Ryder suffered that far too often growing up. The only people, who never gave up on him, other than Grace and me, are his friends in Clifton. That's why they're all so close. If you love him, go after him. Show him how you've got his back that you believe in him and his belief in himself will grow even stronger.\" Frank smiled at her and he knew why Ryder was such an amazing man. He'd had the best role model ever.\n\nShe nodded and pushed to her feet. \"Well, there's no time like the present. Oh my, speaking of which, please forgive me but I need to get moving if I want to spend Christmas with him, right?\"\n\nFrank and Grace smiled and nodded their agreement. She hugged them both and ran out of the house. At the door, she called out, \"I hope I can get a flight out. I love you both\u2014Merry Christmas.\"\n\nHowever, it wasn't meant to be because all flights were booked. She had to wait until the day after Christmas but thankfully, her parents supported her decision to go.\n\n\"If he doesn't want to have kids, I'll have to learn to live with it. I can survive without kids but I'm not sure I can live without him.\"\n\n\"I know, honey. Just know we're here for you.\" Her mother told her and knowing that made this a whole lot less scary.\n\nWhen the plane touched down in Butte, Kelsey felt her anticipation and fear starting to grow. She wasn't thrilled about the wonderful bus ride ahead but it would give her more time to ready herself to face Ryder. What if he turned her away like she had him?\n\nKelsey sighed as she took in the view from her bus window. It was like the first time she had flown to Montana and boarded the bus to Clifton. She stared out the window mesmerized by the beautiful mountains. They had nothing like it in Georgia. Not even Stone Mountain. This time it was snowing a little. She snickered. Of course, it was snowing...its December! Perhaps she needed to come back for a visit in summer and see this beautiful state when it wasn't snowing. Visit? Oh, no...this was no visit. This was a coming home trip.\n\nShe shook her head and squared her shoulders against the seat. She wasn't leaving again. No matter what he said to her, no matter how he reacted to her showing up at Wolfe Ranch...she was not going anywhere this time. She chewed on her bottom lip. But what if he didn't want her now? She'd been so rude to him the last time they saw each other. She'd told him she was done. Kelsey, how could you be so stupid? He came after you and you sent him away after telling him you were done with him.\n\nShe choked back a sob.\n\n****\n\nRyder sat in the living room staring at the fire roaring in the fireplace. The warmth coming from it felt good yet didn't lift his spirits leaving him still feeling chilled. Both of his dogs were lying at his feet and they hadn't taken their eyes off him. It seemed they knew he was feeling low but didn't know how to cheer him up.\n\nWhen his cell rang, he picked it up and looked at the screen. He sighed before answering it.\n\n\"Hey, Sam.\"\n\n\"Ryder, are you all right? I've been trying to reach you for days,\" Sam scolded him.\n\n\"I've been busy. You know that.\"\n\nHe heard Sam sigh. He wished everyone would just leave him alone. He wasn't going to do anything crazy, if that was what they all thought. He just wanted to be left alone. What was so hard to understand about that? Frank and Grace were upset that he hadn't stayed with them for Christmas. It was a rare occasion for him to go to Georgia for Christmas, so when he'd been there last week, they'd been so happy, which made leaving without any real explanation made him feel like crap. It had to hurt them very much and they didn't deserve that...especially not from him. Christmas was a joyous time of year, and he'd managed to ruin everyone else's besides his own. He sure as hell wasn't feeling any joy. All he felt was broken\u2014heart broken. Beat down, and unwanted just as he had as a kid. He shook his head not wanting to go there.\n\n\"What do you want, Sam?\"\n\n\"I just wanted to make sure you were all right. It's what friends do, you jack-ass.\"\n\nRyder burst out laughing. Leave it to Sam to get him to laugh. He heard Sam chuckle. Ryder took a deep breath.\n\n\"I'm fine. Why is everyone so worried about whether or not I'm all right?\"\n\n\"Because Kelsey's gone, that's why.\"\n\n\"So? Do you think I'm sitting around here moping about it?\"\n\n\"Probably not, but maybe you should be. You can't tell me you're not in love with her. I saw the way you looked at her.\"\n\n\"You're crazy. I'm not in love with her. I wish everyone would mind their own business.\"\n\n\"Okay, my friend, but you can lie to yourself all you want. I know you're in love with her.\"\n\n\"You don't know anything. I'll talk to you later, Sam.\" Ryder hung up.\n\nFeeling agitated and annoyed, he stood and walked to the window. The snow was coming down heavier now. The weather station had stated it was going to snow all day and well into the next day\u2014up to two feet possible before it stops. Kelsey would love it.\n\nRyder needed to stop thinking about her, but even as he sat in the window seat and looked out at the landscape slowly coating over in white, he saw nothing. His mind kept rerunning that day when she told him to go away. He never believed he'd be in this situation. Hurting like this because of a woman. The pain was unbearable at times. He rubbed his chest over his heart. It didn't help. Nothing was going to help. Unless Kelsey came back to him, nothing was going to help ease the hurt. He just had to learn to live without her.\n\n****\n\nKelsey stared through the windshield barely able to see the road ahead of her. The wipers were starting to slow down due to ice accumulating on them.\n\nYou're an idiot, Kelsey Sullivan. You have to be crazy in love to do this! What are you thinking? He's probably going to toss you off the ranch! Stupid! And this snow! This snow is ridiculous. It will probably kill you before he has a chance to reject you.\n\nIt was bad enough that the roads had snow on them, but they were slippery as hell and it was so dark. Was it possible for dark to be darker than dark? The bus had dropped her off two hours ago and it had taken forever to rent the SUV. Although, she was very happy the car rental place had an SUV with four-wheel drive available. Of course, at the rate things were freezing, she wondered if the four-wheel drive was going to help at all. Nothing helped in ice, and with her lack of experience driving in what to her was a blizzard, she was lucky she was still alive. The snow and ice had turned a fifteen-minute trip into an hour-long trip from town, and she wasn't there yet. She had to fight to keep the car centered in the tire tracks on the roads to gain any traction.\n\nRelief settled over her when she saw Ryder's driveway reflected in the headlights ahead. She slowed the vehicle even more, steering into the heavy snow undisturbed in his driveway, and then stopped at the closed gate. Just wonderful!\n\nShe stepped out of the vehicle to push the gate open but as soon as her feet hit the snow, she sank in\u2014almost to her knees! She trudged through it, unhooked the gate, and started pushing it open. The only problem was that it was far more difficult to push due to the snow. She pushed at it a small amount at a time, the cold, damp, and exertion wearing her down. She tried pushing the snow away from the bottom of the gate with her gloved hands when it would get stuck and wouldn't move. It only helped a bit because when she put both hands on it and pushed, it only moved a bit. She took a deep breath, leaned into with all she had and pushed with all her might. The gate moved, but it moved more than she'd anticipated and she ended up face down in the snow.\n\nKelsey lay there in utter shock, and in exhaustion, for a few seconds. She pushed to her knees, and stood up. Snow covered the entire front of her, including in her hair and on her face. She brushed herself off best she could since her gloves were caked with snow as well. She gave the gate another hard push. Finally, it was almost open far enough to get the vehicle through. She cursed the snow and Ryder for putting her through this, and hoped one more good push would do it. She put her hands on the top of the gate and gave it a final push. It was open. She'd done it!\n\nCold, wet, and in desperate want of a hot bath and bed, she trudged back to the SUV and climbed inside, knocking the snow off her legs and boots before closing the door. She drove it through the gate, and then stopped. Damn it! She remembered she had to close the gate. Double damn it! She stopped the vehicle and stepped out into the snow again. She started to push the gate closed and realized she hadn't pulled the vehicle far enough forward for it to clear the back end.\n\n\"Oh my God,\" she screamed at the sky in frustration.\n\nShe stomped back into the vehicle, climbed in with snowy feet, and pulled it up a little farther, and then she begrudgingly climbed back out into the snow and started to trudge back to the gate. She stopped and stared at the empty landscape blanketed in white around her.\n\nTo hell with it. If he wanted it closed, he can come out in this shit and close it himself!\n\nKelsey blew out a hot breath making steam in the cold air, turned and walked back to the vehicle. When she reached it, she laid her hand against the side to steady herself as she once more tried to knock clinging, caked on snow from her legs. Not realizing how icy the exterior of the SUV had become, her snow caked glove slipped, and once more, she found herself on the ground in the snow, this time on her back.\n\nKelsey lay there in total disbelief. Suddenly, she started laughing. She was laughing so hard at the ridiculousness of her predicament that she had tears rolling down her face that would probably freeze if she didn't stop.\n\n\"Ryder Wolfe, your ass better be worth all this!\" She pulled herself back to her feet, knocking some of the snow off her now sore ass, climbed into the vehicle, and gingerly drove the rest of the way up to the house. She steered the vehicle around to the back door where Ryder's truck was parked too, and sat looking at the house.\n\nWell, this is it, she thought, time to fish or cut bait.\n\n# Chapter Ten\n\n\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\n\nIt was midnight, and Ryder was still sitting in the window seat staring out at the snow. He blinked a few times when he saw an SUV pull up thinking he was imagining it. Who in the hell would be out in this weather? Someone crazier than crazy, that's for sure.\n\nHe watched the snow coated vehicle push, and bounce, through the heavy snow before pulling around toward the back. He pushed off the seat, and hurried to the back door in the kitchen. Staring through the window in the door, his heart hit his stomach when he saw Kelsey climb out of the SUV. She stumbled a bit in the thick snow but maneuvered her way to the porch. He shook his head quickly, as if to clear away cobwebs of disbelief. He looked through the glass again. It was her. He opened the door just as she stepped onto the porch stomping the snow from her boots. She froze, lifted her face, and looked at him with wide eyes.\n\nHe frowned at her, even as he pushed down a desire to grab her into his arms and kiss her. \"What are you doing here?\"\n\n\"I came to see you, you big lug. Now move out of my way and let me in before I freeze my ass off.\" She pushed past him into the kitchen and almost instantly, the dogs greeted her. She patted both of the traitorous beasts but when Ryder called to them to move along, they did.\n\nHe watched her as she pulled off wet gloves, dropping them on the table along with a knit hat, which revealed damp hair. She shrugged out of her coat, and when she glanced at him assuming he would take, she shook her head when he didn't and hung it on the back of one of the chairs. She rubbed her hands together to warm them before bending slightly to unzip her boots and toe out them. It was then he noticed her jeans were wet.\n\n\"Why are your jeans wet?\"\n\n\"Because I had to push that stupid gate of yours open, and I fell. Do you seriously need that thing? Anyone can open it and just come right in. By the way, I left it open. There was no way I was going to try to close the damn thing.\"\n\n\"You still haven't said why you're here,\" he remarked even as he thought how much it hurt to look at her. He wanted to run his hands through that blonde hair, kiss those rosy cheeks, and carry her to his bed.\n\n\"I did so. I said I came to see you.\"\n\nHe folded his arms across his chest, crossed his legs at the ankles leaning back against the counter before he cleared his throat, and frowned at her. \"Okay. You saw me. Now you can leave.\"\n\n\"Don't be nasty, Ryder.\"\n\n\"Why not, Kelsey? You were pretty good at it the last time we saw each other.\" He felt an unwarranted sense of satisfaction when she winced.\n\n\"You took me by surprise.\"\n\n\"Bullshit. Try again.\"\n\n\"All right. Damn it, you hurt me when you sent me away. When a woman tells a man she loves him, she expects to hear it back, not be told to leave.\"\n\n\"You know why I told you to leave.\"\n\n\"Yes, and then you show up and tell me you want me back.\"\n\n\"We're getting nowhere here. Why are you here?\" he growled at her. He knew his anger was brought on by his own refusal to acknowledge that he was happy to see her. He didn't...couldn't let her know how much she'd hurt him.\n\n\"We need to talk...\"\n\nRyder threw his hands in the air and walked out of the kitchen. At this point, he didn't care if she followed him or not. Bullshit! You care, you stubborn ass.\n\nHe took a seat on the sofa and watched from under his lashes as she walked into the living room and moved to stand in front of the roaring fire with her back to him. Why was she here? She'd said they needed to talk. Why? About what? Had something happened?\n\n\"What's going on? Is there something wrong?\"\n\nShe spun around and looked at him. She raised an eyebrow. \"Wrong? What would be wrong?\"\n\nRyder ran his hand down his face. Christ! It was like pulling teeth with her.\n\n\"Are you here because there's something wrong?\"\n\n\"No, there's nothing wrong. Well, that's not completely true. There is something wrong\u2014\"\n\nHe jumped up from his seat. \"What? What's wrong? Is it Mom or Dad?\"\n\n\"It's me,\" she said so softly that he could barely hear her, but he did hear her. He froze.\n\n\"What's wrong with you?\"\n\n****\n\nKelsey walked over to him and put her hands on his chest. He tilted his head back a bit and glared down at her over the bridge of his nose. She saw his gaze wander all over her face until it settled on her lips.\n\nTesting to see just how annoyed he was that she was here, she provocatively ran her tongue along her bottom lip. She heard him hiss in a breath but then she let out a squeal when he grabbed her by her upper arms, and pulled her up against him. He pressed his nose against hers and their eyes met up close. His were filled with the annoyance she hoped wasn't there.\n\n\"I'll ask you one more time before I throw you out of here. Why are you here?\"\n\n\"Let go of me,\" she said in anger. He was so damned stubborn. He let go of her immediately. She straightened her sweater, and then peeked up at him from under her lashes. She knew he'd never hurt her despite his trying to prove he would.\n\nThen she knew he'd had enough of her games when he took her elbow in his very strong grip and led her through to the kitchen. Her stocking feet barely touched on the floor and she almost slipped a couple of times had his hand on her arm not been so tight as he pulled her along behind him. She tried pulling away from, even grabbed a doorframe at one point.\n\n\"What are you doing, Ryder? Stop!\"\n\n\"Throwing your ass out, just like I said I'd do if you didn't tell me what's wrong or why you're here. I've had it!\"\n\n\"All right! All right! I'll tell you,\" she shouted at him while she struggled for breath.\n\nRyder stopped. He released her, and stood back with his fists on his hips staring at her. She bent slightly feeling like she'd just run a mile.\n\n\"I'm here because...I love you, Ryder.\" She raised her eyes to meet his on those last words.\n\n\"You said that already.\"\n\n\"And what? It means so little too that you're just going to throw me out? In this weather?\"\n\n\"Yes.\" Ryder nodded.\n\nHe nodded that gorgeous dark head of his but she didn't believe him. He wouldn't...would he? She looked at the floor to hide a smile. She glanced up at him and took a step closer to him. He narrowed his eyes at her and she pushed down the need to flinch. He wouldn't hurt her. She was determined to prove that to him.\n\nShe put her hands on his waist. He didn't move. She slowly ran her hands up his chest, that wonderful, solid chest she loved to rest her head on at night. She felt him tense under her hands as she snaked her arms around his neck. She clasped her fingers behind his neck. He glanced over her head in an attempt to ignore what she was doing to him but she wasn't going to let him have his way. She sighed, cupped his face in her hands, and made him look at her.\n\n\"I love you, Ryder,\" she whispered close to his lips.\n\n\"Like I said, you said that already. You told me that in Georgia and that you were done with me. Well, now I'm done. I don't like to play games, and I don't want some fickle woman who can't make up her fucking mind.\"\n\nKelsey gasped and stepped back. \"Fickle? You think I'm fickle. You didn't ask me to stay when I said I was leaving, but then you come to Georgia and tell me you want me to come home and you call me fickle. I think you need to look in the mirror to see who is really fickle, Ryder.\" She punched his arm. \"At least I can admit my feelings. You refuse to tell me that you love me.\"\n\n\"Maybe because I don't,\" he said through clenched teeth.\n\nWithout thinking, only reacting to the pain of those words, Kelsey slapped him and immediately regretted it. \"You son of a bitch.\"\n\nRyder grasped her arms and pulled her against him. \"You finally got that right.\" Then he shoved her away. \"Since the weather's so bad, you can stay until they clear the roads but as soon as it's possible, you're out of here. I'm not doing this with you, Kelsey. One minute you want me, and the next you don't. I'm too old to be playing fucking games with you. Go find yourself another married teacher to screw with so you can play the wounded victim.\"\n\nKelsey couldn't believe how cruel he was being. Maybe there was more of his father in him than she believed. She shuddered, placing the back of her hand over her mouth and shook her head as tears rolled down her face.\n\n\"I'll leave now.\" She turned away, grabbed her boots to put them on but he grabbed her arm and spun her around.\n\n\"No. You won't. It's too dangerous out.\"\n\n\"I won't stay here. I can get to Wyatt and Olivia's place. I'm not staying here with you.\"\n\n\"You won't make it out of the driveway. Can't you hear the ice hitting the windows? You're staying whether you like it or not. In fact, we'll sleep in the living room in case the power goes out.\"\n\nShe narrowed her eyes at him. \"The hell I will. I know you have fuel in the generator by now. I'll take a bedroom.\"\n\n\"The fire will still keep you warmer, even with the generator.\"\n\n\"I\u2014\"\n\n\"Stop! Your other choice is to sleep in that rental out there, in which case, you'll probably freeze to death or in here where it's warm so just do as I say. Go get blankets from the bedroom. If we make through the night without killing each other, I'll take you myself to the bus station tomorrow if we can't get your car out.\"\n\nThey stared at each other for a few minutes before she dropped her boots, spun on her heel, walked down the hallway, and entered the bedroom they'd shared so many times and slammed the door behind her.\n\n****\n\nRyder ran his hand down across his face, over his tense jaw, and swore. Damn her for coming back. He'd finally decided to go on without her and if she'd stayed away, maybe he could have done it. She should have stayed away. How was he going to get through the night with her sleeping a few feet away from him?\n\nShe was right about him having plenty of fuel in the generator but it was still smart to stay close to the fireplace. He'd already planned to sleep in the living room tonight since he stayed dressed in case there was an emergency with the horses but the thought of sleeping in the bed they'd shared held absolutely no appeal. Hell, he wished he could have a locked door between them, but he shouldn't have said what he said. That was cruel. That was just the kind of vindictive and cruel thing his father would have said. Damn his father. Perhaps what he feared would happen would any way. Frank, Grace, and Kelsey all believed he wasn't a cruel son of a bitch like his old man, but maybe he was. She came here because she believed in him, because she loved him, and he threw it in her face. He didn't want her to love him. He didn't deserve to be loved.\n\nRyder heard the bedroom door open, and sat back in his recliner. He watched Kelsey walk into the living room carrying blankets and a pillow. She tossed them onto the sofa and after making a makeshift bed, she crawled between the blankets.\n\nHe stood, moved to the fire, stoked the logs, and added some more wood to the fire before settling back in the recliner. A few minutes later, she stood and started unsnapping her jeans.\n\n\"What the hell are you doing?\" Ryder hissed, feeling his body react to the sight.\n\n\"My jeans are soaking wet. I'm not sleeping in them.\"\n\n\"It won't work, you know.\"\n\nShe stopped what she was doing and stared at him as if he'd just grown a second head. \"What are you talking about?\"\n\n\"If you think by stripping off your jeans in front of me will change my mind, don't waste your time.\"\n\n\"Don't flatter yourself, Ryder Wolfe. I'm soaked and cold.\"\n\n\"Fine. Hurry the hell up then,\" he growled looking toward the fire and gritting his teeth.\n\nHe heard Kelsey chuckle. When he glanced at her, she smiled at him. \"Bothers you, doesn't it? Why? You always liked watching me take my jeans off before.\"\n\n\"How about I take mine off and we share the sofa.\"\n\n\"You wish, Wolfe,\" she muttered as she tugged at the damp fabric.\n\nRyder grumbled under his breath, \"That I do, darlin'. That I do.\"\n\nOut of the corner of his eye, he watched her strip the jeans off, get back under the covers, and pull them over her head. Ryder watched her there, the covers rising and falling with her every breath. He couldn't take his eyes off her. Damn, he wanted her. He felt his dick pushing against his jeans. He shifted to get more comfortable but it wasn't easy, not with his cock remembering the feel of her pulsing around him.\n\nSon of a bitch! He had to concentrate on something else. Thinking about her naked and under him was killing him. Christ! He wanted to be inside her and feel her clench around his dick. He couldn't give in now. If he did, he knew he'd beg her to stay. And then what? What could he give her? More of what he gave her tonight.\n\nHe shifted in the chair to try to get comfortable, but nothing was working. He glared at her but it didn't do any good since she had turned on the sofa and now lay with her back to him. Damn her. She needed to go as soon as she could. She shouldn't have bothered coming here. True, he'd insisted she leave but when he went after her, she played this stupid game of hard to get. Either she wanted him or she didn't. She'd made it very clear in Georgia that she didn't but then she came back. He didn't understand what she wanted and he had no idea what he could give her so it was best she just leave, and as soon as possible before his dick made him do something stupid.\n\nHe glanced over at her and so wanted to do something stupid.\n\nRyder toed his boots off and raised the footrest on the chair, settling in. He needed some sleep.\n\n****\n\nStretching against the back of the sofa, Kelsey slowly opened her eyes blinking against the bright sunlight streaming through the window, and gazed around the room. Ryder was nowhere around. She pushed the blanket off, sat up, and ran her fingers through the tangles in her hair. Her suitcases were sitting beside the sofa. Seeing them there, hope sprang in her heart. Had he brought them in because he wanted her to stay? Why hadn't he put them in the room then? Because you wouldn't have seen them there, dummy!\n\nShe dragged one close and opened it, pulled out a clean pair of jeans, and put them on before heading for the kitchen to get a cup of coffee.\n\nThe door flew open and Ryder walked in. Her heart nearly stopped just looking at him. He came to a halt when he saw her.\n\n\"You'll have to stay here again tonight,\" he told her before moving toward the coat hooks.\n\nSo much for wanting her to stay permanently.\n\nShe watched as he removed his gloves and coat. He took his hat off, and then hung everything up. He walked to the coffee pot, poured himself a cup, leaned back against the counter, and then just stared at her.\n\n\"I don't want to stay here again,\" she said folding her arm across her chest, which pushed her breast upwards and when his eyes dropped to her chest, she dropped her arms to her sides.\n\n\"That's too damn bad. The roads are still too bad. It's supposed to stop later today so hopefully you can leave tomorrow.\"\n\n\"You know how to make someone feel real welcome, Wolfe.\"\n\nRyder smirked. \"You shouldn't have come here in the first place.\"\n\n\"Yeah, well, I'm here and so you just have to suck it up.\" She folded her arms across her chest again, not caring how she looked.\n\n\"Damn it, Kelsey. Why in the hell did you come back here? I had finally decided I was better off without you.\"\n\n\"I told you why I came back. How many times do I have to say it?\"\n\n\"You should have thought of that when I asked you to come home.\"\n\n\"You hurt me, Ryder. You told me to go away.\"\n\n\"I thought it was best at the time.\"\n\n\"So...you don't now?\"\n\n\"Oh, I still do, and you're leaving as soon as you can. I'm not going to do this with you again.\"\n\n\"Do what? Could you just spit it out? I made a mistake. I should have come home when you asked me to. I can admit that so why can't you accept it.\"\n\n\"And then what happens when you decide you made another mistake by coming back?\" He shook his head. \"No. I'm not going through this shit again. Your home is in Georgia.\"\n\nShe walked toward him but he moved backwards until he was standing near the coat rack. She stepped closer until she stood in front of him, so close she could feel the heat of his body. \"You're wrong. You're wrong about it all, and my home is wherever you are.\"\n\n\"Don't.\" He put his hands up as if to ward her off.\n\n\"Don't what, Ryder? Touch you? Kiss you? Tell you that I love you?\" She placed her hands on his chest.\n\n\"Kelsey, I mean it.\" He lifted his chin so that he broke eye contact.\n\n\"Do you really?\" She stood on her toes and kissed his neck.\n\nRyder shuddered and grasped her arms in his hands. Just when she thought he was going to push her away, he pulled her tight against him and took her mouth in a deep kiss. She moaned and wrapped her arms around his neck. He bent his knees, and placed his hands under her butt and lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he pushed her back against the wall. When he rubbed his crotch against her, she could feel his hard shaft already eager for her. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't deny his want of her. She groaned as he moved against her. He dropped her legs, and allowed her to slide down the front of him. Once her feet were on the floor again, he stepped back from her, making her whimper.\n\n\"Ryder, please,\" she whispered in a ragged voice.\n\nThinking he was walking away, Ryder surprised her when his hand reached out and he unsnapped her jeans, pushed them down, along with her panties, and stripped them off her. He dropped to his knees in front of her and raised one of her legs over his shoulder. Kelsey started shaking in anticipation. When his tongue moved through her curls, she gasped and grabbed fistfuls of his hair. Her head tilted back against the wall as he worked his magic. When he inserted his fingers, she felt her orgasm moving over her and soon a low groan tore from her and erupted into a scream as she came.\n\nAs she stood there trying to catch her breath and her body trembling in the aftermath of her pleasure, he stood, rolled on a condom, and with one hard thrust, filled her body. She wrapped her legs around him, grabbed his shoulders for support, and bucked her hips against him. He slammed into her, the wall behind her making it easier for him to support her. She couldn't believe it when another orgasm ripped through her so quickly. Then she felt his entire body tense as he thrust into hard before hearing him groan as he came. He continued to move against her a few thrusts more until he finally leaned his forehead against hers, his breathing harsh and ragged.\n\n\"God, that was fantastic,\" she said against his ear but his shoulders flinched, he withdrew, and let her feet drop to the floor.\n\n\"Fuck,\" Ryder muttered in an angry tone as he pulled away from her, disposed of the condom, and zipped his jeans.\n\n\"What?\" Here we go again! She'd come to recognize when Ryder started to shut down. Why was he so afraid to let her in?\n\n\"That shouldn't have happened.\"\n\n\"We're good together, Ryder, and you know it.\" She couldn't keep the hurt from her voice.\n\n\"I don't deny that, but it still shouldn't have happened. You're leaving and that's the end of it.\" Without looking at her, he walked away from her.\n\n\"I hate you,\" she shouted at him.\n\nRyder spun around and glared at her. \"Good. That's better than loving me. I'm used to hate. I can handle hate.\" He stared at her for a few seconds, and then turned away. \"I have work to do. I brought your suitcases in so you would have clean clothes. You can stay in the spare bedroom until you leave.\"\n\nKelsey watched as he grabbed his coat and hat before disappearing out the back door. When the door slammed shut, she fell to the floor and cried.\n\n****\n\nRyder trudged through the snow, swearing the entire time. What the fuck were you thinking? Thinking with your dick is what you were doing. How had he allowed himself to give into his desire for her yet again? It was like he couldn't think clear around her. He just wanted to touch her, kiss her, and bury himself in her without any regard for the consequences. Why did she come back here? Despite what Frank and Grace believe, he still had a hard time believing he can be any different from his old man. If he couldn't believe it, how could Kelsey? How could anyone?\n\nHe was so mad at what he'd done, what he'd given into that he wanted to punch a hole in a wall. He pulled the barn door open and entered the one place he'd always felt most comfortable...other than in Kelsey's arms. Damn. The smell of his horses usually made him feel good, but not today. Today, the woman he'd left half-naked in his house was on his mind. Damn her for coming back here. He would have been fine without her\u2014eventually. He stopped, and leaning against one of the stalls, he rubbed his hand down his face. You just had to fuck her, didn't you?\n\nThe horse in the stall nuzzled his nose against Ryder making him sigh. He rubbed the mare's neck with his gloved hand. Life had been so simple before Kelsey Sullivan came into his life. He was content living alone. He'd been on his own for so long that it he was resolved that it was how it would always be, but then she had to walk into Dewey's and make him realize that being alone wasn't what he wanted at all. He'd missed her...every damn minute she was gone.\n\nHe pushed off the stall and headed for Tramp's stall. He needed air. After putting the blanket and saddle on the horse, he mounted Tramp and rode him out of the barn. In the yard, puffs of cold air rose from the horse's nostrils, and he pranced around, ready to run. It looked like they both needed some air. Ryder let him go. Tramp took off through the snow and headed toward the north pasture. The exhilaration cleared his lungs, and he hoped his brain because he had been thinking too much lately. Once they reached the north pasture, he slowed Tramp down to a trot.\n\nRyder rode along the fence line. There wasn't any reason to check the fence because he had a transmitter that ran to the house and signaled if a section of it were to go down. He just couldn't be in the house with her any longer. He shouldn't have touched Kelsey. Ever. If he had never touched her in the first place, he wouldn't be feeling like this. His damn heart hadn't pained him this much since he left home. He didn't deserve to have Kelsey love him. Hell, his own parents didn't love him, why should she. Who said love was great? It hurt like hell.\n\nHe shook his head and slowed Tramp to stop. The horse snorted and blew steam into the cold air. He looked down toward the house. She was there. Why couldn't he just be happy that she was? His friends were all happy. The Stone brothers were all happily married. The women they were married to were perfect for them. Gabe's daughter, Sophie, was the most precious little girl out there and Will, Jake's little boy was so adorable.\n\nIn all his life, he'd never wanted that because he thought he couldn't have it. Until lately...until Kelsey came into his life, but he pushed her away when she tried to believe in him. Then even though he'd hurt her, she'd changed her mind and came back. Could she truly see the good in him or was she just going to change her mind again and leave. What if he were to lose his temper and prove without a doubt that he was as much a monster as his father.\n\nRyder was man enough to admit he was scared to death. Scared that Kelsey would stay, scared that she would leave, and terrified that he would lose her forever, or worse drive her away. She'd left because he wouldn't let her believe in him, but when he went to Georgia, to bring her back, she had to have known how hard that was for him. That should have shown her just how much he wanted her. He still wasn't sure if he could make a life with her, or give her children, but he had been willing to try. When she told him she was done, he had died inside. He came home a broken man but now she was back.\n\nTramp stomped and snorted. The horse was restless and Ryder understood that feeling. Kelsey rejecting him, abandoning him even, was a reminder to him that he was alone in this life and responsible for no one but himself. He'd learned that lesson the hard way and wasn't going to suffer the pain of someone else making him want more, and then snatching it away. No. She was leaving and she couldn't leave soon enough. He stared down at the house wondering what she was doing. Stop, you fool! It was going to be hard enough tomorrow when she leaves, he didn't need to make tonight worse than it would already be.\n\nHe gave Tramp his head and they raced along the pasture, the cold air filling his lungs and snow stinging his skin. Slowing the horse on the rise, he stared at the Glaciers in the distance. They were clearing up, which meant the snow would be stopping soon. The plow trucks would be out as soon as possible. Clifton may be a small town but the center of town was the hub for the people. They had to get to town for animal feed and for their own groceries. The outskirts were all ranches and farmland. The town would never allow itself to stay shut down for long.\n\nRyder blew out a breath and watched it form into a puff of cold air. The snow was falling less now but Tramp had started showing his impatience at being in the cold by snorting and prancing around.\n\n\"All right, buddy, just give me a few more minutes. I hate going back in there. I know you're cold, but hang in there with me for just a little longer.\"\n\nThe horse stopped prancing and bobbed his head up and down. Ryder swore the horse understood his angst. He patted Tramp's neck in gratitude. If only the horse could tell him what to do. If he thought today had been bad, what was coming tomorrow would kill him for sure.\n\nYou could ask her to stay.\n\nHe shook his head before he even finished the thought. No, he couldn't ask her to stay. He was a coward, just as she'd said. She said she loved him but she deserved better. She deserved a man who would take care of her, protect, give her children, and love her more with all he was worth.\n\nRyder looked over the ranch, at the house he'd built. He did love her. He loved her more than he thought it possible to love anyone. But would that be enough? He hadn't been a saint. He'd been his share of women but none of them made him feel the way Kelsey did. When he was inside her, he was in heaven. She was perfect for him. A perfect fit and without her, he knew he'd never have that again. Damn it. He'd always planned to be alone and he was better off that way. He'd been fine with it until the night he just had to have her. He fell the minute he'd touched her, but she deserved better.\n\nTaking a deep breath, he turned Tramp toward the house and headed back. He'd work in the woodshop the rest of the day. He'd work until he was so exhausted that he'd fall into bed and not wake up until morning. He'd do that because if he saw her, smelled her, touched her, or if she pleaded one more time to stay, he'd give in and let her then when she discovered the truth about him, she'd leave, and it would kill him. Hopefully, the roads would be cleared soon, and she'd be able to go.\n\nFrank and Grace should never have convinced him he could be different from his old man. He'd wanted to believe it. He'd tried when he went to Georgia to bring her home. I am home, she'd told him, and as much as he wanted home to mean here with him, he knew she belonged at home in Georgia.\n\nRyder nudged Tramp into a run. The cold air stung his face as it slapped against it. A hard slap he probably deserved.\n\n# Chapter Eleven\n\nKelsey carried her suitcases to the SUV, and after taking one last glance around, she climbed in behind the wheel. Ryder was nowhere around. He was probably in the barn. Hiding, like the coward he was. She wiped a tear away as she softly swore.\n\n\"Damn you. I love you.\" She turned the key in the ignition, and knew there was no turning back or saying good-bye.\n\nLast night had been the longest of her life. She'd stayed in her room and stared at the TV but wasn't really seeing it. Her brain kept replaying the events of the day as she tried to figure out what the hell was up with Ryder. What was he so afraid of that he'd push her away again? She'd come back. Wasn't that what he wanted when he came to Atlanta? She just didn't understand him at all. She'd cried so much, she thought at times that she was going to be sick.\n\nAfter taking a long hot bath, she'd crawled between the sheets and tried to fall asleep. But sleep eluded her and when she couldn't take it any longer, she got up and called the airline. Her flight today wasn't until noon but she had to take the bus, which she hated, to Butte to catch her plane. Besides, it was best to leave as soon as she could, kind of like ripping a bandage off a wound. It wasn't going to get any easier the longer she stayed.\n\nHere it was, a little after five, and the sun was just beginning to rise above the mountains in the distance. As she drove toward Clifton, she put her sunglasses on and pulled the visor down. As the sun brightened the landscape, it glared off the snow making it almost impossible to see. The roads were clear just as Ryder had predicted they'd be. As she drove by Wyatt and Olivia's ranch, more tears threatened to overwhelm her. Once again, she was leaving some of the best people she'd ever met. She'd come to love Becca, Emma, and Olivia.\n\nWhy was he making her go away again? Especially after, he had sex with her yesterday. God! It had been so hot! She just didn't understand what had gone wrong. Yes, she told him she was done when he came to Atlanta, but then she came back here, didn't she? Couldn't he see that? She came because she wanted to stay with him, because she loved him and trusted him. He didn't even have to marry her. Just love her. And she knew he loved her. He didn't have to tell her, she knew it even if he didn't want to admit it. Damn him. She didn't want to go back to Georgia. Clifton was her home now because Ryder was here.\n\nSo, why are you leaving?\n\n\"Because he doesn't want me,\" she said aloud.\n\nHe can't tell you where you can or can't live.\n\nShe nibbled at her bottom lip as she realized just how true that was. He had no right to tell her where she had to call home. She could stay right here. She loved this town and the people. Never had any community made her feel more welcome.\n\nYes, she could stay. But, where? She didn't have a home or a job. She slowed as she approached Emma and Gabe's driveway. Should she stop? Was it too early? She snorted. It was a working ranch. It was never too early. She steered the car into the driveway and drove up to the house. As she stepped from the vehicle, she saw Gabe coming from the barn. He had a puzzled frown on his face. Probably wondering who in the hell was at his home this early in the morning. He smiled when he recognized her.\n\n\"Hi, Kelsey, what are you doing here? I thought you left.\"\n\n\"I came back to see Ryder...\" She blinked tears away. \"He sent me away. Again.\"\n\n\"Yeah, he has some trust issues. Come on into the house. I'll get you a cup of coffee.\"\n\n\"I don't want to disturb Emma if she's sleeping.\"\n\nGabe smiled at her. \"Trust me, she's up. Come on.\"\n\nKelsey followed him up the porch steps and entered the kitchen when he held the door open for her. The kitchen smelled wonderful. Emma turned her head when the door opened and smiled when she saw Kelsey. She walked to her, wiping her hands on her apron, and hugged her.\n\n\"Kelsey. It's so good to see you. I thought you'd gone home to Georgia.\"\n\n\"I did...but I...\" She burst into tears. Emma wrapped her arms around Kelsey's shoulders and she suspected Emma waved Gabe away from the motion of her arm. The sound of the kitchen door opening and closing confirmed it.\n\n\"Come and sit down,\" Emma said leading her to the table. \"Do you want something to eat?\"\n\n\"No, thank you. Just coffee is fine. I'm so sorry, Emma.\"\n\n\"For what?\"\n\n\"Crying like that. I bet Gabe was happy to escape.\"\n\nEmma chuckled and patted her arm. \"You should have seen the look on his face.\"\n\nKelsey laughed even as she wiped her wet cheeks with her sleeves. \"I bet. Men hate to see women cry, even though they're usually the ones causing the tears.\"\n\n\"Oh, that's the truth. I cried enough of them over Gabe. Damn men.\" Emma poured them each a cup of coffee and then pulled out a chair, and sat at the table beside her. \"Tell me what happened,\" she said as she placed her hand over Kelsey's.\n\nKelsey took a deep breath and proceeded to tell Emma everything from the beginning. She didn't leave anything out. She trusted Emma, and knew she could tell her.\n\n\"And then he sent you away? After you, and him...and well, you came all the way here from Atlanta.\" Emma practically growled.\n\n\"Yes. He says he's not going to wait for me to change my mind again and leave him.\" She shook her head. \"I shouldn't have told him I was done when he came to Atlanta. I was just so mad at him for showing up and just thinking I'd drop everything and run back here with him.\"\n\n\"Did you tell him that?\"\n\n\"Oh, Emma...he wouldn't have listened. He is the most stubborn man I've ever met. Now I don't know what I'm going to do. I stopped here because I'd convinced myself I was staying whether he liked it or not. I'm just not so sure now.\"\n\n\"Do you like it here, Kelsey? I mean, don't stay just to be around Ryder. That will just drive you crazy.\"\n\n\"I love Clifton. The thing is I don't have a job or a place to live until I get a job.\"\n\nEmma seemed to contemplate that a moment, and then stood. \"I have an idea. Let me call Becca.\"\n\nKelsey frowned, sipped her coffee, and wondered what Emma was thinking. Kelsey watched her hang up her phone and sit back down.\n\n\"Becca's on her way over. It will just be a few minutes. Are you sure you don't want something to eat?\"\n\n\"I'm sure. I don't think I can stomach anything right now.\" Kelsey sighed.\n\nThe back door opened, Gabe poked his head as if to check that the coast was clear, and then stepped inside. \"Is everything all right?\"\n\n\"Yes, all is well. I have your thermos ready,\" Emma said with bright smile as she handed it to Gabe. He leaned down and kissed her on the lips then after tipping his hat to Kelsey, he left just as quickly as he came in.\n\n\"Gabe really loves you.\" Kelsey wished Ryder would be so open and unafraid to show his love for her.\n\n\"He does. I'll have to tell you about us one day.\" Emma had just sat down when the door opened again, and Becca entered.\n\n\"Hi, Kelsey, I'm so happy you're here again.\"\n\n\"Where's Will?\" Emma asked.\n\n\"With Jake...being spoiled rotten,\" Becca said with a laugh. She poured herself a cup of coffee and took a seat beside Kelsey. \"So, you need a place to stay?\"\n\n\"Yes, but I'm not staying with either of you or Olivia. I'm not going to be a fifth wheel.\"\n\n\"I happen to own a bed and breakfast, remember?\"\n\n\"I remember, but isn't it closed for the winter?\"\n\n\"It is, but it's just sitting there empty. You can stay in one of the apartments at the back of the kitchen. The woman who works for me has a house in town. She works on the reservations and emails from home. Something she's not going to be doing much longer either. She's pregnant. You'd be alone out there though.\" Becca frowned.\n\n\"I don't have a problem with that. I have an apartment in Georgia, so I'm used to being alone. Besides, you are all close.\"\n\n\"Yes, we are. I want to help you, Kelsey. If you want to stay there, it's fine with me. You'd actually be helping me out by staying there.\"\n\n\"You are all so nice and you don't even know me very well. I know we haven't known each other long, but I love having you as my friends.\"\n\n\"So do you want to stay?\" Emma asked her.\n\n\"I do. I want to look into getting a job here and staying in Clifton. If Ryder doesn't like it, that's just too damn bad.\"\n\n\"You're more than welcome to stay in the apartment at the B and B for as long as you need. If you decide to leave Clifton, that's fine too. Whatever you want to do,\" Becca said.\n\n\"I really appreciate that, Becca. I'll even clean the place up so it doesn't get dusty from just sitting there. I suppose I can check with the hospital about working there.\"\n\n\"Great. The hospital is just outside of town. It's between here and Hartland. You should talk with Kaylee. She's a nurse and works at the hospital,\" Becca told her.\n\n\"I didn't know she was a nurse. Great, I'll talk to her. What about rent?\" Kelsey asked.\n\n\"No rent. I'm not going to make you pay me. I just want to help you out.\"\n\nKelsey jumped up and hugged her. \"Thank you. I really want to stay here in Clifton. I want to be close to Ryder. Maybe I can wear him down.\"\n\n\"I think you have a great shot at it if you stay here. He'd see you whether he wants to or not. If you go back to Georgia, well you know what they say\u2014out of sight, out of mind.\" Emma laughed.\n\n\"Fantastic,\" Becca said as she stood. \"This is the key to the back door. You can follow me there now but then I need to get home. I'll bet Jake has Will out in the cold. He rides him around on his horse all the time. No matter what the weather. \"\n\nKelsey hugged Emma, and thanked her everything. She put her coat on, climbed into her rental, and followed Becca to the Clifton B and B. When she pulled up to the large farmhouse, she gasped. It was gorgeous. A large white house with black shutters and a porch that wrapped around the side with a row of rocking chairs sitting there just waiting for people to sit in them. She fell in love with it.\n\nThey entered the kitchen from the side entrance. The kitchen was a chef's dream. She followed Becca through the doorway located alongside the large commercial refrigerator.\n\n\"This is the bigger one of the two apartments but please don't feel you have to stay here permanently. If you do decide to stay in Clifton but don't want to stay here, that's fine by me. You can move to town if you want. I used to want someone here all the time, but not much happens in Clifton as far as crime so I don't worry about the place. I keep the heat on so the pipes don't freeze and the house stays warm. It was my grandmother's home. She left it to me when she passed away. I met Jake in this house,\" Becca said with a wistful smile and a sigh.\n\n\"In the house?\"\n\nBecca laughed. \"Yes. He came over the night I arrived and I threatened him with mace spray when he walked in out of the snow. The first thought that went through my mind after he took his hat off was that he was the sexiest man I'd ever seen, and I hated him.\"\n\nKelsey laughed with her. \"But you love him now.\"\n\n\"I think I fell totally in love with him that night, and that was part of why I hated him. I hadn't come here to find love, especially with some cowboy. I used to live in Maryland and wanted nothing to do with some cowboy from Montana.\"\n\n\"Well, he certainly is some cowboy.\"\n\nBecca burst out laughing. \"Don't I know it. Well, you get yourself comfortable. Make yourself at home and if you need anything, call me.\" She told Kelsey her cell and home numbers, and then left.\n\nKelsey sighed and walked outside to get her suitcases. She had to call the airlines and cancel her flight, and then her parents. They were going to think she was crazy, especially after she explained that Ryder told her to leave\u2014again. She unpacked her suitcases, and rested a moment on the bed and contemplated the long day ahead of her.\n\n****\n\nRyder worked in the barn all day. He'd been there since before the sun came over the mountains. He'd heard her leave and it took every ounce of willpower he had not to run out and stop her. It was for the best she was gone. The thought that she'd change her mind about staying was all the reassurance he needed that sending her away was for the best. She'd end up hating it here and missing Atlanta then she'd eventually hate him. Although, there was a pretty strong possibility she already did. He knew he'd hurt her, but it couldn't be helped. No, but you should have kept your damn dick in your pants.\n\nHe stopped raking the hay, folded his arms at the top of the rake handle, and stared at the wall. Damn it. Was he going to get on with his life any time soon? Ever since he'd returned from Atlanta, he'd been a complete mess and now it was worse, and she hadn't been gone a day.\n\n\"Hey, boss,\" Cookie called from outside the stall.\n\nRyder turned to look at him. \"Everything all right?\"\n\n\"With us, yeah. You? I'm not so sure of.\"\n\nRyder clenched his jaw and stabbed at the hay with the rake. \"Let it go.\"\n\n\"I don't think I will.\"\n\n\"I'll fire you then,\" Ryder muttered.\n\nCookie burst out laughing. \"Sure you will. What would you do without me?\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know. Maybe get some peace and quiet about shit that doesn't concern you.\"\n\n\"Anything that concerns you, concerns me and you know it.\"\n\n\"Since when?\"\n\n\"Since you were a boy and your grandfather had you here. I really hated it when he died and those parents of yours moved in. It was just a good thing the will stated they had to keep me on and pay me or I'd have been out of a job. Then you went and run off.\"\n\n\"First off, don't call those people my parents and second, I had to run off.\"\n\nCookie nodded. \"I know you did, son. I also know they ain't your real parents. That role was accepted by Frank and Grace, and they done a fine job. Still are. So I wonder how they'd feel about you running Kelsey off.\"\n\nRyder gave a humorless mock laugh. \"Probably that it was the best thing I'd ever done.\"\n\n\"Bullshit. They love you and they love her. It'd probably make them real happy to have you two together.\"\n\n\"She wouldn't have been happy here and would have left me sooner or later. I just made her go sooner.\"\n\n\"Is that what you think? Did you even ask her?\"\n\n\"Christ, Cookie. Do you think she'd really admit she'd had no plans to stay for good? That she'd change her mind eventually?\"\n\n\"Well, I see your point, and Ryder, that's the chance we all take with love, but that girlie loves you and you love her. Seems to me, you'd be much happier if you two were together, not apart.\"\n\n\"Who said I love her?\" Ryder growled.\n\nCookie chuckled. \"You.\"\n\n\"I sure as hell did not.\"\n\n\"Not in so many words, but look at you. You can hardly concentrate on what you're doing and I saw you this morning when she left. You didn't think anyone was around, but I was. I saw how you kept looking at the door. Like you were trying to decide whether to go after her or not. I may be old, but I know what a man looks like when he's in love and you, Ryder, are in love.\"\n\nRyder shook his head. \"Doesn't matter.\"\n\n\"You can lie to yourself all you want, but don't try that shit with me. Why do you want to be miserable?\"\n\n\"How miserable do you think I'd be if she stayed letting me believe she loved me, and then one day, she leaves?\"\n\n\"Damn son, no one knows the future and you can't dwell on something that may never happen.\" Cookie sighed. \"You deserve some happiness in your life, Ryder. I know you have great friends and you have Frank and Grace, but you need that girl. If you can't see that, then I feel sorry for you.\" He stared at him for few seconds then shook his head, and walked away.\n\nRyder knew no one could understand his way of thinking. He'd grown up with two people who wanted nothing more than their next drink. Two people who never gave a damn about him. Who never loved him\u2014their own kid. It was hard for him to trust. He only trusted his friends, Cookie, Grace, and Frank. It was hard to let someone in, and Kelsey had already pushed him away once so what was going to keep her from doing it again. She told him that she trusted him never to hurt her or anyone, but when he went after her, asking her to come home with him, she'd rejected him. How can he trust someone who hasn't earned it? Shit! He leaned the rake against the wall and wandered out into the center aisle of the barn. There was much more work to be had, and he planned to work as hard as he could today and maybe, just maybe, he'd sleep tonight.\n\n****\n\nKelsey sat on the window seat of the B and B with her legs curled beneath her, and stared out the window. When she saw an SUV coming up the drive, she smiled with delight that it was Olivia driving it. She hopped of the seat, and hurried to the kitchen. She opened the door, a blast of cold air hitting her and waited anxiously for her friend to enter.\n\n\"Hey, Liv, what are you doing out in this cold weather?\"\n\n\"It is fucking colder than a brass monkey's balls, isn't it?\" Olivia exclaimed with a laugh as she took her coat off.\n\nKelsey stared at her, a bit shocked but then burst out laughing. \"I was warned about that potty mouth of yours. Glad to experience it firsthand.\"\n\nOlivia laughed. \"Sometimes I may need a filter.\" Then she shrugged. \"I'm just me,\" she said with a smile.\n\nKelsey hugged her. \"I wouldn't have you any other way, and I barely know you. I'm sure Wyatt doesn't mind either.\"\n\n\"Wyatt Stone can kiss my ass...literally.\" Olivia laughed.\n\nKelsey laughed with her. \"I'm not going there. You're a lucky woman. That's some good looking husband, you've got there.\"\n\nOlivia sighed. \"Yes, I am, and yes, he is. I fell for him the minute I set eyes on that brooding stubborn cowboy.\"\n\n\"Did he feel the same?\"\n\n\"He tells me he did, now but back then, he fought it every inch of the way. We just got married in June, so we're still honeymooning...but enough about me. What's going on with you and Ryder?\"\n\n\"Nothing, absolutely nothing. He told me to leave so I did.\" Kelsey could feel the tears threatening again so she avoided meeting Olivia's stare.\n\n\"I was under the impression at Thanksgiving that you two were an item. I mean, we saw him kiss you.\" Olivia frowned at her and took Kelsey's hand in hers. She pulled her to a seat at the kitchen table.\n\n\"Can I get you something? Coffee?\" Kelsey tried to draw the subject away from her doomed love life.\n\n\"I'm good. Come on, you can tell me. I've been there with these Montana cowboys. I thought for sure you'd caught yourself one,\" Olivia said pulling Kelsey back into her seat.\n\n\"We were...getting along, but then he started this shit about not settling down. He doesn't want to get married, or have kids, because he's afraid he will be like his abusive, deadbeat father. We had a huge argument and I told him I loved him but he just got angrier and told me not to say that to him. Then he told me I had to go home where I belonged. I told him he would regret sending someone like me away but...\" She took a deep breath. \"He came to see me in Atlanta just before Christmas, and I was so upset with him that I told him I was done with him. Grace told me he'd begun to believe he wouldn't be like his father after all because of her and Frank. So, I came back here to tell him I did want him and this time he tells me he's done with me. He accused me of playing games, deserving better and that if I stayed, I would change my mind about him.\"\n\n\"What the fuck does that mean?\"\n\n\"I've been giving this some thought and I'm beginning to think he's afraid I can't really love him and that I'll eventually think he will be like his abusive father, and then I won't be happy. It's hard to explain, but I really think that's what it is.\" She shook her head.\n\n\"I left early this morning, without saying good-bye. I didn't think I could do it. I was leaving, going home to George but as I was passing Emma's, I realized I don't want to leave Clifton. I really love it here and if it's the only way I can be close to him, then so be it. I'm staying. Becca offered me the apartment here, which I'm so grateful for, and I'm going to see about getting a job at the hospital. Then eventually, I'll get my own place.\"\n\n\"Good for you. Listen, Kelsey, don't give up on the man you love. I was ready to leave here because Wyatt didn't want to do the commitment thing either and I did. I was packed and ready to go but Becca suggested I stop at his house to see if I missed anything. It seemed she and Wyatt set it up that way, and so once there, Wyatt told me he loved me and wanted me to stay. I can't imagine what my life would be like if I'd gone, if I'd given up on him. He's my world.\"\n\n\"I can see how much he loves you, Liv. In fact, all of you have husbands who love you so much. I want that too, Liv. I want it with Ryder and I'm going to do my best to have it. I came here because I needed his protection, but I fell in love with him instead.\"\n\n\"I never wanted a cowboy.\" Olivia laughed. \"But when I saw Wyatt, I was a goner. I teased Becca when she first came here that cowboys were nasty. Oh boy, was I ever wrong.\"\n\n\"I've always had a thing for cowboys so when I first saw Ryder in that Stetson, I wanted to jump his bones.\"\n\n\"Same here with Wyatt. Becca and I were in the feed store talking with Emma when he came into the store. Becca elbowed me, nodded toward him, and I wanted to lick him all over. I told Becca that when she first introduced me to him, I nearly had an orgasm looking into those dreamy dark eyes.\"\n\nKelsey laughed and nodded. \"Those dark eyes are definitely gorgeous. I love Ryder's green ones best though.\"\n\n\"Ryder is hot, honey. Don't let him slip through your fingers.\" Olivia grabbed both of Kelsey's hands in hers. \"Fight for him, and that means even if you're fighting with him. He loves you. I could see it at Thanksgiving. He couldn't keep his eyes off you all day. You're just going to have to convince him of it.\"\n\n\"I am going to fight, Liv. I love him, and if I lose, well then at least I gave it a shot.\" Kelsey sighed, feeling more confident in her decision to stay in Clifton. \"How about some coffee now?\"\n\nWhen Olivia nodded, Kelsey set about making a pot and wondering how she could fight for Ryder without it being too obvious to him.\n\n# Chapter Twelve\n\nJanuary descended on Clifton with what felt like a vengeance. It was below zero at night and didn't get much warmer during the day, plus there was sleet, and more snow every day for the first week. Ryder hated the idea of just walking to the barn. He kept the horses inside because of the frigid temperatures and they were not happy about it at all. Today, he was letting them run inside the indoor corral. It was in no way close to the freedom they experienced in the pastures, but it was better than nothing. At least they had room to run and get some exercise. He stood at the wooden rail and laid his arms across the top of it. Watching the horses prance and trot around the corral reminded that he needed to head to town to get some oats. Groaning at the thought of making the trip in the cold, he moved from the rail and walked through the barn. He slowed to a stop when he saw Cookie walking toward him.\n\n\"Are you going to town or do you want me to go?\" Cookie asked him.\n\n\"I'll go. I just hope the roads are clear. I hate this damn ice.\"\n\n\"Okay, be careful, boss. Give me a call if you have any problems.\" Ryder watched Cookie walk away. It would've been nice if he'd put up a bit more argument.\n\nRyder pulled his hat down low and the collar up high on his sheepskin coat before heading out to his truck. He put his head down so the icy sleet wouldn't hit him in the face. He climbed into his truck and started it up. With temperatures the way they were, relief settled over him that the engine turned over at all. After putting it in gear, he maneuvered the truck down the driveway, glad the gate was already open. He drove through, out onto the road and headed toward town.\n\nWhen he was alone like this, his thoughts always seemed to go to Kelsey. He wondered what she was doing. Was she back working at the hospital? Was she involved with someone else now? Christ, the thought of her with another man just about killed him. Suddenly, the back of end of the truck fishtailed slightly on the icy road, so he slowed down and concentrated on staying alive and on the road.\n\nAfter getting the feed he needed, he decided to stop at the diner and get some lunch to go. He parked in front, carefully maneuvered the slippery parking lot, and entered the diner. The little bell above the door announced his arrival, and a few heads turned followed by a few greetings. He took a seat at the counter, and nodded to everyone who said hi or waved at him. His eyes scanned the diner and as he glanced around, his gaze quickly shifted back to the blonde haired woman in the back booth. Surely, he was just imagining things. It couldn't be Kelsey but as he sat there staring at her, he knew it was her. He stood and weaved his way through the tables to get to her. He stopped at her table and clenched his jaw while balling his fists even as he wanted to pull her into his arms and stared down at her.\n\n\"What the hell are you doing here, Kelsey?\" he muttered.\n\nShe glanced up at him and blinked. \"Having lunch.\" She stabbed her salad with her fork.\n\n\"I don't mean here in the diner and you know it. Why are you still in Clifton?\"\n\n\"Excuse me, but I don't believe it's any of your business why I'm here. I can live wherever I choose, and I choose Clifton.\"\n\nRyder continued to glare at her. \"Why?\"\n\n\"Why? Because, I happen to love this town and the people in it.\"\n\n\"What about your job?\"\n\n\"I have a job, here at the hospital.\"\n\n\"You're working at the Clifton County Hospital?\"\n\n\"Is there another one?\"\n\n\"Jesus, you're being a real smart ass.\" He slid into the booth across from her.\n\n\"I don't recall asking you to join me, Ryder.\"\n\nHe leaned across the table. \"Tough shit. If you think by staying in Clifton, you're going to change my mind, think again.\"\n\n\"It has nothing to do with you. I love it here and I'm staying. Now, go away. I'm expecting someone.\"\n\n\"Who?\" Her blue eyes met his, and jealousy ripped through his gut.\n\n\"None of your business.\"\n\nRyder started to ask her again when a woman's voice greeted Kelsey from beside him. He started to rise.\n\n\"Don't bother getting up on my account, Ryder.\"\n\nRyder looked up to see Lydia Carmichael standing beside the booth. \"Hello, Lydia.\"\n\n\"Hi. You can stay if you want. Well, if Kelsey doesn't mind, that is.\" Lydia Carmichael was a statuesque brunette with dark brown eyes and flawless skin. She was a stunning woman who did absolutely nothing for Ryder but it didn't matter since she was seeing Sam.\n\n\"I do mind. Go away, Wolfe.\" Kelsey's eyes narrowed at him.\n\nRyder blew out a breath and stood. \"Have a nice lunch then.\"\n\nHe touched his fingers to his hat and nodded to both women before walking back to the counter. Connie, the owner of the diner had his lunch waiting for him in a Styrofoam container. He paid for his lunch and after one more glance toward Kelsey, he left the diner. She never looked up at him again.\n\nDamn. Why was she here? He shook his head. It hurt to see her, hear her voice, and not being able to hold her. This was going to be hard on him if she lived in Clifton, and she obviously planned to because she was talking with Lydia, who was a real estate agent and dealt in buying, selling, and renting properties.\n\nOf course, they could live in the small town and never see each other. After all, he rarely left his ranch unless he came to town for feed or for meetings or the occasional dance at the Town Hall, or a few drinks at Dewey's. The chances of running into her were slim and if he did see her, he'd just steer clear. He walked to his truck and was about to climb in, when he saw Sam crossing the street and heading toward him. Ryder leaned against the fender of the truck and folded his arms.\n\n\"Hey, Sam.\"\n\n\"Ryder. Did you get one of Connie's burgers?\" Sam said with a smile.\n\n\"Oh hell yes. I can't come into town and not get one. Hell, I'd run away with her if she'd have me.\"\n\nSam chuckled. \"She's a little older than you.\"\n\n\"The burgers are worth it. That woman can sure cook. Speaking of women, I just saw Lydia.\"\n\nSam's eyebrows rose and glanced around. \"Where?\"\n\n\"Inside the diner. Having lunch with Kelsey.\" Ryder watched for Sam's reaction.\n\n\"Kelsey? I thought she left. Is she staying with you?\"\n\n\"Nope, and I have no idea where she's staying. She said she's working at the hospital and I suppose she's talking with Lydia to find a place to live.\"\n\n\"Lydia told me she was meeting with someone, which is why she couldn't have lunch with me.\"\n\nRyder grinned, wondering if his friend was suffering a woman the way he was. \"Are you going to marry that woman, Sam?\"\n\nSam's eyes narrowed as he stared him. \"I don't think that's any of your business but since we're friends, I'll tell you. No. I'm not going to marry her.\"\n\n\"Why not? You two have been seeing each other for quite a while now.\"\n\nSam shrugged and tucked his hands into his pockets. \"I like her, don't get me wrong. But something's missing and I don't know what it is.\"\n\n\"Well, seems to me, if something's missing then she's not the right one. A real shame too. She's a beautiful woman.\"\n\nSam nodded. \"I agree. Oh hey, I heard from Riley last night.\"\n\nRyder smiled, the thought of his friend lifting his spirits. \"How is he? I miss seeing him.\"\n\n\"He's doing great. Just sold another house. Rich bastard,\" Sam growled.\n\n\"He's done well for himself, that's for sure.\" Ryder's eyes strayed toward the diner in time to see Kelsey walk out of the door with Lydia.\n\n\"You're in love with her,\" Sam said, the words, more an accusation, than question.\n\n\"No. I'm not. I like her, and I missed her when she left...but love? No.\"\n\n\"Keep telling yourself that, my friend, just keep telling yourself that,\" Sam murmured as he slapped Ryder on the shoulder with his gloved hand.\n\nLydia gave him and Sam a little wave, and then both women climbed into her car. Kelsey ignored them both. Ryder watched them drive away. He knew they were going to see some property for Kelsey. Shit! Clifton sure as hell would never be the same.\n\n****\n\nKelsey resisted looking at Ryder as she followed Lydia to her car. Her heart had nearly stopped when he stepped up alongside her table in the diner. It was all she could do to keep from throwing herself into his arms and begging him to let her come home with him. She'd never been happier to see anyone, as she was Lydia. She arrived at just the right moment because she knew Ryder wasn't going to stop asking her why she was still in Clifton. Her plan was to stay cool, and let Ryder come to her. She hoped he would eventually come to her anyway.\n\nThey got into Lydia's car and as the car pulled out the parking spot, she forced herself not to look but she could almost feel Ryder's eyes following the car as Lydia drove away. Giving into temptation, she glanced in the side view mirror to see Ryder set his hands on his hips. He was watching, which made her smile with satisfaction.\n\nLydia drove them to a small house she'd told her was for rent. When they pulled up in front of it, Kelsey mentally groaned. Even with all the snow piled up around it, she could see it needed a lot of work. She nibbled on her bottom lip as she stared at it.\n\n\"I know it needs a lot of yard work, but the inside is great. I know a few teenagers who would do the outside work for you in the spring. Come on, let's go in. It might surprise you,\" Lydia said opening her car door.\n\nKelsey climbed out the car and stood looking at the house for a moment. It's only temporary if I can convince Ryder to let me come home. Together, they trudged through the snow to the porch and Kelsey watched as Lydia opened a lockbox to retrieve a key. She gave Kelsey a smile and opened the door.\n\nKelsey stepped inside and let out a gasp. It might not have looked like much from the outside but inside...it was beautiful. A large living room with a stone fireplace and wood-beamed ceilings greeted her. Three sets of French doors were across the back, facing out to a small fenced in yard.\n\n\"It's pretty, isn't it?\" Lydia asked her with a smug grin.\n\n\"It is. I can't believe how lovely it is. You're right it certainly did surprise me. I'm loving it already.\"\n\n\"Let me show you the rest of it. It has two bedrooms and one bath. The kitchen appliances are included, and there's a small laundry room off the kitchen.\"\n\nShe followed Lydia through the house. The two bedrooms sat opposite each other down a hallway with the bathroom located closer to the larger room. It was a beautiful little home and she loved it.\n\n\"It's perfect. I'll take it,\" she told Lydia.\n\nLydia smiled at her. \"Great. I have an application with me.\" They returned to the kitchen and Lydia set her briefcase on the kitchen counter and pulled out some papers. \"You just need to put down some references, like your past landlord and some personal references too.\"\n\n\"All right.\" Kelsey stood at the center island and began filling out the paperwork. She was thrilled to get her own place but what she really wanted was to be with Ryder. So she'd carve out her life in Clifton until he came to his senses and realized that she was the one for him, and that he did want her with him. It was all part of her plan. Yes, she knew the possibility of running into him here was very high and she was counting on that. Just like today, in the diner. She had to admit she'd almost choked on her salad when she saw him walk in because she hadn't expected to see him again so soon. She was proud of herself for not falling at his feet and begging him to take her back, even though she wanted to, but as long as she can keep her cool, she would do fine. Or was she expecting too much of Ryder? Was she making a huge mistake staying in Clifton?\n\n\"Is everything all right?\" Lydia asked her.\n\n\"Yes. I'm just wondering if I'm doing the right thing. I mean, what happens if I decide to go back to Atlanta? I don't want the landlord to sue me for breaking a lease.\"\n\n\"Don't worry about that. There isn't a lease. It's month to month. I told them when they put the house up for rent, it would be better to do it that way. A lot of people that come through here think they love it until they experience their first winter.\"\n\n\"I've experienced it already.\" She motioned to the snow once again falling from the sky to add to the piles of snow already accumulated on the ground. \"But that isn't the reason I'd leave...\"\n\n\"It's Ryder, isn't it?\" Lydia asked her lowering her voice as if someone would hear her.\n\n\"Is it that obvious?\"\n\nLydia smiled at her. \"Only to another woman, in love with a man, who's not interested in going any further in a relationship either.\"\n\n\"Who?\"\n\n\"Sam Garrett. I love him more than I thought it possible to love anyone, but he's not in love with me.\"\n\n\"I'm so sorry, Lydia.\" Kelsey reached out and patted Lydia's arm.\n\nLydia waved her hand as if pushing away her emotions. \"It's fine. I think I knew going in that Sam wasn't going to fall in love with me. I don't know how I knew, but I knew. I'll take what I can get with him though...for now. One day, I hope I have the strength to walk away before he does.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry, Lydia,\" Kelsey said again.\n\n\"Don't be. I'll never regret having Sam Garrett in my life. He's an amazing man. He's kind, sweet, sexy, damn good-looking, and smoking hot in bed.\" Lydia laughed. \"Why would I regret that? I just regret that I'm not the love of his life and I envy the woman who does finally capture his heart.\"\n\n\"I know what you mean. I love Ryder so much it hurts, but he's got issues. And because of his fears, he sent me away because he thinks I'll be unhappy and leave him later.\"\n\n\"Maybe when he sees you've rented a place, he'll change his mind,\" Lydia said.\n\n\"That's exactly what I'm hoping, but somehow, I doubt it. He's so stubborn and set in his thinking that I think he truly believes he's done with me, just as he said.\"\n\nLydia put her arm around Kelsey's shoulder. \"Don't give up, sweetie. Sometimes men need to be their own worst enemy before they can see what's best for them. Men. Can't love them. Not allowed to shoot them.\"\n\nKelsey laughed. \"So true. And they say we're difficult.\"\n\n\"Oh, please. Compared to them, we gals are a piece of cake.\"\n\nThey laughed together and being two women in love with impossible men, they hugged. Then Lydia checked her phone for messages while Kelsey fill out the application. When she finished, she handed the forms to Lydia, who glanced over them then put them in her briefcase. After one more look around the little house, they locked up and Lydia drove them back to town. Lydia stopped her car behind Kelsey's car in the parking lot for the diner.\n\n\"I'll let you know as soon as I hear something. I need to get home and grab a shower. Sam and I are going out to dinner later, if this weather lets up.\" Lydia glanced through the windshield at the lightly falling snow.\n\nKelsey smiled, reached across, and hugged her new friend. \"Thanks for everything, and have fun.\"\n\nShe climbed out of the car, waved good-bye, and walked carefully on the rutted ice to the driver's side door. After unlocking it, she got in, shivered, her breath turning to clouds of steam. She turned over the engine, again thankful it started. It was so cold. Winter here was hard, much harder than anything they got in Georgia but Ryder was worth it. The heat seemed to take forever to flow out from the vents, which didn't help. She sat there shivering, waiting for the engine to warm enough to produce some heat. Finally, she began to warm. She cleared the windows of condensation and snow before pulling out of the space. Before she pulled onto the main road, she hit the button for four-wheel drive.\n\nKelsey was still nervous about driving the roads even though the plows or a truck with a snow shovel on the front came through often. Ice covered the roads, and more snow continued to fall covering it again. She hated driving in this kind of weather, but she had to get used to it if she was going to live here.\n\nDriving slowly, nearly at a snail's pace, she kept a watchful eye on the road, and a fair distance from any other vehicles, not that there were many. The further she got out of town, the worse the roads became. The snow was deeper because the plows hadn't come through, as often and there was a layer of ice on top. She could hear her tires crunching through it making her tense and grip the wheel tighter. No one else was on the road but her.\n\nOf course, no one else is on the road. They're smarter than I am and stay home in this stuff.\n\nWhen the backend of the SUV suddenly fishtailed, she let out a little scream, and after a couple of overcorrections, she stopped and breathed in heavy pants. She was terrified. She rested a moment, thinking back to all things she'd learned to do when a car skids. Just because she lived in Georgia didn't mean she had never driven on ice. Ice storms were rare there but they happened.\n\nKelsey gave the car a bit of gas, and proceeded slower this time. She knew she only had to go a little further, and the B and B would be just ahead. She came around a bend in the road and suddenly, a deer darted out in front of her. She did the one thing Ryder told her never to do...she hit the brakes. The SUV slid violently on the slick surface of the road. By the time she thought about lifting her foot from the brake, the vehicle had slid over the right side of the road and down the embankment front end first. Kelsey screamed and the airbag exploded at the same time the SUV slammed into the snow, showering the windshield with sheets of ice and snow before coming to an abrupt stop. She sat there with her hands clamped around the steering wheel, her heart pounding as if trying to escape her chest. Her head hurt, her arms and shoulders ached from gripping the steering wheel, which she continued to do even as she tried to calm herself.\n\n****\n\nRyder sat at his desk in his office. He was supposed to be working on the books but his attention kept straying. He glanced out the window instead, and watched as more snow fell. It looked so soft, but people in this region knew just how deadly it could be. Everyone stayed indoors, unless there was an emergency. It was usually quiet since the people of Clifton picked up what they needed ahead of time when the weather station called for rough weather coming in. The town always seemed to look like a ghost town this time of the year. He knew all the stores closed down when it was this bad out, except the diner. Connie kept it open in case someone needed a hot meal. She lived above the diner so she didn't have to get out on the roads. If she had to, she'd send everyone else home and do everything herself. Connie never turned anyone away and if she thought, for one minute, that someone couldn't pay for their meal, she made them eat it anyway. She was a wonderful woman and everyone in town loved her.\n\nRyder's cell phone rang and he groaned when he saw Sam's name on the call screen. Now what? He really didn't want to talk about Kelsey again. Damn it, he should just let it go to voicemail but knowing Sam, he'd just keep calling until he answered.\n\n\"Hey, Sam,\" he said letting him know he knew who was calling. \"What's up?\"\n\n\"Ryder, there's been an accident...\" Sam began.\n\n\"Accident?\" Ryder got a sick feeling in his gut. \"Who?\"\n\n\"Kelsey.\"\n\nRyder jumped up from his seat so fast he sent the chair against the wall. \"Sam, tell me she isn't...is she hurt?\"\n\n\"She's alive. She has a slight concussion. They've transported her to the hospital. I'm on my way there now. I'll let you know how she is.\"\n\n\"Forget that. I'm on my way.\"\n\n\"Ryder, it's too bad out. There's nothing you can do right now anyway.\"\n\n\"I can be there, Sam, that's what I can do. You're not going to change my mind. I'm on my way.\"\n\n\"Shit. All right, but please drive slowly. I don't need to have you in the hospital too.\"\n\nRyder hung up and ran to the kitchen. He put his coat, hat, and gloves on then ran out the back door. The icy snow crunched under his boots as he trudged through it to his truck. He climbed in, pulled out too fast and the wheels slid reminding him to slow down. Calm down too. He drove the truck carefully down his driveway but then groaned when he saw the road in front of his house. It hadn't been plowed in a while and there were several inches of snow and ice covering it. Sleet pinged off the windshield and the roof of the cab, and he tried to calm down even as frustration over it taking so long to get to the hospital clear on the other side of town tensed him so he was gripping the steering wheel so hard his hands hurt. He had to get there.\n\nKelsey was hurt. Dear God, don't let anything happen to her before I get there. Sam said she was okay, but things can happen after an accident. If he lost her, what would he do...die probably. He needed to call Frank and Grace. Hell, he wouldn't blame them if they said it was his fault. It was his fault. She shouldn't be out on these roads. She wasn't used to driving them. Shit!\n\nRyder decided to wait until he got to the hospital. Right now, he needed to concentrate on the road. Besides, he wasn't in any hurry to have Frank angry with him.\n\nThe usually fifteen minute drive to the hospital took him over an hour. His nerves were firing like pistons in a revved up racecar by the time he parked the truck and made his way into the emergency room. Sam met him at the nurses' station and patted his shoulder in that manly mode of comfort men used for each other.\n\n\"They just took her upstairs to a room. She never lost consciousness so that's real good news. She's just a little sore and a lot scared,\" Sam told him with a relieved grin.\n\n\"Take me up there, Sam, please.\"\n\n\"Follow me.\" Sam led him to the elevators, where they were lucky to catch one before the doors closed. Sam punched the button for the third floor. Once there, Sam led him to the room where Kelsey was.\n\nRyder stepped around him at the door, and felt his knees nearly buckle when he saw her. She was sleeping, or appeared to be, her lashes resting on bluish circles beneath each eye and her skin was pasty white. She had a small goose egg bump colored by a large purple bruise on her forehead just above her left eye. He moved closer to the bed, pulled a chair close then sat. He took her hand in his. It was warm. Thank you, God.\n\n\"What happened, Sam?\" he whispered over his shoulder.\n\n\"Apparently, she lost control of her vehicle on the slick road and went off into the culvert. She was lucky someone happened along before she was there long enough to die from exposure. The collision had popped out the windshield, the airbag deployed, or it could've been worse, but I suspect she was in shock because she didn't call it in. The driver passing by saw the tracks leading down over the embankment. They called it in and I drove out there with the ambulance.\"\n\nRyder took a deep breath and blew it out. \"Thanks, Sam.\"\n\n\"I spoke with the doctor and he's assured she'll be fine. She has a concussion from hitting her head on the steering wheel before the airbag deployed but there's no swelling of the brain, so that's good. I already called her parents and reassured them she's in good hands here and there was no sense in them coming out here. I just wanted them to know, but you may want to call Frank and Grace.\"\n\n\"I will, but I'm sure her parents called them already. I appreciate you being here but you don't have to stick around, Sam. I've got this so you can go, Sam. I'm staying.\"\n\n\"Now, tell me again that you don't love her,\" Sam said with a chuckle as he spun on his heel and left the room.\n\n\"I can't, because I do,\" Ryder whispered to an empty room as he looked at Kelsey tracing over every inch of her face with his eyes. He sat there, not moving just watching her.\n\nDear God, don't take her from me, please. I promise I'll love her for the rest of my life. I'll make her happy. We'll have children and raise them up right. Please.\n\n****\n\nKelsey was positive she'd heard Ryder's voice. Was it just a dream? Why would he be in her house? Oh, wait. As the fog began to clear, she remembered. She was in the hospital. She'd wrecked her rental. Shit!\n\nShe slowly opened her eyes and blinked them against the bright overhead lights. Turning her head, her eyes cleared and focused to find Ryder sitting in the chair beside the bed. His head was back, and his eyes were closed.\n\n\"Ryder,\" she said in a rough voice. She cleared her throat and tried again. \"Ryder.\"\n\nHis eyes flew open, and he sat up. \"Kelsey, how are you feeling?\"\n\n\"My head hurts a little but other than that, I'm okay, I think.\"\n\n\"You scared the hell out of me,\" Ryder said grabbing her hand. She let him hold it. It was nice.\n\n\"Ryder, I'm sorry, I did exactly what you told me not to do. I hit the brakes when a deer ran out in front of me and lost control. I slid right off the road.\" A tear rolled down her cheek as the realization of how close she came to really getting hurt or worse sunk in.\n\nHe squeezed her hand in his rubbing his thumb along the back of it. \"It's okay, baby. You'll be fine. I'm sure you'll be mighty sore tomorrow though.\"\n\nShe stared at him, wondering why he was there when he'd claimed he'd wanted nothing to do with her. She frowned. \"Why are you here?\"\n\nRyder opened his mouth to answer her but the doctor chose just that moment to walk in the door. \"I don't like seeing my nurses in the hospital other than for work, Nurse Sullivan.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry, Doctor Newman.\" She smiled up at the man, catching the frown that marred Ryder's face at her attention to the young doctor.\n\n\"I'll let it slide this time.\" The doctor smiled back. \"Well, you have a slight concussion and although it's not serious, you know the drill. You've been under observation long enough that we're sure you're fine to sleep tonight but I don't want you alone so unless you've got someone who can stay with you, you'll be our guest here in the hospital.\" He glanced at Ryder.\n\n\"She's got me. I can watch over her. I'll take her to my ranch. I can take care of her,\" Ryder told him, rising to his feet like he was taking charge.\n\n\"No. I'll be fine. I'm already settled in here, or I can go home and set my alarm,\" Kelsey protested.\n\n\"Well, with the cost of staying the night here, and taking up space you don't need to, perhaps you should think about going to his ranch. I'm sure you'll be more comfortable and sleep better than here. Rest is the best thing for you now, and if you have any subsequent symptoms, he can assess them and bring you back. An alarm won't do that for you and...well, you know the consequences.\"\n\nKelsey sighed, half elated, and half annoyed. Bruised up, with a bump on her head, and the possibility of vomiting in her future was not how she wanted to spend time with Ryder. \"All right.\" She glanced at Ryder. \"Thank you, I appreciate the offer.\"\n\n\"Christ, I bet that hurt,\" he said to her with a smirk.\n\n\"You have no idea,\" she muttered.\n\nThe doctor's eyes traveled back and forth between them, and then he cleared his throat. \"Well then, I'll release you but you call me in the morning, and be careful going home. Those bad roads are what got you in here in the first place, and believe it or not, we're expecting another foot of snow tonight.\"\n\nHe left the room leaving silence behind him. Ryder shuffled his feet, and Kelsey pulled at a thread on the blanket refusing to look at him.\n\n\"Can you leave now?\" he suddenly asked her.\n\n\"I can leave as soon as the nurse brings in the release papers. If you want, you can go get your truck and bring it around to the front. Someone will bring me out in a wheelchair.\"\n\n\"Trying to get rid of me?\"\n\nShe looked up at him. \"Maybe. I'm still trying to figure out why you're here.\"\n\n\"Sam called me.\"\n\nSo he was here because Sam didn't know who else to call. She sighed.\n\n\"You don't have to do this, Ryder. I'm probably better off staying right here,\" she said pulling the cover up closer to her chin.\n\n\"Well, it looks like they're throwing you out and the doc says you need someone with you. Hell, I don't even know where you're staying. Hotel? Where? It doesn't matter because we're not going to take any chances. If the doctor prescribes, you should be with someone then that's what you're going to do. You can stay in the spare bedroom...again.\"\n\n\"I'm currently staying at the B and B. Thank you, Ryder.\"\n\n\"Okay. Good. I'll go bring the truck around.\" He stared at her for a very long moment, and then headed for the door.\n\nA nurse came in as he was going out, and Kelsey noticed how her gaze traveled over every inch of him as he left. She turned to face Kelsey.\n\n\"Damn, that man is fine.\" She laughed as she approached the bed. \"You are one lucky gal.\"\n\nKelsey laughed. \"I totally agree.\"\n\n\"You're going to stay with him?\" At Kelsey's nod, the nurse fanned herself. \"Maybe I need to have a concussion so I can stay with him. He's one truly fine lookin' man.\"\n\nKelsey knew the nurse didn't mean anything by it but she found herself wanting to seriously slap her, and tell her to back the fuck off. Ryder was hers even if she wasn't his because she wasn't done fighting for him yet. She signed a couple of pages on a clipboard the nurse handed her, and wondered how in the world was she going to spend the night under the same roof as him without wanting him to make love to her. Of course, with more snow coming, she may be there longer than he expected, and although it was going to be hard to be close to him and not throw herself at him, she might be able to use this to her advantage. She loved him so much, and her fight had just begun.\n\nAfter going over the post-release papers, and tucking the instructions and prescriptions into her purse, she changed into her clothes, and waited for the wheelchair.\n\n# Chapter Thirteen\n\n\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\n\nRyder drove the truck up to the entranceway and waited. What are you doing? He'd asked himself that question at least a half-dozen times, Once as he standing there in her hospital room, again on the way to the elevator, once more in the elevator, and again as he walked to the exit. Yes, at least a half-dozen times because he asked himself that same question on the way to the truck, and again after he climbed in. So now, he'd asked it for the seventh time, but the answer was still the same. She has to go somewhere so why not the ranch?\n\nThe hum of the truck, and whir of the fan warming the cab settled him. This was his opportunity to convince her to stay. Of course, he still wasn't sure if he deserved her staying but he knew after this night that he didn't want her anywhere else. It was his job to protect her. Frank had given him that responsibility, and damn, if he wasn't going to continue to take care of her. He'd slipped up big time already, and look what happened, she nearly got killed. True, if he convinced her to stay, and if he couldn't make her happy, and she left, it would probably drive him over the edge. Would he turn into his old man then? What if she no longer wanted to stay? What if she realized the truth already, that he wasn't worthy of her loving him?\n\nYou are not your old man! You love her and she did say she loved you so maybe she does.\n\nMaybe she's the one, the one to settle down with and have children with because he suddenly did want children\u2014with her.\n\nRyder climbed out of the truck, leaving it running so the heat stayed on, when he saw an attendant wheeling Kelsey through the automatic doors in a wheelchair. She didn't look happy at all about going with him but too bad, because there was nowhere else she could go...not that he'd let her. Oh, he knew that one of their friends would take her in but knowing Kelsey, she wouldn't want to intrude on them. It was either she go with him or stay in the hospital. He grinned knowing he'd won this round.\n\nHe opened the passenger door, helped her up into the truck, and turned toward the attendant.\n\n\"Thank you,\" he told her, and then chuckled when she winked at him.\n\nHe walked around the front of the truck, keeping his eyes on Kelsey through the windshield. She looked tired. He'd get her home as quickly, and as safely, as possible and get her to bed.\n\nChrist! His dick swelled at that thought of her in bed in his house.\n\nHe climbed into the truck, made sure she was buckled in, which resulted in her pushing his hands away and accusing him of treating her like a child. He grinned, put the truck in gear, and started the long drive home. His concentration was on the roads because they were in terrible condition and the snow was still falling. He glanced over to her to see her gripping the door handle.\n\n\"I'll take it slow, Kelsey. I'm used to driving these roads so trust me,\" he said.\n\n\"I'm all right,\" she said barely above a whisper.\n\n\"It will take us a while to get home, but I'll get us there in one piece.\"\n\n\"I know you will.\"\n\n\"So do you like working at the hospital?\" Ryder asked figuring to keep her mind off the drive.\n\n\"I do, actually. It's a much smaller hospital than the one I worked at in Atlanta, but it stays busy. I really enjoy it.\"\n\n\"That's good,\" he murmured, wondering where to take the conversation next.\n\n\"You never answered me earlier. I know you said Sam called you, but what's the real reason you're doing all this?\"\n\n\"We'll talk about it when we get to the ranch. Right now, I need to concentrate on the drive if you want to get there instead of the hospital again.\"\n\n\"We'll talk about it...which means we're going to argue.\"\n\n\"Kelsey, just sit back and relax. Please.\"\n\n\"All right,\" she muttered with a huff.\n\nRyder saw her lean her head back against the headrest, and close her eyes. His hands tightened around the steering wheel, but it wasn't because of the roads. How was he going to explain to her that hearing she'd been in an accident nearly gave him a heart attack, that it had scared the shit out of him. How was he going to get her to believe that he loved her with everything he was?\n\nAbout an hour later, he finally steered the truck into the ranch driveway and with some slipping and sliding managed to get it up to the house. He parked, shut off the engine, and glanced at Kelsey. She was asleep. He quietly opened his door and stepped out. He went to the kitchen door, unlocked it, and opened it. The dogs came rushing out, greeted him, and then disappeared around to the barn. He moved around the truck to the passenger side and opened the door. Kelsey was still asleep.\n\nRyder scooped her into his arms, pushed the door shut, and carefully carried her inside. He pushed the door shut, and carried her to the spare bedroom. He was just laying her on the bed when she opened her eyes and looked up at him in the half-light filling the room from the hallway.\n\n\"Ryder?\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"I want to sleep in your bed\u2014with you.\"\n\n\"Kelsey, I don't think...\"\n\n\"Please,\" she whispered and wrapped her arms around his neck.\n\nHe honestly couldn't think of a reason why she shouldn't sleep in his bed with him so he gave a relenting sigh, scooped her up again, and carried her to his room. He placed his knee on the bed and placed her in the center of it. He helped her off with her coat, and pulled her boots off. He pulled the comforter up over her. He wanted to kiss her but didn't.\n\n\"Get some sleep. I'll be in, in a while, call me if you need me,\" he told her, gently brushing the hair away from the bump on her head.\n\n\"All right. Ryder, thank you for taking care of me...again,\" she said and then rolled to her side, facing away from him.\n\nHe stared down at her, as if wanting to reassure himself that she was okay, and then turned and left the room. He pulled the door closed quietly behind him, and walked to the living room to add more wood to the fire. The wind howled outside the windows.\n\nThe dogs suddenly barked so he returned to the kitchen, and let them in. As soon as they were inside, they shook furiously, and snow and ice flew around the room.\n\n\"Way to go, guys.\"\n\nRyder retrieved two towels from the mudroom to use to dry them off.\n\n\"You enjoy this too much,\" he said as he started to rub Buttons down, only to have her roll to her back. Badger kept bumping against him for his turn. Ryder chuckled. \"You'll get your turn, just hold on.\" He threw the second towel over the dog's back and Badger lay down on the floor and looked up at him with big brown eyes.\n\nWhen Ryder finished with Buttons, he rubbed Badger down too. Once both dogs were dry, they ran to the living room and the warmth of the fire. Ryder followed and sat in his recliner. He picked up the remote and turned the TV on to the weather channel. They predicted more snow and things didn't look good for the area.\n\nRyder sighed and shut the television off. He was tired but what he wanted was to go lie down on the bed with Kelsey, and hold her. She seemed to be talking well enough, argumentative even, and since it was a mild concussion, she should be fine just as the doctor said. She just needed rest and as long as she didn't get sick and woke well in the morning, she'd heal fine.\n\nHe rubbed his jaw and felt the stubble there. He couldn't remember the last time he'd shaved. Pushing himself up out of the recliner, he walked to his bathroom. A shower wouldn't hurt either since he hadn't taken one after working in the barn today.\n\n****\n\nKelsey was awake when Ryder entered the bedroom. She watched him undress and disappear into the bathroom. She thought about joining him when she heard the shower turn on. The thought of him there naked, water flowing over his big body, made her moan. She rolled to the edge of the bed and groaned. As much as she wanted to go in there, seduce him, and prove to him just how much he wanted her, her body ached far too much. She'd wait. She closed her eyes and listened to the comforting sounds of him moving around in the bathroom. She could get used to this and wanted to.\n\nKelsey must have dozed off because she hadn't heard him come out of the bathroom. Instead, the shifting of the bed under his weight had made her aware that he was lying alongside her. She rolled over, his clean manly scent filling her nose and warming her heart. She lifted her hand and stroked it along his cheek. He had shaved, and it pleased her. She leaned close and pressed her lips to his. His eyes sprang open and even in the dark, she saw him smile.\n\n\"You pretend to be all tough and hard-headed, Ryder Wolfe, but I know the truth,\" she whispered.\n\n\"Oh you do, do you? So what's the truth about me?\" Ryder grumbled, catching her hand as it traced lazy circles around his shoulder.\n\n\"You love me but are afraid to admit it because you don't think you deserve it,\" she explained, and felt a sense of triumph when his breath caught in his throat and he blinked his eyes. \"You aren't afraid you'll be like your father, abusive, and cruel. You know better, because you were taught by the best man ever, Frank Sanders. You think that because two selfish, self-centered, hateful people who rejected you, and never gave you love that no one else can give it to you either. Well, I know that Frank and Grace love you, and your friends love you, and I love you. You're surrounded by love, and refuse to acknowledge it. You've built up walls to protect yourself from being hurt and in the process, you're doing to others exactly what you're afraid will happen to you...you're rejecting all who care about you.\"\n\nRyder pulled back and rolled to his back. \"I didn't know nurses had psychology degrees.\"\n\n\"Actually, some of us do. I don't but I studied some psychology courses during training. That's not the point, Ryder. It took me a while to realize what you were doing but I understand it now. You're so afraid of being like you're father that you refuse to even try to live the life you deserve. You're so afraid of not being loved that you're not willing to admit that you love me, and in turn, accept my love.\"\n\nShe paused. She waited, and hoped. He lay there, staring at the ceiling. His breathing was fast as if he had just run a race. Perhaps he had. He'd spent a lifetime running away from the pain and heartache those awful parents of his had forced him to survive\u2014until now.\n\nThen she saw it. A single tear glistened in the reflective light coming through the window from the snow covered world outside, as it slid down the side of his face.\n\nKelsey kissed his cheek. He turned, his shiny gaze meeting hers.\n\n\"I love you, Ryder Wolfe, whether you want me to or not. I love you with all my heart and I'm not going anywhere until you realize just how much.\"\n\n\"I-I don't know,\" Ryder stammered, and she felt him tremble beneath her fingers.\n\n\"You don't know what?\"\n\n\"What if I can't make you happy?\"\n\nKelsey laughed and pressed a kiss to his mouth. She wiped another tear from his cheek.\n\n\"Right now, the way you are treating me is making me miserable as hell so I figure anything you do to try to make me happy is a step up in the right direction, don't you?\"\n\nRyder frowned at her, and then grinned. He pulled her into his arms and cradled her in a way she'd been missing for so long and thought she'd never experience again. She sighed.\n\n\"Now, that makes me happy. Keep going, my stubborn cowboy.\"\n\nHe chuckled and the movement of his chest beneath her head was so very welcome.\n\n\"Tell me now why you came to the hospital tonight?\" She knew the reason but also knew he needed to say it, recognize, and own it.\n\n\"Truth?\" Ryder tilted her face up so she was looking directly into his eyes. She nodded and he closed his eyes for a moment. He was struggling with his fears and his emotions, she knew that, and so she'd be patient with him.\n\nHis brow furrowed and then relaxed. He opened his eyes, allowed them to travel over her face. She didn't look away. She gave him the unspoken support he needed to speak his feelings.\n\n\"When Sam called me to tell me you'd been in an accident, my first thought...my first fear was that you were dead and I had lost the only person on this earth who wanted nothing from me but love.\" Ryder exhaled as if those words had pained him to say. Kelsey imagined they might have. \"I know Frank and Grace love me but I always felt I owed them. I owed them more than I could ever repay. It's why I couldn't refuse Frank asking me to watch over you.\"\n\nRyder pressed his lips to her forehead. \"The relief I felt when Sam said you were okay, I knew I had to confirm for myself, so I raced to the hospital as fast as this damn weather would allow me to see for myself. You looked so vulnerable in that bed, so pale, with bruises, and that bump on your beautiful head.\" He lightly kissed her goose egg bump and Kelsey nearly broke into tears. It was the sweetest more romantic thing anyone had ever done.\n\nHe brushed her hair back from her face and stared down into her eyes. \"You're going to have to be patient. You're going to have to bear with me while I get a handle on learning how to accept and return love, Kelsey, but know this...if you'd died tonight, I would never be able to go on living. Yeah, I was kind of mad at you for still being in town but that was because I'm a selfish bastard who couldn't stand the thought of you being so close and not being able to have you.\"\n\nShe started to speak but he put his finger to her lips. He swallowed hard.\n\n\"I love you, Kelsey Sullivan. I'm a stubborn, pigheaded cowboy who didn't know enough to hang onto something worth more than all the gold in the Black Hills but almost losing you tonight made me learn it real fast. If I hadn't sent you away, you wouldn't have been out on that road in this bad weather and I wouldn't have almost lost you so feel free to lay the blame on me that you got hurt. But I promise you this, darlin', I'll never let anyone or anything ever hurt you again, including me.\"\n\n\"Ryder, I've known that all along. You just needed to learn it about yourself.\"\n\nThey stared at each other, feeding each other with love, until he lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers. She moaned and he deepened the kiss, moving his tongue inside. She ran her hands up his bare chest and into his still damp hair. But when her hand slid down along his back, and then moved around front and slid over the bulge pressing against her thigh, he grabbed her wrist.\n\n\"Kelsey, what the hell do you think you're doing? You have a concussion.\"\n\n\"I have a slight concussion and I'm fine. I don't even have a headache. The only medicine I need is you.\" She pressed her mouth to his neck and he groaned.\n\n\"I don't want to hurt you,\" he whispered. She thought about pretending not to hear it but he had to understand he couldn't hurt her except by rejecting her.\n\n\"The only way you'll hurt me is by turning me away.\" She placed her hands on his face and forced him to look at her.\n\nHe lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers. He wanted her and she was ready to let him have her, bruises and achy body, be damned.\n\nRyder pulled back, breaking off the kiss. He pulled her in tight to him until she moaned slightly and then he let go and looked down at her. \"See, I can't even hug you without it hurting. You need to sleep. That was doctor's orders.\"\n\n\"Okay,\" she said with a pout of her lower lip. \"But I'm not leaving again. I'll call Lydia and tell her not to bother with the rental house.\"\n\n\"No argument from me, darlin',\" Ryder exclaimed with a chuckle. \"I doubt either of us is going anywhere tomorrow or possibly even the next day, considering the way it's snowing out there.\"\n\n\"Well, that's just fine with me too,\" she said with a happy smile before curling into his warm, protective body and kissing him one more time before she would allow sleep to claim her.\n\n****\n\nRyder woke feeling more content than he can ever remember feeling at any time in his life. At first, he thought it was just the warmth of his bed making him feel so comfortable but when Kelsey made a little snoring sound alongside him, he remembered the reason for his good mood. She was here. She was here with him, and other than a little banged up, she was healthy, and he had to believe, happy. He pulled her closer in his arms, and she wiggled a bit.\n\nHe pressed a kiss to her forehead. It was warm, but not hot so she hadn't any fever resulting from her minor injuries. He'd read the post-release instructions and so far so good, as long as she knew him, and where she was when she woke.\n\nHe traced his fingers lightly over her bruised forehead, around the curve of her brow, and then down the sweet tilt of her nose. She crinkled her face and opened her eyes just a flutter. She squinted at him, and then smiled.\n\n\"Hi,\" she said, her voice still sleep laden. \"I'm still here.\"\n\n\"Yes, you are. Where are you, darlin'?\"\n\nShe wrapped her arms around his neck, slid her fingers into his hair, and pulled him close to her before pressing her lips to his. \"I'm right where I belong, in your house, in your bed, and in your arms.\"\n\n\"You seem perfectly lucid to me,\" Ryder said with a laugh before capturing her mouth with his in a deep, tongue-sweeping kiss. Suddenly, he pulled back. \"How sore are you?\"\n\nKelsey grimaced, pulled away, stretching her arms above her head, and pushing her legs toward the bottom of the bed. She moaned a little and then smiled. \"A little stiff but nothing some exercise won't remedy.\" She waggled her eyebrows at him. \"And why am I still dressed?\"\n\n\"Good question, unless you feel the need to go somewhere?\" Ryder teased her.\n\n\"Hell no, I'm not going anywhere, and I won't let you make me this time.\"\n\nRyder pulled her back into his arms, and put his forehead to hers careful not to hit her bump.\n\n\"The only way I'll ever let you go again is if you ask me to and tell me you don't love me anymore.\"\n\n\"Wow, that long, huh?\" Kelsey smiled up at him.\n\n\"I'll never hurt you, Kelsey. I promise you.\" Then suddenly, he grinned at her wickedly. \"Unless I have to turn you over my knee, of course.\"\n\nShe laughed up at him. \"Oh, are you into that?\"\n\nHe burst out laughing. She always was good at giving it right back.\n\n\"No.\" He sobered. \"I'd never even do that to you.\"\n\n\"I know. I know.\" She kissed him and he believed her. She trusted him. \"I need you, Ryder. I need to feel you inside me, please.\"\n\nHe growled low in his throat. \"Are you sure you're up to it?\"\n\n\"Yes, I am and I know you are...up to it.\" She said with a sly grin as she slid her hand down to cup his already eager cock.\n\n\"It does seem to have a mind of its own, and it wants you.\"\n\nRyder quickly helped her undress and had her moaning because every inch of skin he uncovered, he kissed, nuzzled, and licked until she was squirming and begging him to take her. He pulled her over on top him so she straddled his hips. He figured he was less likely to put any bruises on top of her bruises if she were on top.\n\nShe surprised him by reaching past him, one of her pink tipped breasts falling so near his mouth that he couldn't resist suckling it and pulling a soft moan from her as she retrieved a condom from the nightstand.\n\nShe ran her hand along his jaw. \"Someday, I hope to convince you to stop using these.\"\n\n\"One step at a time, Kelsey, let me get used to idea of having someone as wonderful as you love me first.\" She nodded, and rolled the condom onto him before lifting her hips and slowly, and teasingly lowering herself on him until he was completely sheathed inside her.\n\n\"Of course, if you're really serious about kids, I figure we might have to get started soon if we're going to have ten or twelve.\"\n\nShe squealed. \"What?\"\n\nHe laughed and she bounced on his cock. He loved her so much that if she wanted that many, he'd give them to her. She raked her nails gently down his chest and he pretended it hurt. \"When the time comes, I'll do my best to be the best kind of dad.\"\n\nKelsey gasped, and slid forward, her hands wrapping around his head, pulling his hair. \"Can we talk about this later?\"\n\nRyder chuckled. \"Yeah, I have other things on my mind right now too.\" He grabbed her hips and rocked her against as he kissed her.\n\nKelsey groaned and tore her mouth from his. \"Ryder...\"\n\n\"I'm with you, baby,\" he groaned in her ear.\n\nShe screamed out his name as her orgasm hit her hard. Ryder bent his knees as she ground her hips against his until he growled low in his throat and then groaned out her name as he came. He felt her body react again and her insides clench and throb as she came again. She collapsed on his chest, her breathing fast and hot against his skin.\n\n\"Are you all right?\"\n\n\"Yes. God, that was fantastic,\" she said in a breathless voice.\n\n\"I think more rest is in order then, don't you?\"\n\n\"I'm all for that.\"\n\nRyder pulled the covers up over their quickly cooling bodies, slid his arms underneath, and cradled her against him. They slept until noon, and then made love again.\n\n# Chapter Fourteen\n\nLife was good and it was about to get even better. It was Valentine's Day and Ryder had it all planned out. He'd ordered dinner from the restaurant where she'd driven him nuts and they hadn't finished their meal. He thought it was appropriate for tonight. He laughed softly thinking about the surprises, he had lined up for Kelsey. He knew she'd been hinting around for the last few weeks about him making a commitment to her. He'd needed time and he was ready but he wanted to do it right.\n\nHe patted the pocket of his jacket where the beautiful diamond ring he'd sent to Butte for rested in its velvet box. He thought about the cedar rocking chair he'd originally handcrafted for a client but when he saw how beautiful it was when it was finished, he could only imagine Kelsey sitting in it rocking their child. He promised his client, he'd make another for him.\n\nThe sun was shining for a change, the big sky was blue, almost as blue as Kelsey's eyes, Ryder thought with a smile. There hadn't been any snow for the past week so the roads were finally clear and the trip to Hartland and back hadn't taken nearly as long as he'd expected. He planned to fix a nice bath for Kelsey while he set up dinner, brought in the chair, and hopefully, didn't lose his nerve before asking him to be his wife.\n\nAs he made the turn into the driveway, he stopped the truck. The gate was open when he knew he'd shut it when he left. He drove slowly up the drive and stopped again when he saw an unfamiliar car parked by the back door. He swore when he saw Utah plates on the car. He pulled out his cell phone and made a call.\n\n\"Sheriff Garrett,\" Sam answered.\n\n\"Sam, it's Ryder. I think my...parents are here at my ranch. There's a car here with Utah plates and that's where they were last time I heard from them. Kelsey's inside.\"\n\n\"I'm on my way with Brody. We'll come in silent. Be careful.\"\n\nRyder hung up and after taking a deep breath, he opened the door and stepped out. He walked passed their car, up the steps, and entered the kitchen.\n\n\"Kelsey?\" he called out. He'd let the dogs out when he left but now wished he hadn't.\n\n\"Come in here, son. We're waiting for you.\" He recognized his old man's voice.\n\nSon of a bitch! Ryder walked into the living room and came to a halt when he saw his father holding a gun to Kelsey's head.\n\n\"Royce, you seriously need to let her go,\" Ryder growled, anger fueled adrenaline surging through him. He wanted to rip the bastards head off for even touching Kelsey.\n\n\"I will. When you give me what I want,\" Royce Wolfe replied.\n\n\"I'm not giving you a fucking thing. Let her go\u2014now.\"\n\n\"Aren't you going to say hello to your mother, son?\"\n\n\"I am not your son and she,\" Ryder said, pointing at Heather Wolfe, \"is not my mother.\"\n\nRoyce laughed. \"She brought you into this world.\"\n\n\"And you tried to take me out of it, how many times, old man? Get off my ranch or I'm calling the sheriff.\"\n\n\"Your friend, Sam, he's the sheriff, isn't he?\" Heather Wolfe finally spoke.\n\nRyder glared at her and then swung his gaze back to Royce. \"I'm not going to tell you again. Let her go.\"\n\n\"How much is she worth to you, Ryder? Tell me that.\"\n\nRyder didn't say a word. He continued to glare at Royce. His eyes shifted to Kelsey. She looked pale and scared. She had to believe he wouldn't let anything happen to her. When he saw a tear roll down her cheek, he wanted to tear Royce Wolfe apart with his bare hands.\n\n\"Has he hurt you?\" he asked Kelsey.\n\nShe shook her head and gasped when Royce's arm tightened around her neck. Ryder clenched his jaw.\n\n\"I want a hundred thousand dollars. Now!\"\n\nRyder laughed without humor. \"Do you really think I'd have that here?\"\n\n\"If you don't, then it looks like your mom and I are spending the night until you get to the bank. Or I will kill this little woman of yours. It would be a pity. I have to say, son, you do have great taste in women. She's a real looker.\" Royce pulled her back against him. Kelsey whimpered.\n\n\"You hurt one hair on her head, you're a dead man,\" Ryder said taking a step closer.\n\n\"Then get me the fucking money,\" Royce shouted waving the gun at him before pressing it back against Kelsey's head.\n\nClenching his fists, Ryder glared at the man who sired him before nodding. He stepped backward before starting down the hall.\n\n\"Hold up. You're not leaving my sight.\" Royce followed him, dragging Kelsey behind him.\n\nRyder entered his bedroom and opened the closet doors. He walked to the back wall, reached above the shelf located about halfway down, and pressed a button. The lower part of the wall slid open to show a safe.\n\nRoyce laughed.\n\n\"Open it,\" he told Ryder waving the gun at him again.\n\nRyder squatted down and entered the combination. The safe door clicked open. Royce Wolfe gasped, and Ryder slowly came to his feet.\n\n\"Holy shit! How much is in there?\"\n\n\"I'll give you what you asked for\u2014\"\n\n\"Oh no. You're going to give me everything in that safe. Heather, get a bag.\"\n\n\"Where?\"\n\n\"Jesus Christ, woman. Tell her where she can get a bag, son.\"\n\n\"In the pantry, and quit calling me son. I am not your son. I was never your son. I was a fucking punching bag to you. How about we see if you can hit me now?\"\n\n\"Ryder, don't give them your money,\" Kelsey choked out, only to have the arm against her throat cut off her words.\n\n\"The money doesn't matter, Kelsey. Only you do.\"\n\n\"How sweet,\" Heather said entering the bedroom with a cloth bag.\n\n\"Give the bag to Ryder. Fill it up...son.\" Royce laughed.\n\nRyder squatted down again and started to fill the bag but slowly. He knew he needed to give Sam and Brody time to get here. He pulled stacks of money out of the safe and dropped it into the bag.\n\n\"There has to be over a million dollars in there,\" Heather said in awe.\n\n\"Yeah, and our son never wanted to help us out. He's so fucking rich, that he keeps a few mil in his own safe.\"\n\n\"Fuck you, old man,\" Ryder growled.\n\n\"I'd be nice if I were you, I have a gun to your woman's head.\"\n\n\"And you're going to drop that gun or I'll drop you,\" Sam said from the doorway. Ryder let out a sigh of relief.\n\n\"I'll kill her, Garrett,\" Royce shouted over his shoulder.\n\n\"I don't think you will,\" Brody said from behind him. He'd entered through the French doors.\n\nRoyce spun around dragging Kelsey with him. \"Damn it. Heather, why weren't you watching?\"\n\n\"How was I supposed to know someone would come in the damn patio doors?\"\n\n\"Lower your weapon. Now,\" Sam demanded as he held his weapon in front of him pointed at Royce's head.\n\n\"Son of a bitch,\" Royce said as he lowered the gun and released Kelsey who pushed away from him and ran straight to Ryder, where he caught her and wrapped his arms around her.\n\nRyder watched over Kelsey's head as Brody stepped up behind Royce and yanked his arms back before putting handcuffs on him. Meanwhile, Sam was handcuffing Heather.\n\n\"Are you both all right?\" Sam asked Ryder who was cradling Kelsey as she cried softly against his chest.\n\nRyder hugged her to him. \"Yes. Get them out of here, please.\"\n\n\"Do you want to press charges?\"\n\n\"You know I do, Sam.\"\n\nSam grinned. \"Yeah, I do but I have to ask.\"\n\nRyder nodded as Sam and Brody led them away. He tightened his arms around Kelsey and rubbed his cheek against the top of her head. She pulled back from him and gazed up at him with tears glistening on her lashes.\n\n\"You were going to give them all that money. You said you would never give them money.\"\n\nRyder laughed. \"Are you fucking serious? That money doesn't mean a damn thing to me. Only you do.\"\n\n\"How much is in there?\"\n\n\"Two million.\" He shrugged. \"I like to keep cash on hand.\"\n\nKelsey burst out laughing. \"When people keep cash on hand, it's not two million dollars.\"\n\nRyder shrugged. \"What can I say? I just feel better with it here.\"\n\n\"But you were going to give them all your money.\"\n\n\"No, I wasn't and even if they'd gotten away with it, I have a lot more than that in the bank. At least ten times that. I'm a very rich man, baby.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't care if you were dirt poor.\" She rose on her toes and kissed him.\n\n\"I know.\" He leaned back and looked down at her. \"This wasn't at all how I wanted to do this but it seems like the perfect time,\" Ryder said, reaching into his coat pocket. When he withdrew it holding the dark blue velvet box, he heard Kelsey gasp. She was surprised anyway and that's all that mattered. Dinner and the rocker will be the cherry on top. No, he planned to be the cherry on top.\n\n\"Will you marry me, Kelsey Sullivan?\"\n\nShe stared up at him, glanced back to the box he'd opened and gasped at the sparkle on the two-carat diamond in the box. Glancing up again, she had tears glistening in her eyes. \"Are you sure?\"\n\n\"Yes. I think it would be best to get married since we want children together.\" He grinned at her.\n\nShe smiled, and then threw her arms around his shoulders. \"I love you, Ryder, with all my heart and yes, I will marry you.\"\n\n\"I love you, darlin'. I really had already decided on all of this. I've been planning it all out for two weeks now, and then you go getting yourself into trouble again and ruin things.\" Ryder grumbled against her shoulder and when she pushed away and punched him in the arm, he laughed. \"Seriously, I was scared to death that bastard was going to slip and blow your head off. I don't know what I would've done if something had happened to you. No, I do know. I would've torn that old man to pieces and ended up on death row. See, I'm not so different from him after all. I wanted to kill him, Kelsey.\" His voice caught.\n\nKelsey hugged him to her. \"You're nothing like him. You were angry, and you wanted to kill him for hurting me, but you didn't. I knew you'd never let anything happen to me. I knew you wouldn't let him hurt me, which is why you were willing to give him all that money. Nothing and no one will ever pull us apart, and nothing you say or do will ever make me leave. I love you, Ryder, and this is the best Valentine's Day ever.\"\n\nHe grinned at her. \"Well, it was supposed to be a lot better.\"\n\n\"And so it shall be. So what else have you planned for me, Ryder Wolfe, because I have some very interesting things planned for you,\" Kelsey said as she slid her hands up under his shirt and around back so she was pressed tight against him.\n\n\"I like the way you think. Well, first you were going to take a bath while I set up dinner, and then I have another surprise for you.\"\n\nShe stepped back and looked at him with wide eyes. \"And you're worried about me ever leaving you. If you keep being so romantic, Ryder Wolfe, you'll have to pry me off you and fight me away with a stick.\"\n\n\"It won't be easy, since you're rather demanding and have a hell of a temper at times.\" He laughed when she punched his arm.\n\n\"I'll try to curb it around you.\" She laughed when he scooped her up into his arms.\n\n\"So when's the wedding?\"\n\n\"I like May,\" she said before pressing a kiss against his lips.\n\n\"May, it is. You know, I'm thinking I might join my fianc\u00e9e in that bath and wash the bad of the day off me. Is that okay?\"\n\n\"I wouldn't have it any other way. We can grab a condom on the way.\"\n\n\"Got one in my wallet. I've learned to be prepared with you.\" He carried her into the bathroom and kicked the door shut behind them.\n\n\"So what's my other surprise?\"\n\n# Epilogue\n\n\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\n\nRyder sat in a chair in the back room of the church and gazed out the window. It was a beautiful day in May, and for the first time in his life, he felt at ease.\n\n\"Why aren't you nervous?\" Jake asked him placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing gently.\n\nRyder grinned up at him. \"Because everything is as it should be, and I have absolutely no doubt she'll be here and that she loves me.\"\n\n\"Yeah, well, I knew that about Becca too, but I was still nervous as all get out.\"\n\n\"Okay, maybe I am a little but I think it's more about having to stand up in front of everyone.\"\n\nJake laughed and nodded. \"That makes me feel a little better. I think you're right. Wyatt tried to convince us he wasn't nervous either.\"\n\n\"I wasn't,\" Wyatt said with a chin-raised confidence.\n\n\"Bull\u2014\"\n\n\"Don't you dare say that in my church, Sam Garrett.\"\n\n\"Sorry, Padre,\" Sam said repentantly, and then glared at his friend, Riley Madison. \"What are you laughing at?\"\n\n\"You always did get into trouble with the Rev,\" Riley said.\n\n\"Shut up,\" Sam muttered.\n\n\"It's too bad Katie couldn't make it. Kelsey invited her but Sadie is sick,\" Ryder said.\n\n\"I haven't seen Katie in years. I'd love to see her.\" This eager remark was from Riley.\n\n\"You stay away from my sister,\" Sam growled. The men laughed. Sam had told all of them that same thing when they were growing up around his sister.\n\n\"I'm glad you finally got over your fears, Ryder. We all knew who made you into the good man you are today,\" Gabe told him.\n\n\"I know. It took me a while to accept it though. Kelsey has helped me realize a lot of things about myself but yes, Grace and Frank are my real parents, even if not by blood. I'm so glad I have them in my life. Frank actually got tears in his eyes when I asked him to be my best man. Hell, never thought I'd see something like that.\"\n\nThe door opened and Frank stepped inside. The room went silent, and every man turned to look at him. He stopped in his tracks as if he'd done something he shouldn't.\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Nothing,\" Ryder chuckled. \"We were just talking about you, Dad. I was saying how glad I am to have you and Mom in my life. For making me the man, I am today and for the best thing of all...for bringing Kelsey into my life.\"\n\nFrank grinned and shrugged. \"Well, I'm certainly happy you two fell in love. Your mom and I couldn't be more pleased about it.\"\n\n\"You didn't plan it all along, did you, Frank?\" Riley asked with suspicion in his tone.\n\n\"I refuse to answer that on the grounds it may incriminate me.\" Frank grinned.\n\nRyder narrowed his eyes at him. \"Are you serious? You planned this?\"\n\n\"Well, let's just say when Kels was being stalked, it was the perfect opportunity to get you two together. Your mom and I had often said it was a shame you two lived so far apart.\"\n\nRyder stared at him, his mouth opened as if he wanted to say something, and then he suddenly burst out laughing. \"Well then, Dad, I appreciate you sending her to me even more than you know.\"\n\n\"Anyone want some champagne?\" Frank asked and laughed when the men screwed up their faces and shook their heads. \"Okay then, I'll be right back.\" He left the room.\n\n\"Where's he going?\" Brody asked.\n\nRyder shrugged. \"No idea. Hope it's not to get champagne.\"\n\nA few minutes later, Frank returned, pushing the door open and carrying a small cooler. He set it down on the floor and pulled the lid up and off. The men all looked inside with some hesitation and then started to laugh. Inside were nine bottles of beer.\n\nTrick squatted down and reached inside the cooler. He handed each man a beer and took the last one for himself. They twisted off the tops, tapped the bottles together, and took a swig.\n\n\"Who needs champagne when you can have beer?\" Ryder asked, smiling and happy surrounded by the best men he knew.\n\n****\n\n\"Who wants champagne?\" Grace asked the room full of chattering women.\n\n\"We all do, of course. Thank you.\" Kelsey heard Olivia say.\n\nGrace handed out the rest of the flutes. \"I can't believe Kelsey asked me to be her matron of honor.\"\n\nKelsey smiled when she heard Grace express her excitement over being her matron of honor.\n\n\"She loves you, Grace. You and Frank were responsible for bringing Ryder into her life,\" Emma said with a smile as she clinked her glass to the one Grace was holding.\n\nKelsey glanced in the mirror over the sink in the bathroom. It was her wedding day and she was happier than she'd been in her entire life. In the room adjacent were the women who had become as important to her as if they were her sisters. Grace was the mother who loved Ryder, and the others had fast become her best friends these past months. Life was perfect.\n\n\"Can I just say that Riley Madison is absolutely gorgeous? Those whiskey-colored eyes are so hot. I think Sam's blue eyes are gorgeous too, but Riley's are like the color of fine aged Scotch. I wouldn't mind taking a sip, he's really sexy too,\" Olivia said.\n\n\"Olivia Rene Roberts Stone, can you remember even for a moment that you're married?\" Becca asked her. Kelsey chuckled hearing this. That's Olivia.\n\n\"What do I always say? I'm married, I ain't dead. I can still think a man is gorgeous, can't I?\"\n\nEmma burst out laughing. \"Give up, Becca. I have.\"\n\n\"You know, sometimes I wonder if Frank actually planned it all. Sending Kelsey here to Montana, I mean. We'd often talked about introducing them but they never seemed to both be in Atlanta or available at the same time. We could have kept her safe back home in Georgia.\"\n\nBecca laughed. \"Well, if he did, it worked out perfectly.\"\n\n\"I think it's romantic,\" Madilyn said.\n\n\"Well, almost perfectly. I suppose if Ryder Wolfe hadn't been such a stubborn thick-skinned cowboy it could've gone easier,\" Kelsey said as she entered the room from the bathroom. She spun around and heard the women making oohing sounds. \"So what do you think?\"\n\n\"Oh my God, Kelsey. You are so beautiful,\" Kaylee said.\n\n\"You are certainly a gorgeous bride,\" Anne Llewellyn said with a big smile.\n\n\"Oh, baby. You look so beautiful,\" Donna Sullivan said through tears.\n\nLydia reached for a flute and raised it. \"Thank you for asking me to be in the wedding, Kelsey. This will probably be the only way I'll walk down the aisle with Sam.\"\n\nKelsey wished she could give Lydia encouragement that Sam might come around but the woman knew him far better. She twirled in her white gown with its scoop neckline and sheer sleeves that buttoned at her wrists. The skirt flared out from her hips to fall to the floor with a long train behind her, which she held high by means of a loop over her fingers.\n\n\"I feel like a princess,\" Kelsey said as she blinked back tears.\n\n\"Oh no! No crying allowed,\" Grace chastised her, pressing a tissue to her cheeks.\n\n\"I'm trying not to. Quick, someone give me a champagne,\" she demanded.\n\nGrace laughed as she handed her a flute. \"Just don't get drunk on us, either.\"\n\nKelsey laughed. \"No way of that happening. I want to make sure I'm coherent and this is really happening.\" She nibbled on her bottom lip. \"I sure hope he shows up.\"\n\n\"Oh, honey, don't you worry. With Frank as his best man, he doesn't have a choice,\" Grace told her with a big grin.\n\n\"That's true.\" Kelsey smiled and then frowned. \"But I want him to have a choice. I don't want him to marry me if he doesn't want to.\"\n\n\"Okay, you are going to drive yourself insane if you keep thinking this way. Grace meant it as a joke. Ryder will show up because he loves you,\" Olivia told her as she put her arm around Kelsey and hugged her.\n\n\"You're right. He does love me. I just can't wait to marry him. I love him so much.\"\n\nA knock on the door startled the women, and they laughed at their foolishness. Grace opened it and allowed George Sullivan entry into the room. He smiled with a pride only a father could have for a daughter on her wedding day.\n\n\"You look beautiful, honey,\" he said as he walked to stand before his daughter, taking her hands in his.\n\n\"Thank you, Daddy. I'm so ready to do this.\"\n\nHe kissed her cheek. \"I'm sure Ryder is too. He's a wonderful young man. I'm glad I rented a van for the trip to the church.\" He put his arm out for Kelsey to loop hers through, and together, with her favorite women following, they began their journey to the church.\n\nThe small church was packed with well-wishers and as with every other wedding that took place in Clifton, whoever couldn't fit inside, stood outside in the warmth of a beautiful spring day in May. When the car pulled up to the church, people cheered. Kelsey, Donna, Anne, and Grace laughed in surprise.\n\n\"Welcome to Clifton, Montana, possibly the friendliest place on earth,\" Becca said. \"Just about everyone in town shows up for weddings. It seemed to have started with Jake's and mine. I was so shocked to see everyone crowded inside and out on the day we got married.\"\n\n\"They've never failed to miss one either,\" Emma added. \"Except mine...but then I didn't have a big wedding.\"\n\n\"But you still got the man of your dreams, Emma,\" Olivia said hugging her. Emma nodded with a big smile on her face.\n\nGeorge stepped from the van and opened the back door. \"Come on, honey. Let's get you married.\"\n\nKelsey stepped out in the sunshine, and the crowd roared. She laughed and waved at them feeling like a celebrity. The other women stepped from the van and more cheers went up. They entered the church, settled into formation with Grace extending her train out to its full-length behind her, and then waited for the music to start signaling the moment she'd been waiting for since February. When it did, her insides fluttered with excitement and if she had to admit it, nerves as she watched each woman walked down the aisle to the altar in front of her.\n\nWhen it came time, and she heard the music switch to her procession, Kelsey took a deep breath and gave her dad a nod. He winked at her and led her to the altar\u2014and Ryder.\n\n****\n\nWhen the music started, Ryder suddenly felt the nerves he'd been denying all day rush over him. He watched as each of Kelsey's bridesmaids walked down the aisle and took her place opposite of where the men stood. He almost laughed aloud when he heard Sam mutter something about Lydia not getting any ideas.\n\nThen the music changed, every person in the church came to his or her feet, and his gaze settled on the entrance at the back of the church. She was there. His heart skipped a beat when he saw Kelsey. She looked more beautiful than he could ever imagine possible since she was already the most beautiful woman he'd ever known. She walked slowly down the aisle toward him, her eyes meeting his, and wearing a huge smile. She was with her dad, and George had the biggest, proudest grin on his face as he walked with his daughter.\n\nAt the altar, he kissed Kelsey on the cheek and put hand in Ryder's open palm. \"Keep her safe, son\u2014forever.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, I most certainly will,\" Ryder told him and then he turned to face Kelsey. \"Ready, darlin'?\"\n\n\"More than you'll ever know.\" Kelsey smiled at him and his heart hit his stomach.\n\n\"You look so beautiful. You absolutely take my breath away.\" He lifted the hand resting in his and pressed a kiss to the back of it.\n\n\"You look very handsome yourself, cowboy.\"\n\n\"Let's do this, baby.\"\n\n\"Are you both ready?\" The reverend asked, drawing their attention. When they both nodded, he began the ceremony. What seemed like a heartbeat later, he closed the Bible and looked at them, and then smiled.\n\n\"What are you waiting for, Ryder? You may now kiss your bride.\"\n\nRyder grinned, lifted Kelsey's veil over her head and cupped her face in his hands. He lowered his head and kissed her. When she moaned, he pulled her closer to him, feeling her hands slide around his waist, and he deepened the kiss. He raised his head and stared down into her blue eyes, which today, only the May sky rivaled.\n\n\"I knew you were trouble the minute you walked into the bar.\"\n\nKelsey burst out laughing and threw her arms around his neck. Ryder laughed and scooped her up, tugging her train up and over her legs. Amid cheers, some happy tears, and best wishes, he carried his bride, the woman who taught him about love, out the door into the sunshine to start their new lives together.\n\n**THE END**\n\n# About the Author\n\nSusan was born and raised in Cumberland, MD. She moved to Tennessee in 1996 and now lives in a small town outside of Nashville, along with her husband and their two rescued dogs. Although, writing for years, it was recently she decided to submit to publishers and signed a three-year contract with Secret Cravings Publishing. Since SCP closed their doors in August 2015, Susan is now with Blue Whiskey Publishing. She is a huge Nashville Predators hockey fan. She also enjoys fishing, taking drives down back roads, visiting Gatlinburg, TN, her family in Pennsylvania, and her hometown. Although Susan's books are a series, each book can be read as standalone books. Each book will end with a new story beginning in the next one. She would love to hear from her readers and promises to try to respond to all. You can visit her Facebook page and website by the links below.\n\nhttps:\/\/www.facebook.com\/skdromanceauthor\n\nwww.susanfisherdavisauthor.weebly.com\n\nsusan@susanfisherdavisauthor.com\n\nOther books by Susan Fisher-Davis:\n\nJAKE Men of Clifton, Montana Book 1\n\nGABE Men of Clifton, Montana Book 2\n\nBRODY Men of Clifton, Montana Book 3\n\nWYATT Men of Clifton, Montana Book 4\n\nLUCAS Bad Boys of Dry River, Wyoming Book 1\n\nMONTGOMERY Bad Boys of Dry River, Wyoming Book 2\n\nCOOPER Bad Boys of Dry River, Wyoming Book 3\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":"\n\nSome names and descriptions have been changed, some characters have been conflated, including people the author encountered in treatment, and certain events have been compressed.\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2018 by Janelle Hanchett  \nJacket design by Amanda Kain  \nJacket photograph \u00a9 plainpicture\/Readymade-Images\/Franck Juery  \nCover copyright \u00a9 2018 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.\n\nHachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.\n\nThe scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author's intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author's rights.\n\nHachette Books  \nHachette Book Group  \n1290 Avenue of the Americas  \nNew York, NY 10104  \nhachettebooks.com  \ntwitter.com\/hachettebooks\n\nFirst Edition: May 2018\n\nHachette Books is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.  \nThe Hachette Books name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.\n\nThe publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.\n\nThe Hachette Speakers Bureau provides a wide range of authors for speaking events. To find out more, go to www.hachettespeakersbureau.com or call (866) 376-6591.\n\nLibrary of Congress Control Number: 2017952977\n\nISBN: 978-0-316-54943-1\n\nE3-20180403-DA-NF\n\n## Contents\n\n  1. Cover\n  2. Title\n  3. Copyright\n  4. Dedication\n  5. Part One\n    1. 1: Family Planning on Ecstasy\n    2. 2: Stop Drinking When Your Lips Go Numb\n    3. 3: Sylvia Plath Put Her Head in the Oven over This Shit\n    4. 4: Playing House in the Suburbs with Captain Morgan\n    5. 5: Three a.m. Ideas\n    6. 6: Rocketship Rock-On\n  6. Part Two\n    1. 7: Failure That Isn't Funny\n    2. 8: Nothing Left to Hide Now\n    3. 9: Who's the Sickest in the Room?\n    4. 10: Maintenance Whiskey\n    5. 11: I Found God in a Leaf Blower, and I Fucking Hate Leaf Blowers\n  7. Part Three\n    1. 12: There Are Three Types of Mothers in the World\u2014I Am None of Them\n    2. 13: Failure That Isn't Funny: Sober Edition\n    3. 14: The Childhood I Could No Longer Blame\n    4. 15: What the Hell Is \"Soul Work\"?\n    5. 16: In the Blood of Our Mothers\n    6. 17: If I Knew the Way\n  8. Acknowledgments\n  9. Newsletter\n\n##  Navigation\n\n  1.  Begin Reading \n  2.  Table of Contents\n\n_Hey, Mom. Look. We did it._\n\n# **Part One**\n**1**\n\n# **Family Planning on Ecstasy**\n\nThe first thing I did when I found out I was pregnant with my first child was head out to the balcony of our one-bedroom apartment and smoke a cigarette. It wasn't even a real balcony. It was a gray stoop barely big enough for one unwatered plant, a dusty mat, and a twenty-one-year-old in vague denial. I would have preferred outright denial but found it impossible, having just peed on two sticks offering no ambiguity.\n\nMy plan was to formulate a plan out there on the balcony before informing the father, who was my boyfriend of three full months. We shared the apartment, but I made sure I was alone that afternoon, protected in isolation, so nobody would see me cry, or rage, or decide to handle the situation silently. I was never the kind of person who wanted company in moments of vulnerability. I never wanted a concerned friend to pat my head and smooth the hair off my forehead while I puked or cried. I wanted to lie in bed in solitude, where I could turn my head to the wall, stretch my legs out, and rise again smiling, while the world slept soundly in its room.\n\nThe last thing I needed was a loving and emotional man celebrating the seed in my womb before I knew how I felt about it.\n\nMoments before, I had stared at those double lines with detached curiosity, a sort of numbed awe, as they popped up without hesitation in what seemed like a \"fuck you\" pink. I figured there could still be some mistake, so I took another test, and upon the second neon positive, pulled up my jeans, walked through the living room and onto the balcony, grabbing my Camel Lights and lighter on the way. I allowed my condition to sink one inch into my brain, where it hovered like a storm cloud creeping toward me. I knew it would shower me in panic, and soon I would feel it pouring down my arms and into my shoes, but those first moments felt liminal, half-real. I emboldened them with a cigarette. One more cigarette in the line of a thousand before it, a meaningless action of my same old life. An action of the nonpregnant.\n\n_Nothing to see here, folks. Just another woman on a balcony having a smoke._\n\nThat February afternoon was cool and bright, and as I watched the cars do nothing in the parking lot of our apartment complex, I thought about being a senior in college, my job as a waitress, and the few months Mac and I had been together, most of it grayed and hazy from alcohol, fast and romantic and possibly fake. I thought about how he would respond if he were there.\n\nHe would smile a soft smile. \"Wow,\" he would say, \"I love you so much,\" and his eyes would fill with grateful tears as more supportive words crossed his lips. He would study my reaction with his huge brown eyes. He would look as if he had waited his whole life to hear those three words.\n\n_I am pregnant._\n\nI took a drag, inhaling _I could have an abortion_ , but exhaled the startling realization that I would not.\n\nAnd with the thought, the cigarette grew foul between my fingers. I stamped it out beneath my foot and wondered how the fuck I had ended up here again. I understood the physiology of pregnancy. I did not understand how that wasn't enough.\n\nIn my defense, the first one was an honest mistake. I was eighteen, in my first semester of college, and had spontaneous, unprotected make-up sex with my long-term boyfriend. I knew immediately I would not have that baby, and I did not feel guilty about that decision, though I suspected this made me something of a monster. I felt sadness, but at that age, in that life, I mostly felt relief. We had sex, and _yes_ I happen to have a uterus and ovaries hell-bent on reproduction, and our act was neither smart nor mature, but _it was his fault too_. My defense was that of a petulant child, but I had no interest in spending my whole life paying for a five-minute interval of questionable sex with a man who could walk away if he felt like it.\n\nAs I stood on the balcony, I wondered again, _Who the hell gets pregnant accidentally_ _more than once?_\n\nI stared at the horizon and shook my head in disgust as I traveled the recesses of my brain looking for answers, recalling only a woman in my freshman comparative literature class. She had told me, \"Getting an abortion is like getting your teeth cleaned.\" When I raised an eyebrow, she explained, \"It's just something you have to do.\" She was in her thirties and married to a local rock star. She had bad teeth, three children, tattoos, and that haircut of the '90s where bangs were cut stupidly short in a band right against the forehead. I respected her.\n\nHer teeth cleaning theory sounded erroneous if not downright depraved, but her nonchalance convinced me I would be alright, and that I was even perhaps not quite as foul as I had believed during my trip to the clinic that week, feeling like a slut and regretting with my whole heart those minutes in the dorms.\n\n_Apparently this is a thing women do._\n\nThat seemed true. I did it.\n\n_But I would not do it now._\n\n_And it didn't feel like the fucking dentist._\n\nBack inside, I stretched out on our quilt-covered couch, clicking my tongue at Fatboy, the giant black-and-white cat we inherited from Mac's childhood. When feeling particularly affectionate, Fatboy would turn his head and glance at you from across the room. But that day, he folded up in the crook of my knees and stared up at me, as if he knew things were heavy.\n\nI took a deep breath, looking around the apartment, the carpet so bland I couldn't tell what color it was, the kitchen and bathroom floors a yellowed linoleum with pastel blue squares, ripped up and black at the corners. The cabinets were a 1970s brown with gold handles, and metal mini-blinds hung above a box air conditioner in the window that would sputter along against California's Central Valley heat. That summer, we moved our mattress beneath the little box, creating a pocket of decency between the white walls. Our television sat on boards and cinder blocks. It was the kind of apartment that never felt alive or permanent, but Mac and I were kids and in love, and it was ours.\n\nHe was nineteen and I was twenty-one.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nI was right about Mac. He did smile through tears and say all the lovely things I suspected he'd say when I told him I was pregnant, but the next day he added, \"If you don't have our baby, I can't stay with you.\" I considered telling him about the moment I knew I wouldn't have an abortion, but instead I merely nodded. I wasn't ready to speak the words, \"I am having a baby.\" I was stretching the liminal gray a few days longer.\n\nWhen he spoke those words, he didn't read my face to adjust his tone. He was not afraid of my response, or conflict, and there was no subtext. It was merely data to inform a decision. If his statement had been a threat, an attempted entrapment, I would have left immediately on those grounds alone. _Fuck you for even trying to get me to stay_ , I'd have thought.\n\nBut that's not what he said, and I knew it, because he said it with warm acceptance in his eyes and mouth and forehead\u2014the way he looked at me when he said everything, even when he yelled and postured and I thought maybe I hated him. Or, perhaps that's why I hated him, because he seemed capable of only adoration, and even in his anger he was devoted and irrationally loyal. It made me feel a little sick.\n\n_I get it, man. You can't withstand the resentment you'd feel toward me if I didn't have our baby._\n\nBut he is not why I had her. I was always going to have her and I knew it, though I didn't know how to explain that I knew. I didn't understand yet that motherhood is a lot of knowing without knowing.\n\nBut I knew _her_. She was already made.\n\nI was afraid of having a baby. I was afraid of committing to him like that. I was afraid of what my parents would say, but Mac misread this fear as indecision. I had her because she was meant to be here and I was meant to be her mother, and I believed that in the same way I know the sun will rise. I had her because the moment I knew of her, she existed, like a strange new friend who moved in and wouldn't leave.\n\nI told myself I was about to graduate from college, that I wasn't _that_ young, that Mac was going to be a good father\u2014and I loved him, or thought I did. In this way, I rearranged the facts, the furniture of my life, to accommodate my new friend.\n\nTwo weeks later, Mac peeked his head over the curtain while I showered and said, \"It's going to be a girl.\"\n\n\"I know,\" I said, and laughed. _How weird we are_ , I thought. _Clairvoyant._ _So in love she's already shining through\u2014through the blood and walls of my body._\n\nWe thought of names. We thought of Aurora and Leah and Althea, but one day while I waited for customers to arrive for dinner in the restaurant where I waitressed, I flipped through a magazine and found an article about Ava Gardner.\n\nWe settled on Ava Grace, as if anything could be more beautiful.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nI told my mother I knew she was a girl; she didn't think that was strange at all. When I asked her what the hell I was going to do with my life now, she said, \"Well, honey, you're going to have a baby.\" Her simplicity and perky use of the word \"honey\" shot red annoyance down my spine.\n\nMy mother's perpetual optimism made me wonder if she existed in some sort of sociopathic love cloud. As a young girl, I joined in her optimism, jumped on the \"it's going to be great!\" train with glee, but over the years, as each new beginning almost never turned out \"great,\" I realized her outlook was as much fantasy as it was hope. It was a story to justify rushing headlong into another disaster, the same thing we'd done for years. Businesses. Marriages. Personality improvements. Diets. It was always going to be different this time.\n\nIt was an old, raw burn, and her sweetness still stung.\n\nThe moment she mentioned relationships, mine or hers, somewhere in me the memory of my former stepfather stirred, the way we moved in and out of his house like a vacation rental. But mostly, I remembered her suffering and how I thought I could fix it, how the solution was perfectly clear to me, how everybody said I was \"very mature for my age.\" My mother used to say, \"I don't know how you see the things you see, Janelle.\"\n\nI didn't either, but I wished she'd see them too, because I was tired. And even at twenty-one, I was still tired, perhaps more tired than I'd ever been, and I had long since stopped believing in her dreams.\n\nAnd yet, I always called her first, to bathe in the optimism she turned toward me, too, toward the person she believed I could become. I needed that. I needed to believe things were going to be different _right around the corner_. That sick hope was infectious, seeping into me whether I wanted it or not, and as much as I distrusted it in her, I clung to it like a drowning woman, because at least it was something.\n\n\"But how do you _know_ , Mom?\" I didn't mask my irritation.\n\n\"Because you are going to be fine, sweetie.\" I wanted to throw up.\n\nShe must have told her mother right away, because the next day Grandma Joan called and said, \"You know you don't have to marry this guy just because you're pregnant,\" and my jaw hit my flip phone. I wasn't anywhere near marrying Mac. I barely knew him. _I am merely going to have his baby, Grandma._\n\nBeing a woman born in 1930, Grandma Joan of course assumed marriage, and I assumed she would push marriage. She was in her seventies and a Mormon woman who had made her husband dinner every night since they were married at eighteen, and if she was not home in the evening, she prepared the food and put it on the counter so all he had to do was heat it up. He had been the quarterback of the high school football team and she had been the new girl in town\u2014and a cheerleader. It was a movie, and yet true. They still held hands when they sat on the couch together, and they flirted like teenagers. He was sure old Benny at the post office was waiting for him to \"kick the bucket\" so he could swoop in on Grandma.\n\nShe would smack his leg, roll her eyes, and say, \"Oh, Bob,\" with exasperation and a kiss in her eye.\n\nAt family functions in her home, all the women would bustle around the kitchen for hours preparing dinner for thirty while the kids played in the basement and the men watched football in the living room. After dinner, all the women would bustle around in the kitchen for hours doing dishes while the men watched football in the living room, and the kids ran around in the basement. By the time I was a teenager, I wondered what the hell was wrong with these people. But I loved being in the kitchen, where my mother and three aunts talked and cooked with the chatter and laughter of a lifetime of sisterhood, occasionally popping out to rescue a screaming baby, talking of report cards and breastfeeding and wayward teens, of Grandma's silly ways and how she really should sit down, _she's tired_ , but she never would. When she finally did, my uncles had begun barbequing on the deck outside and nobody played in the basement anymore.\n\nI sat with the men, too, as babies crawled around their laps, each of their faces illuminated with the television screen as they watched sports, speaking of things I didn't understand, like \"downs\" and \"bad calls\" and \"finals.\" I felt honored when they spoke to me, a little nod to my sport-less existence. I understood their acknowledgment of me was a quick trip beneath themselves, a little jaunt to a place less sacred. They were, after all, the ones who got to do nothing while groups of women worked on their behalf.\n\nAlthough the kitchen was warmer, and had better conversation, sometimes I would sit at the dining table between the living room and kitchen, so I could watch both ends and refuse to commit.\n\nAt twenty-one, I joined the women in the kitchen for good, though I had always promised I'd never be like them. \"I'm not going to get married until I'm thirty,\" I'd say as a teenager at our annual Christmas party, \"and I won't have a baby until thirty-five.\"\n\n\"Good job,\" my aunt would nod. \"Just don't rush it.\"\n\n\"Of course not,\" I'd answer, irritated that she'd even consider the possibility of me ruining my life with an unplanned pregnancy at a young age.\n\nI was the youngest of my cousins to have a baby.\n\nPeople surprise you, though, especially when they're old and sick of the bullshit, and I saw Joan anew the day she called me, after fifty-five years spent with my grandfather. While she spoke, I wondered how many women of her generation married terrible men because of unexpected pregnancies, and then stayed because of more. I felt myself, for an instant, counted among them.\n\n\"Thank you for your concern, Grandma, but it's different with us,\" I said.\n\n_I may be in the kitchen like the rest of you broads, but I am different._ I could not articulate how, exactly, but I knew I wouldn't end up washing dishes while the men watched other men slam into each other on brightly lit screens. It seemed archaic and absurd. I would demand freedom, even within the confines of pregnancy. I suppose that, too, is something women \"just have to do.\"\n\nIf I had to guess, I would have said my future would unfold more along the lines of my paternal grandmother, Bonny Jean. She was an intellectual, a fiery Christian Scientist, and natural skeptic who believed in God but not doctors, grassroots journalism, and stockpiling mayonnaise in case there was another Great Depression.\n\nShe grew up behind the stage with her parents, who were traveling actors. I once attempted to explain \"gay people\" to her because, _you know, as a relic she wouldn't understand such things._ She spun around to face me in her house robe and said, \"I grew up behind a vaudeville stage in the twenties. You think any of those people were straight?\" I never tried that shit again.\n\nShe had five children from 1945 to 1955. They were raised largely by her father-in-law while she ran her newspaper, which she and my grandfather purchased in 1956. Bonny Jean would attend every local city council meeting, critiquing what she saw in scathing weekly editorials, which she would often dictate over the pay phone in the city council hallway. She once fought the head of the San Francisco plumbers' union, a man with rumored Mafia ties, who was trying to take over her small town's water council. When she broke the story and refused to back down, he threatened her. I once asked how she managed to fight a man like him as a woman in the 1960s. She said, \"Oh, that was easy, honey. I was not afraid of him. The truth is a strong defense.\"\n\nWhen I told her about the pregnancy, I thought I heard a touch of sadness in her voice, despite her congratulations, because for a split second, they sounded like condolences.\n\nThe hardest person to tell was my father. I was barely old enough to handle him knowing I had sex, and yet I had to tell him there was an actual human growing in my body, deposited there by the sperm of a man. Telling him felt something like bra shopping with my mother at fourteen: uncomfortable in a deeply shameful, yet unknown way. Everybody has sex. Everybody gets boobs.\n\n_Still, somebody please kill me._\n\nI had always felt my father saw me as a kid who was going to do something impressive in life, who was going to become a lawyer or doctor or at least make a lot of money. Instead, I was joining the Mormons in the kitchen. I knew he wouldn't say it, but he would be disappointed in me. He knew how many times I had stood at family functions declaring my plan, and he knew I never consciously abandoned that.\n\nIt's hardest to fall in front of those you've convinced, through years of tone moderation and personality suppression, that you are not the type to falter.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nI stopped smoking and drinking immediately after my balcony denial, which felt wholesome and deeply mature, despite Mac's and my decision to move out of our apartment and into his parents' house on their ranch. They lived in a dome-shaped house about ten miles outside of Davis, California, the clean, well-manicured town where I went to college and met Mac.\n\nDavis boasts the second-highest per capita number of PhDs in any city in the nation, and a special tunnel for frogs so they don't get killed on the road. The town is teeming with students, artists, and intellectuals on bicycles, but also suffers from an epidemic of highly educated, splendid liberals. I learned to spot and avoid the latter from a distance of approximately one hundred feet, having had many years' practice. The problem is not that they're liberal\u2014surely one can learn to live with that\u2014it's that they can't quite understand why a person wouldn't dress her child in only organic cotton, or shop solely at the co-op, where they sell nineteen dollar olive oil pressed from olives grown on blessed trees in sacred Native American valleys.\n\nThese are the kind of people who call gentrification \"restoring the neighborhood\" and spend four years on a waiting list for a $1,500 a month preschool while claiming to deeply understand the plight of the underprivileged. Davis is the kind of town where _everyone breathes social justice_ via diversity stickers on their Priuses, but many citizens request that the kids from the Mexican enclaves surrounding the town simply stay in _their_ schools. _It's not about race. It's just...you know...let's talk about public radio. Do you support it? It's kind of my cause. That, and the ACLU._\n\nMost of the mothers in Davis were married, in their late thirties, and living in $700,000 houses when I showed up at age twenty-one, unmarried and pregnant. When I realized nobody would talk to me at the park, having dismissed me immediately as some sort of teen-pregnancy situation, Mac and I bought a pink diaper bag with a giant rhinestone Playboy bunny on the front. It was my subtle \"fuck you\" to everyone who wouldn't talk to me anyway, and it almost convinced me I didn't care.\n\nI turned twenty-two that March and finished my last semester of college in September of 2001, two months before our baby was due. Mac worked at his father's slaughterhouse on the ranch, and our bedroom was where Mac had played with Hot Wheels and G.I. Joes as a boy, and hid his weed at fifteen. We shared the home with five other people: his parents, two sisters, and his sister's boyfriend. All the bedrooms were upstairs and opened into a shared center hallway, kind of like Foucault's panopticon only without the glass. His family was kind and relaxed and pretended we weren't kids about to have a kid, but I felt exposed and watched\u2014too close to people who weren't quite mine, humans I knew but didn't understand, and whom I was still trying to impress. They were family, but I didn't want them to see me naked, or notice I stunk up the bathroom or yelled at their son. I self-regulated, even though there was no guard in the watchtower.\n\nWe bought a crib and an oak dresser, which we wedged together in a corner of the bedroom. I lined each drawer in lavender-scented paper with tiny pastel pink flowers on it, and I bought clothes from Baby Gap and Gymboree and Marshalls. I bought most of them in \"newborn\" size because they were the cutest and least expensive. I didn't know they were discounted because babies outgrow them in twelve minutes.\n\nWe had a keg of beer at our baby shower, and Mac came because we were \"too in love to be apart.\" I received about seventy-five various bath items because when my stepmother asked, \"What do you need for the baby?\" I answered, \"Bath items.\" I didn't know you were supposed to \"register.\" I didn't have any friends telling me about pregnancy or babies because only losers had babies this young. And I never hung out with losers.\n\nMy pregnancy was like living in a dream, a sort of ethereal fantasy ticking by in nebulous form. While my belly grew, I spent my days petting hand-smocked outfits with embroidered ducks and imagining our little threesome. Mac and I played pool at my local university's student union, and I wasn't even embarrassed of my belly. I wasn't embarrassed of my age, or Mac's lack of career, or that we lived in a room in his parents' house. Those things weren't in the dream.\n\nBut I couldn't help but feel inklings of shame as I walked to class during that last semester, when I barely fit in the desks, because the sidewalks and grass and offices on campus were the places where women like me rarely succeeded, and nobody was impressed with expanding uteri. These were PhDs and MAs and lovers of Derrida. They could see right through me: I was the kid who lost, the girl who failed. As I walked I remembered maybe I was going to be more than this, but then I thought of Mac and the baby girl to come. I thought of that love and squared my shoulders.\n\nWe went to peaceful birthing classes and breathed together and when Ava came it was fast and insane and Mac sat by me and held my hands and never broke my gaze. The nurses said we were the most beautiful birthing couple they had ever seen.\n\nI wasn't surprised. It was the only way it could be.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nI met Mac for the first time in my living room the night before Halloween, thirteen months before Ava was born. I was living in a converted garage in a house I shared with four eighteen- and nineteen-year-old males I had found in a newspaper. Three months before I responded to their \"roommate wanted\" ad, I returned home from a year studying abroad in Spain. I tried living with my mother up north in Mendocino, California, and found a job waitressing, but got fired after two weeks for counseling the owner on how she could improve her business. I found myself bored, embarrassed, and broke, so I moved back to Davis in the fall and began waitressing at an \"Asian fusion\" restaurant and drinking too much.\n\nI had long before decided I could not live with women. They were too complicated. They needed things like talking and support and genuineness. I needed things like rum and Coke and silence. So I asked those boys looking for a roommate if I could move in, and they said yes immediately upon hearing I could legally buy alcohol.\n\nThree months later, a man I had never seen before sat stoned against our living room wall, next to the television. He had a beard that stuck out in every direction and a head of hair that looked exactly the same. It was as if somebody had taken a donut of three-inch-long black curly hair and popped a face into the center of it. He was a high school friend of my roommates', a newcomer, thin and tall and quiet, and I would not have noticed him at all had he not said something witty. In our house of drunk eighteen- and nineteen-year-old man-boys, nobody was saying anything witty. I beamed my eyes at him from across the room in curious surprise and locked them with his. They were the kindest eyes I had ever seen. I remember that moment exactly as it happened, in slow motion, as if it were a scene in a Meg Ryan movie. The Eye Lock. His were deep brown with eyelashes that carried on ridiculously, but it was their gentleness, their steady calm, that made me want to know more.\n\nSo naturally, I decided to get him drunk and shave his beard off to assess his jawline. He drank Bacardi out of the bottle until we ended up in my roommate's bathroom. I borrowed a razor and went to work on the facial hair while he called me \"Mary,\" eventually passing out facedown on my futon. He woke up the next day at dawn to go work at the ranch, hungover, after just a few hours' sleep. I had never seen anybody get up that early and go to work in that condition. Except me.\n\nMac was a worker, I learned, and highly attractive without the hair donut. I was intrigued, and since that day happened to be Halloween, I figured we should probably head over to Chico to take some drugs and fall in love. Before he could get out of my room that morning, I said, \"Hey. Want to go to Chico tonight? It's crazy on Halloween. Everybody's loaded in the streets.\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" he said, smiling. \"Let's do that.\"\n\nI remember the way the gray morning light fell on his face as he buckled his belt and pulled on his shirt, and I wondered if he'd kiss me. He didn't. We hadn't touched at all other than my fingers against his face and my shoulder pressed against his chest as I shaved. He seemed indifferent to me, which made me wonder if perhaps I was already in love. It wasn't until he walked out my bedroom door that I realized I had just committed, in the heat of mad passion, to dressing up in a goddamned costume.\n\nI barely knew how to dress myself as ___myself_. As a child, my idea of fashion was pairing a green print with a green solid and brushing my hair. In high school, I wore jeans, Doc Martens, and tight white v-necks intended for boys, until my father suggested I \"try a little harder.\" After that, I'd walk into Gap or J. Crew and buy an outfit featured on a mannequin, figuring that must mean the clothes matched.\n\nDressing as _somebody else_ was an unbearable enhancement of an already agonizing lifelong struggle. But for Mac I wanted to appear confident and cool, so I cradled my hangover, drove thirty minutes to a costume store in Sacramento, and eventually selected an ensemble that could only be described as \"slut Egyptian.\"\n\nOn my way to Sacramento, my former boyfriend of three years called to ask if I wanted to see him that night. He and I used to hang out together in Chico, but we hadn't seen each other in a year. I was struck by the synchronicity, and strangely sensed that the choice I made in that moment would alter the course of my life, but I dismissed the thought as ridiculous. _It's just a Halloween._ I suppose somewhere I knew if I saw my old boyfriend I would return to him, because he was safe and comfortable, and the sound of his voice said, \"I'll still have you if you'll have me.\" But there was something about Mac, his quiet strength, the way he cinched his faded leather belt that morning.\n\nI told my old boyfriend, \"I'm sorry, I already made plans,\" and then turned up the Grateful Dead on the stereo and rolled the windows down as the October sunset called from across the farmlands.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nMy costume consisted of a beaded headdress and beaded crop top that highlighted my impossibly flat midsection, which I believed needed toning. I paired the beaded top with blue silk pants\u2014because I had blue silk pants\u2014and then I ate some ecstasy. That pill was the key accessory to my outfit, for mine was always a problem of perception. I knew I'd look exquisite as soon as I was high. No longer a scared girl without sartorial confidence, I would be a devastatingly attractive woman prancing in beads.\n\nWhile sitting on a park bench that night in Chico, watching drunken masses of college students flop down the streets, I told Mac's buddy, \"I think I'm in love with your friend,\" but I said it loud enough for Mac to hear, because it had been 24 hours and I was tired of the bullshit. _Let's do this._ Mac was shy. I was not shy. I had no problem barging into your life and demanding a fixed place in it. Right now. _Step aside, assholes. Slut Egyptian has arrived._\n\nAt my house later that night, and after taking more ecstasy, I dropped my head onto Mac's chest while we lay on the floor and planned our lives together. I suggested we have four children: two biological and two adopted. (I was going to save all the children.) He told me about his two sisters and a pot-bellied pig on their ranch who couldn't fit through a fence. He chuckled so hard my head bounced on his chest and I looked up to see him grinning while he described the pig balancing on his belly trying to push himself through.\n\nI remember thinking only an excellent and loving man would tell a story about a pot-bellied pig getting stuck in a fence. It made him laugh. It made me want his babies.\n\n\"Mom, I think I met my future husband,\" I told her the next morning while circling the lawn, possibly still high, definitely smoking a cigarette and squinting under the morning sun.\n\n\"He's from a ranch around here. Really kind. I think his parents might be Republicans. He gets up and works every day at five a.m.\"\n\n\"I like the sound of him,\" she said, and I took a stunned drag off my smoke, because my parents hadn't liked the sound of most of what I'd been saying for the previous eight to twelve years. \"He really sounds like a good man for you.\"\n\nWithin a few days I was bringing Mac meatball sandwiches while he worked\u2014chasing unruly chickens with goat blood in his ear, butchering animals and cutting meat, smelling of lanolin and yesterday's Captain Morgan. He wore thick canvas pants or overalls with rubber boots over them, and ripped, bloodstained T-shirts and old button-down flannels, layered up to keep him from the cold or block him from the sun. After work, he smelled so intensely of animal guts and lanolin I could hardly be near him, but I watched him from afar and thought, _My God, he's tough_. Still, it was some ineffable tenderness that made me wonder if he was even human. He was a ranchman with tattoos and piercings, and he wasn't even a Republican.\n\nI had never met a man like him. A man so classically macho without the machismo, a country boy without the puffed-out chest of country boys. Where was the posturing? The guns? The huge truck with a \"Piss on Chevy\" bumper sticker?\n\nMac didn't even watch sports. He drove a small, dented red truck, sang songs from Broadway musicals, and whistled to himself in the shower. But he could punch the hide off a sheep in three minutes and work eight hours without a break in a frigid slaughterhouse. He would fall asleep every night ten seconds after his head touched the pillow, and I would watch him. He was always so, so tired.\n\nMy roommates told me I had somehow landed the best man in the world, and the only person they were ever truly afraid of in high school\u2014not because he was mean, or a fighter, but because he was the kind of person who would break a bottle over someone's head if necessary. He wouldn't like it, but he would do it.\n\nI saw that. I saw loyalty that defied reason and ignored facts. I saw loyalty that was decided. Etched. Right there in the bones, and that was what I needed. I needed a love that couldn't see me.\n\nWe were never a decision. We were already made.\n\nIn January, three months after we met, we rented our apartment together. A few weeks later, on Valentine's Day, he pulled out a ring as we returned home from dinner. He killed the engine and opened a little box. I smiled, knowing what was about to happen. \"I'll marry you,\" I said, \"but put that thing away and ask me again. This is not romantic. This is a parking lot. And you have to ask my dad first.\" I was a real stickler for tradition.\n\nSo he asked again, after we knew I was pregnant, this time in the middle of the restaurant where I waitressed. He walked in with flowers, wearing a dress shirt and tie. The restaurant was packed with a Friday night dinner crowd when he got down on one knee and asked. I said yes, and everybody cheered. We were engaged and I was pregnant with our love child and in the movies this was all going to be quite perfect.\n\nAnd it was. Even the nurses said so.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\u200b\n\nFor two days in the birthing center the dream went on. Our baby girl slept in my arms and nursed while our friends came and went. We took a thousand pictures. Mac slept in that chair \"bed\" and I dressed my baby girl in outfit after outfit, all scented, all carefully chosen, while I wondered what the fuck happened to my vagina and how I'd ever pee again. One of the outfits was pink and fuzzy on the inside with a white bear on the front. It made me think of the nine months and several days of perfection I had just experienced\u2014until I stepped outside the birthing center as a mother, and the rest began.\n\nMy story wasn't untrue. It was simply unsustainable.\n**2**\n\n# **Stop Drinking When Your Lips Go Numb**\n\nI did not start on that balcony. I did not wake up one day dropped into a life of pregnancy, cigarettes, a three-month-old relationship, and an almost college degree. I built that, one moment at a time, while I thought I was building something else.\n\nI probably began on a two-week trip to Honduras when I was sixteen years old, which I heard about one day in my public speaking class. I attended an all-girls Catholic school in Santa Rosa, California, in the middle of vineyards, where winery owners and their offspring lived. The trip was \"an opportunity to learn about the rainforest and conservation,\" but more accurately it was a chance to send privileged kids to a \"third world\" country to learn guilt, American exceptionalism, and how local ignorance caused the destruction of the rainforest (as opposed to, say, global capitalism).\n\nI did not know this, nor did I care. I was simply aching for something new.\n\nMy mother worked in the school's kitchen for my discounted tuition, so the trip made little sense in the financial context of our lives, but I presented it to her as a situation deciding my continued survival, as only a sophomore with a vision can. My mother leapt in my support as she had always done, my grandparents donated to the cause, and, somehow, a few months later, I was stepping off a plane into a wall of humidity.\n\nIn the Tegucigalpa airport, I watched men in green camouflage uniforms pace the halls with machine guns in their arms. They were terrifying, but my teachers explained they were \"protecting us.\" As we approached the yellow school bus that would cart us around for the next week, my friend Gloria asked, \"Are those bullet holes?\" and I looked up with delight at the black spider punctures around the bus. They were indeed bullet holes. _My God_ , I thought, _how exotic!_\n\nSweaty and giddy and wearing fanny packs, we shuffled into the bus and drove in what appeared to be the wrong direction on a highway into thick vegetation. We spent the next week hiking in the wet, green rainforest behind a man with a machete, who whacked a path in front of us while teaching us about local plants, animals, and indigenous populations. We dove into glistening swimming holes below warm, white waterfalls until we broke for naps on shaded rocks. We ate lychee nuts, beans, rice, and tortillas at every meal, every day. The other girls complained of the monotony, but I loved watching the Honduran woman who made our tortillas in a clay oven. I would wave at her and smile and she would wave back, but never move from the oven's face. I felt we were experiencing something sacred when we ate her food, something old and vital. It never occurred to me that she never seemed to leave that spot in front of the roaring oven, cooking for a bunch of wine country kids.\n\nNearly every day we would take an excursion in the bullet-hole bus, and every time we did, we would for reasons unknown pick up a lady with a cage of chickens. If our bus got stuck in the sand, the driver shoved palm fronds in front of the tires while we lined up behind the rear bumper and pushed with all our might. When our bus broke down completely, the driver walked down the road a few hundred feet, bought a Coca-Cola in a tall glass bottle, reclined against a bus tire, and took a nap. We just sort of waited there, dumbly, while he snoozed, wondering what our next move was. _Drink a_ _Coca-Cola_ , I thought, _that's the next move._ So I did. The other kids refused, for fear the bottle was washed in unclean water.\n\nWe drove by people living on cardboard, sweeping dirt floors, riding ten to twenty in backs of trucks. I saw a young girl taking a shit in the street. I felt enlightened. I watched the poverty with a distant gaze, as if it were occurring in a fishbowl on the shelf. I was too young to see real suffering, too ignorant to understand my country's contributions.\n\nOne day on a hike in the rainforest, I accepted our guide's suggestion that we try eating termites out of a tree \"for protein.\" I stuck a stick into a small hole in the bark just as he had done and ate the few unlucky bugs that wandered up. He was correct; they were crunchy and tasted like sap. I was the only girl who did it, and I was disgusted as their little bodies crunched between my teeth, but I wanted the other girls to wonder at my bravery. I wanted to shock them with my valor. But mostly, I wanted to not be bored. At sixteen, I was already bored: with school, church, my family, my little job at a local pool's snack bar. I needed some damn escapades.\n\nWe spent the second week on Roat\u00e1n, an island in the Caribbean with dirt roads, a plumber who stopped by occasionally from the mainland (whether or not your shower was broken), and where the mail came every two weeks by way of Florida. We spent our days there snorkeling above the Mesoamerican Barrier Reef, learning about its fish and destruction, and how urine soothes the burn of jellyfish stings.\n\nBefore we left the United States, we attended ominous meetings with our parents in which the teachers described in somber tones how dangerous Honduras could be for American children.\n\n\"They will steal you, and then they will kill you because your passports are worth more than you are.\"\n\n\"They will steal you, and they will rape you, and you will not come back.\"\n\n\"There have been many accounts of tourists getting kidnapped. You must never leave the teachers' sides, and you must never stray from the group.\"\n\nIn the rainforest, men with machine guns paced outside our sleeping quarters and occasionally fired their weapons into the night sky \"to ward off guerrillas.\"\n\nI was so terrified by all this I decided I needed to sneak out in the middle of the night with my friend Stacy. I was tall, slender, and very tan, with blonde hair that fell past my waist. Stacy looked absolutely identical but with larger breasts. We crawled out the back window of our motel room in the middle of the night, and while Stacy was chatting with some locals down the beach, I met a wandering American hippie with unwashed dreads, patchwork pants, and a heavily pregnant girlfriend. We bantered with each other until the man asked, \"Hey, do you want some acid?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I answered. \"Yes, I do.\"\n\nI was an expert on acid because my mother had told me about dropping it with my father at the Fillmore in the 1960s. The man handed me three hits and said, \"These are strong. Share them with your friends.\"\n\nSo I tore off two tabs and gave Stacy one, telling her he only gave us two, and set the remaining hits on my tongue. Without hesitation or thought, in the middle of the night, on a remote island in Honduras, I took a drug most people live their whole lives without taking, and I did it with a lie.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nTwo months before the acid hit my hungry tongue, I sat in our Mormon bishop's office confessing my mistake of smoking weed, once, in a moment of weakness, because Satan had overcome me.\n\n\"I will never, ever do it again,\" I told the bishop. \"I think I had to try it once to get it out of my system.\" I looked at him from across the wooden desk and tried to show my sincerity with my eyes. He told me to repent, and ask the Holy Ghost to come back to me. At home that night, I got on my knees and repented and vowed to stay on the straight and narrow.\n\nFour months before the acid soaked my blood in Technicolor, I stood at a high school lunch table proselytizing to my classmates how drugs ruin lives. At that age, I was staunchly opposed to anything that would ruin my life.\n\nI knew in my heart I would never be so misguided. I believed myself lucky to have been shown a better way than the foolish teenagers around me smoking weed out of peer pressure and insecurity.\n\n\"My father is an alcoholic,\" I preached. \"It is the reason for my parents' divorce! I know where that life leads!\"\n\nSix months before I ministered at the lunch table, I stood behind a podium in a blue tank dress with a jean jacket to cover my shoulders, \"bearing my testimony\" to an entire Mormon congregation. With tears in my eyes and a quiver in my voice, I explained how I knew the church was true, and the Holy Spirit was in me, and I would never do anything that would make my body\u2014my temple\u2014unclean, and therefore uninhabitable for the spirit of God. I rose voluntarily almost every month to get behind that podium.\n\nAnd I meant it every time.\n\nEight years before I stood at the podium, my mother took us to the Mormon church for the first time. I was eight years old and wore puff-sleeved dresses with shoulder pads and big, innocent flowers to the chapel. We went every Sunday and Tuesday, and possibly Saturday, but in between these meetings, we would leave completely, in body and mind. Or at least that's how it felt.\n\nWe listened to \"How Great Thou Art\" on Sunday and Grace Slick on Monday. We snuck into high school football games we couldn't afford by passing ticket stubs through the fence, a form of stealing my mother explained was \"small stealing\" that didn't harm anyone, and therefore, need not make us feel bad. It was not a real sin. And if we could pay, we would.\n\nMy brother and I heard stories of Joseph Smith and \"the fullness of the gospel\" after my mother's stories of drinking Southern Comfort with Janis Joplin in the Haight. I was intrigued by both, though I found Joseph Smith something of a bore compared to, say, watching Ginger Baker play drums in Golden Gate Park during the Summer of Love. Salvation is divine, but it's tough to compete with bra burning and Jefferson Airplane.\n\nWhen a song she loved came on, my mother would turn it up and sing loud and tell us what the song was about, even if it was weed or acid or free love. She'd tell us where she heard it first\u2014maybe the Polo Fields at Golden Gate Park, or the Berkeley Hills, or the Avalon Ballroom. My favorite story was the first time she heard Dylan's \"The Times They Are A-Changin'\" on the radio, how she pulled her car over and cried because she never knew music could be like that, and how San Francisco in the sixties was electric with hope and change and none of the parents understood. In fact, Grandma Joan said Dylan sounded like \"a dying cow.\"\n\nI always thought he sounded like God.\n\nI knew that feeling, the one my mother had when she first heard that Dylan song, because it happened to me the first time I heard Jerry Garcia sing \"Ripple,\" and I dropped my head against the giant 1980s boom box on the shelf in my closet, closed my eyes, and cried. It was the saddest, most jagged and piercing sound I'd ever heard.\n\nAnd it felt true, truer than the gospel, truer than Jesus. But still, on Sunday, I got up and bore my testimony, reverently.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nThe next thing I remember after dropping the acid in Honduras was rolling around in the gentle surf in front of a local bar about a quarter of a mile away from our motel. Stacy and I were in bathing suits now, and we laughed and sang and let the sand and water move across our bodies and hair. We were on earth, yet severed from it entirely. I looked up from the ground and observed the silhouette of a young, skinny white man with bleached, wavy hair standing above us. And then he was with us.\n\nAcid trips are like that. Things appear, disappear. Technicolor flashes.\n\nStacy and I swam and walked and ran along the shore. He watched us while we played in the ocean. I asked him why he was there. He said, \"Well, I can't really leave you like this, can I?\"\n\nI dove back into the surf.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nMy mother was a \"convert\" to the church, meaning she was \"not born into it,\" and since I was baptized at nine instead of eight, I was a convert, too. This placed us figuratively just outside the church hall. My mother was also a single mother, divorced at thirty-six, with two children and a non-Mormon boyfriend, who later became her husband. This placed us more literally just outside the church hall\u2014we lived differently from the true, better Mormons, and weren't allowed into all the rooms of their temple.\n\nMy mother converted to the church as a young girl after missionaries showed up at her family's door. Her sisters and mother were also baptized, but my grandfather preferred to stick with his evening gin and tonic. At eighteen, she met my father, a non-Mormon, and for the eighteen years of their marriage, she didn't attend church. So she carried with her, whether she wanted it or not, a history of falling in love in a bar at eighteen, of rock and roll, of working for Francis Ford Coppola in San Francisco as the girl who brought him lunch and snacks, of playing the Stones so loud you broke woofers, of alcohol, and a touch, I heard, of the harder stuff.\n\nMaybe she found God in all of that. I had trouble seeing it so seamlessly. By fifteen, I had persistent questions about the Mormon church, but mostly I wondered whether I was good or evil. I felt like I was good. I meant well. I was not particularly mean and I didn't seem evil (I was sure as hell nicer than some of the delinquents I went to school with). I didn't cheat and I didn't steal. When bored on summer days with my best friend Elizabeth, I wanted to break into the house down the road _to see if we could do it_ (but not hurt anything, of course), and spray the stucco of Elizabeth's house with hair spray and light it on fire, _to see what would happen_. In junior high, we wanted to steal her grandmother's Cadillac for a quick trip around town, because _who wouldn't want to drive a Cadillac down Main Street on a summer night?_\n\nI was sure I loved my family more than most people loved their families, and yet I wanted to masturbate occasionally. I wanted to do things my church told me were sins. I could ask forgiveness all I wanted, but then I'd just want to do them again.\n\nI was never holy enough. I could never purge myself of the impure thoughts, and I could never shake the sound of Jerry Garcia's black-tar beauty from my mind.\n\nI wondered why my non-Mormon father was not going to the \"highest degree of glory.\" I only saw him a few times a year since he lived on the northern end of California, but he struck me as morally sound. And Grandma Bonny, too. She had her own deeply held religious principles. In fact, that whole side of my family seemed decently wholesome. I wondered why, if you had to be Mormon to get to the Most Excellent Heaven, God had people born into remote parts of the Amazon where they never met missionaries. I wondered how there could only be \"one true church.\" What about all those other people on the planet? Were they simply wrong? When I asked these questions, the church leaders said, \"There are some things we just don't understand,\" and that felt to me like a cop-out. How could you possibly know the plan of salvation but not know how everybody can get there? Later, they explained that people wait in the spirit world until somebody on earth is baptized for them. But then why the hell would I obey the rules if somebody could just do it for me when I die?\n\n\"Because you've already been shown the plan of salvation. You can't go back now.\"\n\n_Well, fuck. So I would have been better off born somewhere where the church never was so I could live without all these goddamn rules and still get to heaven._\n\nAnd there were so many rules. Don't date until age sixteen. Once you date, only kiss, but not with the tongue. Don't have sex until marriage. Don't drink coffee or black tea. Dr Pepper is a gray area. Don't buy things on Sunday. Don't wear tank tops.\n\nI liked tank tops. I liked my shoulders. I wanted to show them without shame.\n\nBut really, it didn't matter how many times I showed up on Sunday in my \"modest dress\" and paced the halls with the stoic face of holiness, I still got angry sometimes and chased my brother around the house with a butcher knife, explaining to my mother and brother that a person named \"Margaret\" lived inside me, and she was a real psychopath. We all laughed because it was such an innocent name and they thought I was joking, but I knew I was not.\n\nNobody named Margaret would chase people with knives.\n\nBut I would.\n\nAnd it didn't matter how many prayers I whispered at night, I still couldn't sleep with my hair flipped over my pillow, even though it was more comfortable and I wanted it off my neck. I couldn't do it because I feared there was a man under my bed who wanted to cut it off, and though I knew intellectually this was not true, my fear was untouched by rationality. Or whispers to my Father in Heaven.\n\nAnd even though the church elders praised how eloquently I spoke of the truth God had revealed to me, telling me I was a leader among young women, I was still unable to say the thing that would help my mother see that my stepfather was never going to change, and that we couldn't move again, because it wouldn't be different across town or in Texas. It didn't matter how brightly I shined on Sundays, I yelled and screamed and chased with knives and masturbated when nobody was looking.\n\nI couldn't even muster the Holy Ghost's presence when unspeakable tragedies came, like when my mother told me she had three miscarriages before my brother was born, or when kids made fun of my brother's acne, or when my stepfather mocked my mother, again. Or when my brother and I would go fishing, and even though I always wanted him to catch a fish more than I wanted to, _I always did_ , and he did not, until once when we were camping in the summer, and he and I went down to the pier at dusk, threw our lines in, and caught fish after fish after fish without even trying. Big, fancy trout. We couldn't believe our luck, the way we'd cast a line and immediately catch one. As the sun went down, we filled the stringer until every spot was taken. We only stopped because there was no more room.\n\nWe caught them together and nobody had to go back to tell our mother who caught more. But when I untied the stringer of fish, our faces beaming at the mass of them, the bottom fish pulled and the wet string slipped through my fingers, back into the lake. In an instant, they were gone, strung together through the gills, to die.\n\nWe were going to show them to our mother and eat them for dinner. I can't remember if we tried to catch them again, or who hurt worse, or even how long I cried or apologized.\n\nWhere was God then?\n\nThe one time we both caught fish, I let them all go, and I couldn't find Him there, in my guilt and pain, in my \"irrational reaction\" I couldn't seem to quell, in the desperate sadness of my mother's miscarriages and the way she told me so matter-of-factly, saying we would \"see them in heaven.\" But my siblings were dead. I had dead siblings. _Who let them go?_ I raged and wept, and my brother and mother looked at me like I was deranged. I knew I was crazy, but I couldn't stop. They said I was \"just too much,\" but I couldn't be less.\n\nMaybe it was Margaret. Maybe I was evil.\n\nIt didn't matter how eloquently I testified, I couldn't get my mother to stay when she wanted to leave for the night, even though I was convinced she wasn't coming back alive. I would rock and cry on the couch, getting herded by our border collie, who seemed to think, _If we can just get this one home, she'll be fine._\n\nNobody seemed to know how to get me home, not even God.\n\nIt didn't matter how clear the world seemed when I sat in the church room listening to very kind women explain the way to heaven, I still walked around the playground at school eyeing the other kids with fascinated skepticism, a twenty-foot invisible wall between us, wondering how they knew how to be kids on a playground. _How do they know how to play tetherball?_ _What is happening with these people?_ I wanted so badly to join them; I wanted so badly for the ball to smack them in their adorable little faces. I figured God had handed out a Playground Manual before he sent us all down here, and I, unfortunately, was absent that day.\n\nBut I couldn't tell you that, and I couldn't ask, \"Hey, could you teach me how to play tetherball?\" I couldn't let you know how much I wished you'd sit with me at the lunch table, so I squared my shoulders and straightened my backpack and walked somewhere very important, like the library, to prove I had a place to go. There's a chance you didn't notice me leaving. There's a chance I was proving it to me.\n\nWhen I got home, I would go straight to my bedroom, and make myself the smartest and most capable person in the room by lining up my Cabbage Patch dolls and playing \"school\" with the door shut. I did this for definitely too many years. My favorite book to teach was _The Miracle of Life_ , because it involved new life and vaginas, even new life _exiting_ vaginas, so it was educational _plus dirty_. Nobody bothered me in there, not even my mother when she got home from work. I felt better after a couple of hours of solitude and fantasy, sometimes even good enough to see what the crazy kids were doing on their bikes out on the street.\n\nI had no idea how to join them.\n\nMaybe I didn't even know I wanted to join them, that I wanted to feel a sense of unity with the people around me, that I wanted to not feel fear, that I wanted to feel better inside. I tried the church for many years, and it almost worked, but all that Mormon preaching and black-and-white Truth was a pathetic substitute for what I really wanted: relief. A deep exhale. A sigh in my guts that let me rest, fully, completely, secure and unafraid. And whole.\n\nI yearned for that acid in Honduras with my whole self, with every single moment I lived before that day, but I didn't know it until I saw the tiny tabs in front of me, and God became the ability to feel different. To feel free.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nWhen the acid began wearing off, I was lying on the edge of the man from the beach's bed, aware of the movement next to me. Stacy was in the middle. He was on the other side of her. I was terrified of men and sex, so when they started kissing, I panicked and headed to the bathroom (if I'd had a backpack, I would have straightened it). I figured I'd take a shower to wash off the evening, but this turned out to be a questionable idea. The black mold spots on the white tile refused to stop shaking. My eyes told me they were bugs. My mind told me it was the acid. There was no hot water, and no plumber to fix it.\n\nI got dressed and sat on his couch until he and Stacy joined me. It never occurred to me that it would have been rape if he slept with her. I was merely grateful to be alive and out of that bed. He explained he was a graduate student from San Francisco studying marine biology, and that he was from Sebastopol, a tiny town about fifteen minutes from our city of Santa Rosa. I could not believe it. He said he saw us rolling in the surf in front of a bar and knew we were high and not safe, so he stayed with us. He left out the part about hoping he could take advantage of a couple of young, dosed girls.\n\nI had no idea where I was or how to get back to the motel. He said, \"Walk straight down the beach, that way,\" and dismissed me with a hint of disgust in his voice, probably because I wouldn't fuck him. I was useless to him now.\n\nI thanked him and laughed, thinking how his directions reminded me of the \"straight and narrow.\" How far I had strayed from the iron rod now.\n\nAs I walked back to the motel alone in the heavy morning air, I worried about Stacy, who had refused to leave the man's house with me, but I walked faster and faster, running to get away from him, from the night, thinking of the silent motel room, and of getting there before the teachers woke up. I thought about rolling in the surf on acid and how I wasn't raped or mauled or dragged into a cave for my passport or any other reason. As I unlocked the motel room door, I thought, _Wow, I can do really stupid shit and not get in trouble for it._\n\nBut mostly, I thought about the weed I had smoked a couple of months before, and how I was absolutely convinced something spectacular would happen in that moment. I thought the sky would crack or shatter, or clouds would gather or part. I didn't know what would happen exactly, but I knew it would be mighty. Surely, I would be punished somehow.\n\nAnd yet, nothing.\n\nI began to suspect my aunts, my mother, and the entire Mormon church were lying. They all but _promised_ __ a volcanic eruption on the day I blackened my temple, and here I had quite clearly at least grayed it out with intentional marijuana, and not one single fucking thing happened. Nothing fell out of the sky. No lightning. Not a word from the creator.\n\nI didn't even feel different.\n\nBut still, I wanted to believe. I wanted to be a holy person, and for them to be right. I wanted to reach my potential\u2014 _and there was so much, you know?_ I was a shining star at school! I would be the first person in my family to graduate from college! I would do better than my parents! My father moved in and out of drinking. I heard stories of their friends shooting up heroin in their necks, of junkies burning up in their own houses, of drunken fights and limb-crushing car accidents. _I knew better._\n\nBut I couldn't shake the feeling of having been lied to, of being hoodwinked. And I wondered what else they were wrong about. I suspected _everything_. So I set that acid on my tongue, and gave up trying.\n\nIt was my last sacrament, my last communion. I had spent so many years believing that if I could figure out how to be good enough, I wouldn't be the person who chased loved ones with knives or craved Jerry's cracked desperation as a salve greater than salvation. I thought _any minute now_ my external reverence would manifest in internal peace, and all the darkness would be cast out through my grand gestures of morality. The sinner, the darkness, gone, and me, unified in good.\n\nBut it never worked.\n\nAnd if there was a God, he knew the truth about me, so fuck it.\n\n_I'm tired._\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nLater that day on the island, after a short half-hallucinatory sleep, I talked to Stacy, who told me \"everything went fine\" with the marine biologist after I left. I was never quite sure what that meant. I told myself to believe her.\n\nI walked outside my motel room that day as the sun was going down across the water, casting orange light on my face and shadows in long, peaceful strokes across dusty roads.\n\nI went snorkeling with the other students that evening as usual, but for some reason this time I got going way out there in the ocean, kicking along for what seemed like twenty miles. I don't know why, I just kept going. I was scared I'd get eaten by a shark, but I kept kicking anyway because it was too damn beautiful to stop and the fear made me kick harder.\n\nI was entirely alone now but I kept kicking. The reef was down below me and then farther and farther away until it came to an end. I kept kicking past that, but it was just blue and blue and blue in every direction, so I turned around. When I did, I saw a wall of black before me, but a little below me, the reef stretched in every direction in front of me, and the crystal blue water above it. And me, hovering there like a speck of flesh in nothingness, a mass of dark that stretched forever into the bottom, though no bottom. I felt like I was looking at God and death and I shuddered. I felt like I was hovering above an abyss that would swallow me at any moment, as if I were taunting it with my squirming little body. The water above the black looked like a sliver too shallow to hold me, and I thought I could not cross back over. My eyes darted down, right, left until the terror of the black overtook me, and I threw my head up and ripped my snorkel off to suck in the air and stare at a spot on the beach\u2014to swim back, and remember I was still alive.\n\nI didn't look down again.\n\nUntil I got home, and began my descent into the black.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nTwo months later, my friend handed me a bottle of peppermint schnapps and said, \"Stop drinking when your lips go numb.\"\n\nBut I never did. I had found what I was looking for.\n**3**\n\n# **Sylvia Plath Put Her Head in the Oven over This Shit**\n\nOn our first day home as a family of three, Mac woke at dawn and went to work at his father's slaughterhouse, just like every other Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday since he was ten years old. This particular day, the day I walked around in pajama pants over a bulging hospital diaper with a colostrum-sucking newborn in my arms, happened to be Thanksgiving. Twelve hours before, we had walked into the dome through the pouring rain, with Ava in her car seat, and everybody cheered for us. For some reason, they clapped when we made it home. Perhaps it was the rain.\n\nAfter dinner, Mac went to sleep. I did not.\n\nIn the morning, Mac left.\n\nI did not.\n\nLeaving for work was not something Mac thought about, but rather something he simply _did_ , no matter what day it was, or who was just born, or how sick he was. Only absolute incapacitation would keep him from that slaughterhouse. I did not grasp the magnitude of this commitment until the first time we tried to take a vacation beginning on a workday. This was evidently the first workday he had missed for something as frivolous as \"rest.\" He spent the first nine hours physically ill in the bathroom of our San Francisco hotel room while I sat on the bed wondering how he could possibly ruin my experience in such a selfish manner.\n\n\"Mac, I don't understand. People are allowed to take vacations,\" I said, as he crouched against the wall near the toilet. \"What the hell is wrong with you?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" he said, and I believed him even through my fury. I never understood how a person could grow so intricately entwined with a job. On the day I told his mother I was pregnant, she said, \"You can take the man off the ranch, but you can't take the ranch out of the man.\" Her words seemed true, but still, I wanted to extricate him from whatever sickness festered between him and his work, or whatever it was that gutted him for taking a day off, but he couldn't explain it, and I soon learned the source was invisible. It tore through him years before we existed together, and planted itself beyond reason's reach.\n\nBut on that day, the Thanksgiving he went to work leaving a two-day-old newborn and mother, it did not occur to me to be angry. Luckily, my mother was there, and she didn't tell me a father shouldn't leave the mother of his child two days after she gives birth, especially if it's Thanksgiving. I wonder if she knew and withheld that information, or, slightly more awkwardly, didn't realize it was weird either. Maybe she craved time with just the baby and me, or maybe my father would have done the same to her, or maybe we were all so fucking overjoyed by the baby we didn't notice his absence. I think it was the latter.\n\nPerhaps it would have been nice for somebody to say, \"Hey, Janelle. You should ask Mac to stick around a bit.\" Then again, logically, something we don't know must be benign. Unless it burns under the surface, like a wound growing larger right beneath our nerves, where we didn't even know we had nerves or needed help at all, until one day we find ourselves doubled over a toilet for taking a day off work. Maybe that's what happened to Mac. Maybe that's what happened to me.\n\nMaybe that's what happened to me three days after we brought Ava home, and I sat in a rocking chair in the middle of the November night under our bedroom window, out there in the country, where the sky is so clear it makes the cold seem colder. Light shone onto my face and Ava's, and I guess it was moonlight. I tried to nurse her. My nipples cracked against her petal mouth, but I nursed her anyway, because she was tiny and just right, and I refused to not breastfeed. I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth through the rush of fire in my breast. The nurse had told me, \"If she is latched correctly, it won't hurt,\" so I figured I was doing it wrong, but the milk spilled out around the edges of her little mouth. Seemed to me something was working.\n\nI was drunk at the sight of her, almost too much for my eyes, swaddled in my arms as my mother had taught me with my dolls years before. _You put the baby's head a little below one corner, and then you pull up the bottom corner, pull the right one over the chest and then the left, and then tuck it in tight like a little burrito._ But as we rocked, and as I glanced at her and back at her snoring father, maybe I rocked one, two, three too many times, and nudged some pain I couldn't see right up to the last layer of my skin, where the moonlight touched and her newborn head met my flesh. Because on the final glance at Mac, a truth settled into me like a sheet of ice.\n\nI had made an irreversible mistake. Not any mistake. The greatest mistake.\n\nHer. Him. The love. The pregnancy. It was all a horrifying error. I looked at him and her and back again and hated them both.\n\n_No. Not her._\n\n_Him. Him, there, free, alone on the bed while I sit spitting milk and pain and blood with the beautiful tucked-in bundle._ His body his own. His dick his own. His future his own. And me, decimated.\n\n_I don't want this_ , I thought. _I don't want him or motherhood and I don't want this body or man or house but now I am stuck, dragged and chained through a lie._\n\n_My own, or yours? Did I do this? How did I do this? I was conned. I was wronged. I was betrayed._\n\nI knew I had only myself to blame, but it was too cold to stay in that knowing. So I blamed him.\n\n_You wanted this, Mac. Now you've got it, and I'm gone._\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nMy jealousy of people without children, of people I viewed as still free, became a living, breathing entity. My rage palpable, dizzying, smoldering always in my chest, and yet it was not alone. If it were, I could have walked coolly away from him, that life. If all I felt were sorrow and rage, the kind that engulfs you like a warm black cloud, seeping into every pore until even your breath feels leaden and ugly and wrong, I could have simply walked out on the bastards. In the dark of midnight, I imagined doing exactly that, but every day, at every moment, alongside my frantic desperation, was a love and fixation and pull to that baby more powerful than anything I'd ever known. Beyond me and utterly nonnegotiable.\n\nI could never commit to anything in life, except her. Fully, undeniably, against my every desire, her. It was a love that had me checking her ten times a night. A love that had me burying my nose in her mouth to inhale her milky breath, bathing, nursing, and holding her with arms that ached if she were not in them. When apart, I missed her the way we hunger for food: immediately, physically, and for survival.\n\nBut while I drove into town and she slept in the car seat, or screamed as if the devil himself were gouging her in the eye, I felt the weight of my sagging belly and tits and thought about Mac working at his going-nowhere job, and our little corner of the big ranch house, and how it all had become sad and heavy and boring. I would think about where I was supposed to go with my life instead of the car, and I would get lost. My grief drove me around in circles. I'd drive as long as I could, as long as Ava slept, because at least the time was mine, some solitude, some untouched mental space. Sometimes I drove by places I used to frequent in college, old bars and friends' houses, to remember my former life as some sort of masochistic lamentation. Sometimes I drove by my old boyfriend's house, the one who called that Halloween, and pondered what it would have been like if I had made the decision to meet him that night instead of Mac.\n\nHe was with somebody new. I hated her too, even though she was a former high school friend and I was the one who broke up with him. I hated the childless happiness they occupied in my imagination. I fantasized about running off to some Midwestern motel, where I would change my name to Charlotte and bartend for a living, simply pretending _none of this had ever happened_.\n\nFor I always had a next move, a way out, a backdoor exit plan. Another man, another drug, another town. Another job or friend or lie. I always had a posture or scheme to get out of a life that wasn't working. But motherhood, motherhood is a trap. It's like the goddamn \"Hotel California\": _You can check out, but you can never leave._\n\nIf I stayed, I faced a ruined life. If I left, I faced taking care of Ava alone, and sharing her with Mac and whatever slut he ended up with. The thought alone made my stomach flip. I couldn't stay and I couldn't leave, and when the permanence of motherhood dropped onto me, when I understood that _no matter where I physically went_ I would not escape it, my panic was indescribable. I was a feral cat in the first moments of capture, scrambling and clawing and screaming as she realizes there's no exit to her cage.\n\nSo I married him, as I said I would, because it was the only thing I could think of.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nWe took our vows on a cold, gray December day under a tree outside a courthouse in a town called Woodland, which is probably the nicest part of the town. My mother wore four-week-old Ava in a black sling across her chest. Our plan was to get married \"technically,\" then have a fantastic wedding a year later.\n\nI wore all black. I was planning on wearing jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, but my mother-in-law said, \"Oh you can't do that. You're getting married!\" and kindly took me to a boutique clothing store the same day, but I had recently given birth and felt betrayed by my body, with its giant belly hanging low, withered and stretched beneath alien milk tits. So I bought a black skirt and blouse, as if it were a funeral, though I merely wanted to hide behind cotton shadows.\n\nI told myself I didn't care. I told myself I was so in love I didn't need a wedding, but this was probably a lie. I knew it wasn't the \"real thing.\" I knew if we treated it as a gesture for taxes and insurance, if I wore regular old clothes and nobody gathered in feigned joy, it would remain a flash in the grand scheme. This almost worked, but my father showed up.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nMy father was not an \"absent\" father. He was a physically distant father. After my parents separated when I was six, I only saw him a few weekends a year, on one or two holidays, and during one weeklong stay in the summer. For me, those visits felt strained and tricky, because he was my _father_ , and I adored him, but I didn't know him well and was trying to make a good impression. This unfamiliarity alongside the paramount importance of his station in my life confused me: _I_ should _know him and be comfortable around him\u2014but I don't, and I'm not._\n\nI remembered life before my parents' divorce as an outline, a pencil scratch here and there\u2014sleeping on the prickly floor of our boat, riding over the Golden Gate Bridge in the jump seat of my father's Porsche 930, the walls of our home and the porch jasmine\u2014a slightly deeper mark on the day he cried and bought me a stuffed puppy from a pharmacy, and then my mother, brother, and I were gone.\n\nHow does one miss an outline?\n\nAfter the divorce, my father would send me postcards of Marilyn Monroe because my favorite movie was _Some Like It Hot_. We would talk on the phone, too, but I never knew quite what to say. When we visited him, my brother, father, stepmother, and I would drive north on Highway 101 in his two-door red Mustang for what seemed like three weeks straight, taking a pee break at McDonald's in Gilroy, where life smells like garlic, and, if we were lucky, stopping completely in Santa Cruz or San Francisco, but usually driving all the way to Healdsburg, in Sonoma County wine country.\n\nWhile we drove north, we listened to Bob Dylan, Neil Young, the Grateful Dead, the Rolling Stones, Dire Straits, and Pink Floyd. We listened to hippie music or Republican talk radio. On one side of the Mustang was an NRA sticker. On the other was a Grateful Dead \"Steal Your Face\" sticker. My father did not explain this, but he explained all sorts of other things, and I asked a lot of questions. Nobody ever seemed to exhaust my arsenal of questions. Adults looked at me as if I were annoying; my mother often suggested we \"play a five-minute silent game.\" I unfailingly lost.\n\nHis place in Healdsburg was a fifth wheel trailer I appreciated because it was tidy, along the Russian River, and smelled of my beautiful new stepmother's hair. We would spend our days at the river or at his fancy gym down the road, where we would shower in big tile stalls with glass doors and sit in a steam room that smelled of eucalyptus. Even though there were four of us in the fifth wheel, and my brother and I had to share the \"living room\" at the end, it was charming in its novelty. My father made us fried chicken and we watched _National Lampoon's European Vacation_ and _Some Like It Hot_ and _Ferris Bueller's Day Off_ until I had all three movies memorized. Margaret never came out in the trailer.\n\nSomehow it became a tradition that I would cook carrots on the trailer stove, by myself, which was of great consequence at age nine and ten and eleven. I cleaned, peeled, and cut the carrots\u2014an eternal, thankless job\u2014then cooked them on the tiny stove, while standing on a stool that took up almost the whole motor home walkway. I had to melt the butter and then put the carrots in the pan, but I couldn't cook it too fast because the butter would burn. Then I had to add the rosemary, salt, and a little pepper. I remember feeling like I stood at the stove for hours, and that it was a mind-numbing and difficult process, but it was the only way I could get that crispy caramelized butter on the edges of the carrots. We called them \"rosemary carrots\" and my father asked me to make them for him every time we visited, because he said it was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted in his life.\n\nBut you can't build a life on rosemary carrots.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nIt wasn't these memories that made his presence at my courthouse union almost unbearable. It was the way I stood on San Francisco's Pier 39 holding his hand when I was a little girl, or across the Bay at Sam's in Tiburon, or at the docks in Sausalito, when I pointed and ogled at the yachts, telling him, \"Dad, I'm going to get married on _that_ one.\" And he would laugh, and say, \"Yes! You will!\"\n\nIt was that he knew I held that silly dream, the one I now denied, was too tough for, tossed aside as if I could never be bothered with such girlish nonsense.\n\nFrom him, I couldn't hide in the shadows. Seeing him standing on that grass felt to me like I was crossing into womanhood, into a new family, without a proper goodbye. It simply made me sad. After the technicality, we went to dinner at a restaurant named after a duck. I drank two to seven glasses of wine.\n\nIn the photographs of the ceremony, I am holding Mac's hands and gazing into his eyes, with Ava and my mother right behind us, and a lady from the courthouse wearing wide-leg slacks, a green holiday sweater, and thick black eyeliner. She's holding a clipboard.\n\nThere are tears in my eyes. Of joy, I guess.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nI soon learned as a married, stay-at-home mother that if I remained drunk about 40 percent of my waking hours, I really enjoyed it. That is not true. I did not calculate percentages. Also, I did not particularly enjoy it.\n\nI would go to the store to \"buy groceries for a nice dinner\" and come back with a couple nice bottles of wine, _for our nice dinner_ , which I would drink while I cooked. At our actual dinner I would have more wine and a cocktail or two. This made bedtime manageable, as well as motherhood as a whole. (They do not write this in the \"new mom\" brochure we get when they discharge us from the hospital, but perhaps they should.)\n\nI drank for relief. I drank because from my first sip at sixteen, alcohol felt like peace, like coming home after a long and arduous journey. Anticipation of the day's first glass was a rush of lifted spirits within me\u2014energy, comfort, being\u2014and by glass number two, I began to feel the way I thought I should feel all the time.\n\nDrugs would do the same, but they required such commitment\u2014two a.m. runs, transactions with people I didn't know, dealers refusing to return my calls. After Ava was born, I was a drug dabbler. I was a fucking grown-up, after all, a _mother_. _Of course I don't want any blow._\n\n_Wait. Does somebody have it, though?_\n\nMore realistically, what saved me from narcotics was that I lived on a ranch ten miles outside an excessively vanilla college town where \"partying\" looked like nineteen-year-olds doing keg stands, not bumps of cocaine in bathroom stalls.\n\nAnd I wasn't seeking drugs because I had alcohol, which was enough\u2014mostly because it was reliable. You could get a bad baggie. You couldn't get a bad handle of Grey Goose. Plus, everyone drank. I could cling to alcohol like it was my last breath of air, but as long as I hid my desperation, the world would assume I was functioning, motherly, even sophisticated. They would believe the polish of laughter and smiles, as long as I never looked too thirsty or excited, as long as I never explained that if uninterrupted drinking was on the horizon, if I knew alcohol would soon pour into the cracks of my psyche, soul, and heart, I could handle anything\u2014even my stale days and too-young husband who left in the mornings, and the baby sucking my life dead and dry while making it infinitely more worth living and deep and clear.\n\nI held on that way, by drinking, and the love. Her tiny dimpled fingers.\n\nWhen Ava was about six months old, I thought I had found my own groove in the endless rhythm of motherhood, possibly even beyond White Russians and steadfast denial. I started exercising and writing again. I was researching graduate schools for a master's in English, and found a friend my age with a baby.\n\nBut one morning while Ava napped, I sat alone in the ranch house, surrounded by toys and blankets and diapers, next to a baby monitor rumbling with gentle snores, and I opened an email from my brother. I clicked on a picture of him in a white doctor coat, grinning widely on his first day of medical school at one of the top universities in America. My eyes studied his proud, hopeful ones, the sprawling manicured lawns, the old red brick building of the hall of medicine. I thought of new school years, semesters in college\u2014the pens (and how I always wanted fine-point blue), empty notebooks, literature on the shelves with its wild, disrupting ideas.\n\nA beginning. He was at his beginning.\n\nI was at my end.\n\nI retraced each line of his face and smile. Each second I looked, my heart beat faster. This man, my brother, who could make decisions and stick to them, who could not get pregnant by people he barely knew, or drink too much every fucking night. _He did it._ Growing up, I thought it would be me. I thought I would send that email, yet there he was, inarguably handling the world, while I sat immobile in a room I couldn't navigate. I couldn't even find its walls. I simply saw black.\n\nIf somebody had walked into that room at that very moment, I would have run upstairs when I heard the door open so they wouldn't see me crying. If I couldn't make it out in time, I would have swept my face with my hand and laughed about having just read something sad, but I would have disliked that lie because it would have made me seem like an overly emotional female. When others cried around me, I willed them to stop immediately because I felt compelled to say something supportive, but could only think of \"Pull it together, please.\" Or \"Do you want a cocktail?\" When sadness overtook me, I consciously pressed it into tightened fists, screams, and dramatic departures, but never tears.\n\nThere was nothing anybody could have said to fix it for me anyway, to give me a new way of looking at it, to patch up the hole in my brain or heart so I could pick myself up and carry on. I wouldn't have even let them try. I wouldn't have admitted how pathetic I felt sitting there, how small under the shadow of the photograph. I would have bragged. I would have said I was heading to graduate school soon. I would have squared my shoulders and acted like I had somewhere to go.\n\nBut that afternoon, in that chair, while I looked at my brother, my body shook and the tears came roaring against my will. _This? It can't be this. This can't possibly be my_ _life. Not now, at twenty-two._ It was startling to cry like that. I could not remember having done it before. I wept in heaves until the baby cried, again, wanting to nurse, again.\n\nI didn't go back to thinking I had found a groove.\n\nThe days began to blur.\n\n_Am I dressed? Am I ever dressed? How long until Mac comes home? How long until I can go to grad school? How long until dinner? How long until motherhood is over, or at least until wine? If I weren't here at two p.m. in my pajamas, I would be a lawyer, or writer, or something that mattered a little, at least. I would be young and hot. I would party. I would travel the world. I would do something. But I would not do this. I have to go. I have to get free._\n\nAnd then, her sweaty head, puffy eyes, and rosy cheeks would send smiling warmth to my bones, and I'd think, _I'll never leave you, baby girl. Thank God for you._\n\nCarry on. Change the diaper. Take a shower. Make dinner. Pour another glass.\n\nI tried to tell Mac I was barely functioning. I tried to tell him my life was in ruins, that I was no longer me, or a person at all, and sometimes I wished I had never become a mother.\n\nIn response, he went to work.\n\nThen he came home. We did it again and again and again.\n\nOn my twenty-third birthday, he rolled in from the slaughterhouse exhausted, reeking of goat guts, and I quickly realized he hadn't planned anything as a celebration. I threw a spectacular tantrum before dragging us to dinner, where he nearly dozed off at the table, and my fit resumed. Under those conditions, though, he had no chance of performing adequately. He thought we were going to dinner. I thought we were fixing my life.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nI tried to tell him I had been erased, even in body. I tried to tell him I was slipping. But he just looked at me. Always, he just looked at me. He looked at me while sitting on the floor or in a big easy chair, on the couch or in the car, on a park bench or at the pool table, or the bar. He looked at me and I couldn't understand his silence. His downcast eyes. In the hell of the morning, I loathed him, and laughed at what we called \"love.\"\n\nBut later, as I poured an afternoon glass, I'd think, _I was overreacting_ , and when I thought of him working down at the ranch, punching the hide off a sheep, cold in the winter bite, or walking across a dusty pen in 105-degree heat, I'd realize his silence was saying, \"I wish I knew how to help you.\"\n\nHe was twenty, and almost as empty as me. It made it worse that he was gentle and devoted to our family, that when he was home, he cradled our baby on his arm and never set her down, that he wasn't cruel or philandering. It made it worse because I knew he simply did not have what I needed. He was _there_ , with all that he was, __ but still it was not enough.\n\nI tried to tell him, but I didn't tell my mother. It didn't seem like the type of thing one mentions to other women. Or men, actually. So I kept it to myself. Who would I have told anyway? And what would I have said? \"I chose to have a baby and now I hate being a mother even though she's perfect and the father is diligently supporting us?\"\n\nAlso, nobody asked.\n\nI thought if the doctors found out they would take my baby away, and I would be crazy and alone, and my daughter would be without a breast and the arms that craved her.\n\nSometimes as I walked down the stairs holding Ava, I envisioned throwing her body off the top of the balcony\u2014not because I wanted to, but because the image slammed itself into my brain. When it hit, I would pull her hard against my chest and shake my head to get rid of the image. But I worried someday my arms would do it against my will, and as I held her against me I remembered that I could really, really never tell anyone.\n\nSo instead of telling people, I dressed her in European clothes I bought at discount stores, and took her to the park where we sat on blankets, and I was proud of us. I nursed her and fed her wholesome foods like avocado and zucchini I crushed myself, and didn't let anybody watch TV around her for fear it would sizzle her brain right then and there like an egg on a hot sidewalk. There was no sugar in Ava's diet, and she slept tucked against my body because she needed me and I needed her, and I could never get enough of her milk breath.\n\nBut when nobody was looking, I scrawled in my journal, in capital letters, in thick black ink, \"I CAN'T GO ON\" and \"I FUCKING HATE MY LIFE\" and \"WHEN DID IT ALL GO WRONG?\" I pressed hard on the page so it would go through to the two or three pages behind it, like a little kid learning to write, but actually I was begging the page to help me.\n\nI had been running to paper for safety since I was a little girl, since the bishop's wife handed me a journal after my Mormon baptism, saying, \"You should write in this every day,\" and I looked at those lined pages and thought, _This is mine to fill up. This space is mine._ I wrote every day, just as she said.\n\nBut it was only after I had Ava that the page did nothing, that I felt worse after scribbling the darkest of me into sad linearity, into neat reductions of grammar and diction and punctuation. It was only then that my words made me sicker, and left me deader, as if whatever was living inside me refused to be contained, ordered, or made into meaning. Trying to stretch it into lines left me frustrated, and lonelier, because every sentence ended in conflict, in paradox, in the whimper of a baby who needed me.\n\nThere was no resolution because the revulsion was not about her. It was me. It was all that led up to her creation and birth. It was the man who didn't understand my grieving and the single bedroom we shared. It was all that and some dark thing I couldn't explain, trace, or trap at all, like a curtain over the sun blocking the light. Nobody can dodge that pain, or the exhaustion of trying to breathe beneath it.\n\nStill, I thought if I used all my strength to scream into the page, the black would move right out of me and get taken up. I remember shuddering while I wrote and pressing as hard as I could for relief. I lifted my head and squinted my eyes and waited.\n\nIt never worked. Except alcohol, nothing worked.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nOne day, while Mac was at work, Ava began fussing right after I put her down for a nap in the late morning. I stared at the monitor, then dragged myself up the stairs as her cries took over the hallway.\n\nAs I walked to her room, my thoughts were like a train crashing through my mind, accelerating with every step. _Always waking up_. _Jesus fucking Christ, she's always waking up_. _Waking up and stealing my few seconds of humanity, of freedom. Waking up and making me face her and me and all that was going to be before this hell hit like a_ _flash flood across a broken body, and I'm crushed but somehow not dead. MY GOD, CHILD, FUCK YOU_ \u2014and when I got to her, I pinched her thigh, hard, to hurt her.\n\nShe wailed.\n\nI cried out too, and pulled her body to mine before dropping to my knees. I gripped her against my chest, with her head in my hands and my fingers stroking her blond wisps of hair. I gasped through tears and begged her to forgive me, and in that moment I realized I did not care if they took her. I did not care if she was no longer mine, because she was better off without me. I had hurt my baby, my life, my perfect creation. I had hurt her on purpose.\n\nI called the doctor's office immediately and explained to the first person who answered that there was something wrong with me and I could not take care of my baby. I didn't tell Mac I was going to call, because I knew he wouldn't understand my decision to give our baby away. He was not brave. He would not let her go. He would tell me to lie. He would tell me to keep hiding who I am.\n\nThat very day, I went to the doctor's office and told the nurse about pinching her, and the visualizations, and that my life was black-tar grief. I steeled myself in preparation for her words, \"You know we have to take your baby, right?\" I was ready to say goodbye.\n\nInstead she put her hand on my knee and left it there as she said, \"Oh, honey, you have a bit of postpartum depression. We'll have you fixed up in no time.\"\n\nShe shook her head and blinked like a doll. She seemed unreal sitting there, talking to me as if it was all no big deal. I got to keep the baby, because this is a thing that happens to some women after they give birth. Depression. That is its name.\n\nHer voice was sweet and smooth and slow, but squeaky like a child's, and it startled me at first. _Why does she talk like that?_ _With such sweetness._ It didn't matter. In that moment, I loved her.\n\nShe prescribed an antidepressant, and _just as promised_ within a few months my whole life transformed from behind my own eyeballs. Doctors told me I was bordering on postpartum psychosis, that I was lucky to have come in, that pinching my baby that day could have saved my life, or hers, or both. Maybe it was the pills, surely it was the pills, but I'm not totally convinced I wasn't healed by the feeling of the nurse's hand on my knee when she said \"Oh, honey,\" because I felt like a leper who was touched for the first time by somebody who didn't care that she was sick and deformed. I was so sure I was monstrous, some uniquely evil specimen of motherhood, that when she touched my knee and called me \"honey,\" like I was any old mother passing through with a bit of PPD, I saw myself anew.\n\nI was in a pit of black and couldn't see out. I felt the touch of a nurse and Zoloft and crawled to the top, looked out, and thought, \"Oh shit, this ain't so bad.\"\n\nAnd it wasn't.\n**4**\n\n# **Playing House in the Suburbs with Captain Morgan**\n\nAtop that pile of happy pills, I peered out over the edge of depression and surveyed the landscape. The first thing I saw was \"I need out of this fucking house.\" Nothing was wrong with living in Mac's parents' house except we were living in Mac's parents' house. We were adults. We needed adult space, and in my case, employment. Stay-at-home parenthood was boldly oversold.\n\nSo I constructed a r\u00e9sum\u00e9 emphasizing the honors classes I took in college while omitting the one (or two) I failed, and applied for a receptionist position at a highly respected boutique law firm about thirty minutes from the ranch, in downtown Sacramento. When they called me in for an interview, I knew I had a chance, because I did well with first impressions, particularly when sober. It was everything following the first impression that troubled me. I could give you what you wanted. I just couldn't _keep_ giving it to you.\n\nSitting across from me in a large conference room, an extremely put-together, reserved woman with long, curly brown hair asked, \"What experience do you have with administrative work?\"\n\n_She wants_ _honesty._ \"Well, I spent a summer as an intern at an office supplies business, but I don't have a _ton_ of experience.\" I smiled and made a little face, as if to say, _Can I really say that?_ As if I were a bit coy.\n\n\"I graduated from UC Davis about a year ago, but stayed home with my baby,\" I continued, \"but I am a quick learner. I am very thorough.\" My mother had told me once while I was sweeping out our motor home that I was \"very thorough.\" I stuck with it.\n\n\"What do you think your greatest asset is?\" She offered a quick smile between jotting notes. I noticed she was left-handed and that her blouse perfectly matched her cardigan.\n\n_Humility. Tie it in with the honesty, Janelle._ \"I am willing to do whatever it takes to get the job done. If the firm needs me to scrub toilets, I'll do it. I'm here to work and I don't have too much ego wrapped up in that.\" She smiled again, and I felt bolstered. _You're doing great, Janelle._\n\n\"We are extremely focused on collaboration. What is your greatest weakness?\"\n\n_Captain Morgan._\n\n_Nope. Don't say that._\n\n\"Oh, well, I think it must be that I can be a bit of a perfectionist. I don't want to let things go if they aren't perfect, or close, you know? So sometimes I get frustrated with people who don't have the same focus as I do.\" I failed to mention that I thought most people around me were fucking idiots who should lose their jobs. That if I thought things, they were true, even if I had no evidence for them, and that, frankly, I was not exactly shining in my own life, and threatened to leave my husband on the daily. And, speaking of daily, I drank at that exact interval, and used to chase my brother around the house with a large kitchen knife.\n\nI kept all that to myself and crossed my legs.\n\nI was a master at selling my potential. My second-best talent was leaving before you figured out I couldn't deliver. Or I simply never showed up at the moment of delivery. I stopped calling friends just when they thought we were really connecting, didn't show up on the day they stopped doubting I'd show up. It was not conscious, but it was consistent. In college, a few professors wrote on the bottom of my papers, \"Come see me about getting this published\" or \"Let's submit this to a contest I know of!\" Each time, I called my mother and told her about it on the way home from class, felt proud and hopeful, told strangers about it at bars, but I never, ever showed up at their offices.\n\nBut this\u2014this was an interview, and I believed what I was selling as genuinely as they did. As I shook the interviewer's hand and walked out the front door, I called my mother to tell her how well it went, and after the second interview, this one with a managing partner, they hired me. I landed the first \"real\" job I applied for, confirming my suspicion that I was _a well-equipped human ready to embark on many great successes._\n\nMy first day of work was almost exactly two years after the February morning on the balcony. I was twenty-three and Ava was fifteen months. I woke up earlier than necessary and dressed her in Oshkosh train overalls, a white, collared long-sleeve blouse, and her favorite red leather Mary Jane shoes. I cleaned her face spotless and brushed her wavy blonde hair into pigtails. I packed a blue gingham sunhat into her diaper bag, and folded spare clothes with her name on their tags.\n\nAs I closed the babysitter's door behind me, I wondered if Ava understood why I was gone, and if I was perhaps making a mistake, and if she would be okay, and if maybe I regretted the whole job decision. I continued thinking these things until the moment I climbed into my car, put it in drive, and realized I was truly, completely, and finally alone. I glanced around the car to confirm it was real. No crying, no baby, no diapers.\n\n_Oh, thank God. Here I am again,_ I thought.\n\nI stopped for a cappuccino. I tore down the freeway.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nWhile I saved my receptionist money, my mother and I concentrated with laser-like focus on the role of a house in the stabilization of marriage. She'd say, \"You need a place to call your own. You need to be able to create a home for your family,\" and I would agree emphatically. The next day, when I would call about Mac's astonishingly disturbed relationship with a ranch\u2014he still, after two years, couldn't take a vacation without getting ill from stress\u2014she'd say, \"It will get better as soon as you get your own place.\"\n\nWhen I would tell her I was generally dissatisfied with life, or that I hated my body, or that the sense of monotony and seething banality of my daily existence might actually one day take me _out of the earth_ , she'd say, \"How long until you have your deposit?\"\n\nAnd I'd say, \"You're right. It will be better when Mac and I move out.\"\n\nWe spoke as if it were a biological imperative, as if I would implode if I didn't have access to 1,200 square feet to clean, as if all that was wrong with me could be fixed with some carpets and cabinetry that were all my own. And so, when I banked enough money, I found a house in the suburbs of Sacramento, in a strip-mall paradise called Elk Grove. It's the kind of place one drives through and wonders if the civil engineers went out of their way to remove all soul from the city, or if that was simply a by-product of the ratio of big box stores to humans. I made an appointment alone, viewed it alone, and rented it on the spot.\n\nWhen I got home holding a rental agreement, I figured I should tell Mac.\n\n\"Hey,\" I said, after a few lubricating glasses of red wine. \"You know how hard things have been. We need to get our own place. That's the thing. We'll be happier.\"\n\nHe shifted in his seat, his beautiful eyes growing pained at the impending confrontation. But he didn't say anything. Not with his mouth, at least. So I filled the silence.\n\n\"I'm a mother, Mac, I need my own home. Mothers need it. We need a place to decorate. You don't understand. It's a big deal\u2014like a biological thing. You know, this isn't my family.\" I swept my hand across his parents' living room while a familiar rage crept up my feet and all the way to my eyes as I thought about _all I had given up for him and this kid_.\n\nHe looked at me harder while his silence transformed from _space for me to talk_ into a hundred-foot steel wall between us. I readied my attack. I thought it would penetrate the wall.\n\n\"Are you going to say anything?\" I was done waiting.\n\nHis eyes widened but his mouth didn't move. He leaned back against the kitchen chair and picked at the label on his beer bottle. He was still wearing his work clothes, an orange and blue plaid cotton shirt, an old button-down from high school, long covered in bloodstains. His curly hair stuck out wildly above his ears from beneath his ball cap, which he had flipped up and to one side. He had dirt across the bridge of his nose, and I couldn't move close to him on account of the reek of slaughterhouse.\n\nI took a sip of wine, wondering how he managed to stay silent for so long in moments like this, simply refusing to make a sound. Even when angry, when I swore I would punish my adversary with the severest of silent treatments, I found myself unable to quit speaking. It was remarkably disappointing. But Mac would stare at me for an entire night, look away thirty times, walk out ten times, but he would not speak unless he was so inclined. To help him along, I would chase him around the house like a puppy attacking his pant leg.\n\nI hoped this night wouldn't be one of those nights. \"Mac,\" I said, attempting greatest civility, \"could you please tell me what you're thinking?\"\n\nFinally, after an incredible pause, he said, \"We don't have the money,\" and watched me pour a cocktail.\n\n\"Yeah, we do. We're fine,\" I said, dismissing him, thinking, _God, I hate it when he has opinions._\n\n\"How will we be fine, Janelle?\"\n\n\"Because I can't stay here anymore.\" By then, I was yelling. I didn't want to talk about his theories of finances. I knew he was simply afraid. He was always afraid. My mother and I had already discussed the whole situation. It was handled.\n\nHe countered with more silence, and I knew it was because I yelled, because I asked him to speak and then attacked him, but what I heard in his answer was that he didn't understand. Again. He took his hat off, and a stray curl fell over his eye, and I noticed his new piercing in his ear. It was a bar that went across the top of his left ear lobe, and I flinched remembering how the piercer inserted it. He stuck a thick needle slowly through the ear and then passed the bar through. But he couldn't get it right, so he pushed the bar in and out through the cartilage, twice, while Mac sat motionless, sweating.\n\nHe was the toughest human I had ever known. But I knew it would be me who carried us someplace new.\n\n\"Whatever,\" I said, holding his eyes. \"I already rented it.\" His mouth tweaked in confusion.\n\n\"You can come with me if you want,\" I continued. \"Or you can stay here. I don't fucking care.\" And I walked out of the room.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nHe came with me. The house had two bedrooms and two bathrooms. It was one of those subdivision homes with a five-foot buffer between it and the next house, no sidewalk, one ten-foot box of perfectly manicured lawn out front, and a two-car garage. The neighborhood was neutral tones and stucco as far as the eye could see. The inside of the house felt clean and contained and new, exactly what I needed to begin my life as a fully-pilled-up, non-psychotic working mother. We moved in and bought a beagle puppy that we named Maggie May, after the Rod Stewart song.\n\nI could not tell which house was ours from afar. Every time I drove near it, I had to check the house number in the black-and-white light-up box. The subdivision had a fake lake a few blocks down from our house, and sometimes we'd walk around the water on the clean cement walkway lined with sapling trees. I'd look at the bigger houses around the lake with bigger backyards and feel envy and disgust at the same time.\n\n_This couldn't be it. But damn, look how nice that pool is._\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nIt was exactly like my mother and I imagined it, which was exactly like a 1950s sitcom, except Mac and I were the main characters.\n\n\"Hey, love, how was your day?\" I'd ask when I got home from work. But instead of putting on my apron and floating around the kitchen like a house angel, I'd put my bag of groceries on the counter, kick off my scuffed fake-leather shoes, and wonder how long until I could drink rum.\n\n\"Fine, you?\" he'd say. I would mention what I was making for dinner, and he would take his boots off, and we would watch Ava play in a laundry basket, and laugh. Then I would notice the laundry at the bottom of the basket, which was clean, and yet, still in the basket.\n\n\"Hey, you know I, uh, put that basket there so you'd fold it.\" I'd say.\n\n\"Mmm,\" he'd mumble.\n\n\"What?\" I'd snap, leaning toward him, as if to say, \"You ready for this fight?\"\n\n\"Sorry. I didn't notice,\" he'd say in quiet apathy, an indifference that seemed to place the weight of our lives onto my shoulders. I'd watch him rub his feet and I'd notice again his flannel shirts stained with some livestock excretion. He didn't care about laundry or our futures. He just worked. He worked Thursday through Sunday. I worked Monday through Friday. We parented in silos. I worked five days at the office and two days alone at home, where I would do all the things that never occurred to my husband, who had moved from his mother's care to mine, his parent's house to this one, and simply steeled himself when my rage blew, hunkered down until the tornado passed, which usually looked like me getting drunk enough to no longer care.\n\nOn the days when I worked and Mac didn't, our evenings were always the same.\n\n\"What did you do today, Mac? What'd ya do today, exactly? Because the house looks the same as when I left.\" The anger settled across my shoulders, heavy and exhausting.\n\n\"I don't know. I drove Ava to daycare, picked her up.\" He'd throw me a glance and I'd notice how handsome he looked sitting on the couch with his feet up, out of his work clothes, his perfectly square shoulders and chest, and I'd marvel at how somebody who infuriated me so completely could be so fucking gorgeous at the same time.\n\nI'd pummel him with questions about household tasks. Dog food. Dishes. Laundry. The oil change. He'd meet my inquiries with silence, and I'd wonder what beat him into silence. Shame? Resignation? Personality? How broken-down must one become to simply power off in the face of conflict? But I had no energy left to draw words from him.\n\n\"Did you watch TV this entire time?\"\n\nSilence.\n\n\"Mac have you not noticed that I work five days a week and then when I get a weekend, you go to work, so I work seven fucking days a week? Do you think I sit around watching TV for five hours? Do you think I _ever_ enjoy myself? I can't do this. I want a divorce.\"\n\nSilence.\n\nI would uncork a bottle of wine, and by glass two or three, I would speak more gently, earnestly. \"Mac, please. I need your help. I need _you_. Why don't you mow the lawn, take care of the car? Anything.\"\n\nSilence.\n\nBy glass four or five, I would scream or cry, or drive to buy a bottle of rum, or sit on the couch and watch some British sitcoms. Or we would go into the bedroom and have sex that never left me feeling whole, but at the end, I'd think, _He's really going to change this time, on account of our highly productive talk._\n\nI would pass out, then wake up in a haze and sweat at two or three a.m., with a headache that threatened more sleep. I'd find the Advil and water on my bedside table, take a few, and in the morning, I'd get up and go to work. I'd feed Ava an egg or oatmeal, wash her face, and dress her warm in the winter and cool in the summer. Almost every day, I'd take a picture of her grinning and holding her little lunchbox beneath the white light-up address box, and I would send it to my mother so we could ogle at her beauty.\n\nI decorated Ava's room with a twin bed made of pine, a white bookshelf, and a rug from the actual Pottery Barn, which felt like reaching a suburban pinnacle. We now had a real bed instead of a lumpy futon, and I hired a dog trainer for that fucking beagle. The trainer said Maggie was the worst dog he'd ever seen in his life and essentially told us the little bastard was unfixable. After Maggie ate our hose for the twelfth time, pissed on the carpet, and stole our dinner off the table, Mac and I agreed to give her away to an old man who had owned beagles his whole life and never left his house. I missed her as soon as she was gone.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nEvery day, I woke up and got dressed in my business casual clothing, wished I exercised more, drove twenty minutes to my job in the black Infiniti four-door sedan my father had sold us. I listened to NPR on the way, specifically the old guy with the oddly soothing voice who did the news. I sucked down coffee and a cigarette. I played my music loud. It was wonderful, sort of. It was at least twenty minutes each day that felt hopeful. I was heading to a new place. A new day! Tiny potential!\n\nAt work I could drop my purse off at my desk and travel into the clean break room for a cup of coffee. While I stirred in the cream, I could stand by the counter and say hello to my work friends and feel capable and centered. In the afternoon I might get a sparkling water from the refrigerator or a caffeinated soda if I were tired. I might walk down the hall and grab a chocolate from my boss Beatrix's office.\n\nTo keep me busy between calls and visitors, Bea would give me tasks I could perform right there at the reception desk, such as calling computer companies for technological difficulties or to discuss warranties. Often I would end up shouting at the overseas customer service representative, right there in the front office. Eventually Bea banned me from making such phone calls, and I told myself she had simply realized, finally, that I was too damn smart for such menial laboring.\n\nMy receptionist skills beamed brightest when welcoming guests to our office, although my judgment was perhaps slightly off. I once asked a woman there for a job interview if anybody had ever told her she had a porn star name, because she did. She started, but grinned, and said, \"I've never been in a law firm with a receptionist as inappropriate as you.\" That woman was hired and we ended up becoming friends, but the difficulty was I never knew how my verbal escapades would turn out, and yet, I couldn't seem to stop myself from experimenting. I'd either make a new friend or get reported to my supervisor.\n\nI learned quickly that the superpower of low-level administrative staff is invisibility. To some, I was so unimportant I would _actually disappear_ , and as a result, they would speak openly, _right in front of me_ , about confidential topics. I would sit staring at my computer screen, clicking with great focus on absolutely nothing, listening to guests talk about employees of the firm as if we weren't sitting in a tiny lobby together, as if I didn't know the people I worked with, as if I were not even human. I'd think, _They don't even see me_ , and I would feel powerful in their underestimation.\n\n_Fuckers. Do they even know how much potential they're looking at?_\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\n\"Hey, Janelle, you can't just _say_ every single thing that comes into your mind.\"\n\nI sat in Bea's office crossing and uncrossing my legs, folding and refolding my hands, getting my first \"talking to.\" I scanned the blank surface of her immaculate cherry wood desk, looking for a single stray paper clip or wadded up Post-it note. Nothing. Not even dust behind the computer monitor.\n\nHer inbox, empty. Her candy bowl, empty. I visualized my desk with papers strewn in a thousand directions, a little bonsai tree dying from lack of water, and the pictures of Ava and Mac. I made a mental note to clean my shit up.\n\nI had been at the firm for one year, and they had recently promoted me to administrative assistant. There's a chance they were trying to find me a less visible place than the front office. At any rate, I now had my own cubicle and a raise. I was proud. Unfortunately, the attorney I was supporting was less impressed with my performance.\n\nBrian, the attorney in question, was a perky gentleman whose demeanor masked what seemed to me a deep-seated sense of superiority...for approximately fifteen minutes, at which time I concluded, based on my vast professional experience, that I was dealing with a person who loved nothing more than questionable ideas and the fact that he could make me do them.\n\nEvery Monday morning, I was supposed to meet with him and listen, riveted, to his peculiar but incredibly precise requests. Then I was supposed to work hard to implement them, with glee and _to the letter_ , even though I believed them to be absurd and inefficient. But every time I did a task, some horrible new detail popped into his brain, adding another act to our little roadshow.\n\n\"Janelle! How was your weekend? How's Ava?\" I would begin to answer, but at mid-sentence, he'd grow bored: \"Great, thanks. Would you mind researching Internet providers in my area and making a spreadsheet of what they provide and how much they cost?\"\n\nSo I did it, and when I showed him my work, he'd say: \"Please add a column with Internet speeds and then research what those speeds mean. Translate them for me. You know, layman's speak.\"\n\nHe would regularly use terms like \"layman's speak,\" which felt as inhumane as the person in the cubicle next to me eating corn nuts. I noticed that Brian ate uniformly healthy food except on Fridays, which I imagined was a plan he had actually created for himself and stuck with. This was so profoundly reasonable and mature I contemplated poisoning his food simply to shake things up a bit. He smiled too much and never failed to say \"Good morning!\" as he passed each person in the hallway, making sure to use their first names. At least once a day I visualized him making spreadsheets in quicksand.\n\n\"Can you also add a column letting me know how long each company has been in business, and whether or not they outsource work in India? Also, I need this color coded, I think. Easier on the eyes.\"\n\n\"Color coded? Why? Brian, that doesn't make sense.\"\n\n_Janelle, you can't just_ say _every single thing that comes into your mind._\n\n\"One more thing: New schedule routine. Let's try you printing out my daily schedule and highlighting each activity using different colors based on type of activity. For example, internal meetings could be blue. External meetings, green. Lunch meetings, pink! And you know, as long as they're consistent, go ahead and have fun with it.\"\n\n_Oh, wow, shit. For sure this sounds fun. This is exactly the kind of activity a person of my mental capacity finds pleasurable._ _My dream actually is to spend many years highlighting schedules for no apparent reason._\n\nBack in my cubicle, while I worked to find the perfect shade of sea green for the AT&T column, I'd wonder if perhaps I was cut out for slightly more challenging work. I wanted to impress everyone with my administrative assistant skills, but _color coded spreadsheets?_ __ I'd grow further confused when I'd overhear the managing partners consulting with him on major clients, as if he in fact knew how to do his job quite well and the color coding situation were a mere idiosyncrasy that could be overlooked.\n\n\"Janelle, within reason, your job is to do what he asks.\" After saying this, Bea held my gaze, registering my expression. She knew what I was thinking. Smiling, she added, \"Your job is to be patient with people who aren't as smart as you.\" With this, my ears perked. _Now we're talking, boss._\n\nBut she wasn't talking about Brian. She was talking about my impatience with all those I perceived as having subpar intelligence, which was nearly everyone.\n\n\"I try, Bea.\" I met her eyes while running my finger along the edge of her desk, still hoping for dust. She raised her eyebrows, knowing I was using the term \"try\" rather loosely. I laughed, vaguely terrified of her. She embodied all the professionalism I lacked, combined with follow-through. She was fair, consistent, and heartbreakingly organized. And yet, she had _lived_. She grew up in a goddamn desert, raised her child alone, pulled herself out of poverty. She was a single mother with an immaculate desk.\n\nI tried to do what Brian asked, but I couldn't wipe the disdain off my face. I kept forgetting. Or it popped onto my brow before I could stop it. The fact that he was so damn friendly while he wasted my time simply confused me. Although, how very capitalist to find yourself getting fucked and yet kind of enjoy it. I even grew to like the man. And yet he wanted me to tape his schedule in his planner in 2003. _We have computers, man._\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nAt our administrative staff meetings, I focused all my energy on making sure I didn't send my yellow legal pad hurling across the room in a fit of final unbridled rage, or fling my coffee cup at the person who brought up refrigerator soft drink organization again. The worst was when I was supposed to lead one of these discussions, telling all the women and one man how the research on a new coffeemaker was going, or where I had put the masking tape in the copy room, as if we weren't going to lie in coffins someday with maggots eating our eyeballs. By this time I had been promoted to Slightly Higher Admin Assistant, and I'd sit in the conference room listening to a person born onto earth as good as the next guy talk about parking validation methodology with the vigor of a presidential nominee, thinking, _What if I started stabbing myself in the jugular with this Uni-ball pen? Or started banging my manila folder against that lady's head, right there next to me, over and over again, without a word?_\n\nOnce again, I feared one of these days I wouldn't be able to stop my body from carrying out the vision. Meetings with the whole staff were slightly better because I got to gaze at the managing partners and imagine how big their houses must be, but still I wondered what would happen if I stood up, unbuttoned my cardigan, and smashed a scone between my tits in an act of silent resistance.\n\n_Janelle, you can't just_ say _every single thing that comes into your mind._\n\nThis includes _shit_ , _cunt_ , _bastard_ , _bitch_ , and any variation of the word _fuck_. I also learned that you \"can't wear black bras under white shirts\" and low-cut business casual pants that show your underwear are also frowned upon. Further, copy machines have a top-loader where one can load multiple pages at once and they will run right through the copier, the whole pile, like it's nothing. This particular piece of information smashed me like a brick during the new-copier orientation meeting. I had spent an entire summer after my first year of college working as an intern at an office supply business headquartered in a desolate wasteland called Hayward in the San Francisco Bay Area. For a solid three weeks, my job was to photocopy booklets held together by removable plastic binding. All day, every day, from eight a.m. until five p.m., I stood photocopying page by page, turning the page, opening the copier, laying it on the glass, pressing the \"copy\" button, opening the top, taking it out, turning the page, and on and on. For three weeks.\n\nNot a single one of those cunt bastards told me I could just take the binding out and put the pages in the top loader. Not a single human noticed that I was wasting hours and hours of my life unnecessarily. Or maybe they did notice and found it funny, thinking, \"I wonder how long it will take the idiot intern to realize she can just stick them in the top loader?\"\n\n_Well the answer is \"never.\" She will never realize it. Actually, no. She'll realize it four years later. But as far as you're concerned, dick, it's never._\n\nI never would have done that. I would have told the sad new intern how to make her life significantly easier, how to do the job better, how to make her day a little more meaningful. But then again, the people who silently watched me waste my time day after day sold Post-it notes day after day, arguing about pen quality, sitting month after month getting closer to heart disease and death, the highlight of their day being the trip to the sandwich joint around the corner, or the chocolate they'd grab from their boss's office, or the afternoon soda they'd pick up while in the break room, chatting with their friends and wondering what might happen for dinner.\n**5**\n\n# **Three a.m. Ideas**\n\nIt was complicated to think so highly of myself and yet have a life making color coded spreadsheets while wearing size 16 Old Navy slacks and sitting in a cubicle, living in a monochromatic rental with a young husband and baby, years before any of those things are supposed to happen to anyone, let alone a person destined for greatness. I felt myself becoming like the Post-it note sellers in Hayward, but managed to smooth the dissonance of reality by clinging to the year I lived the wonder I thought would last a lifetime.\n\nIt had only been three years since I stepped off the plane in Barcelona, arriving in what I was sure must be the \"prime of my life.\" I was twenty years old, unattached to any human, tan from my summer job lifeguarding, with newly shorn hair. Until my twentieth year, my hair fell long and straight past my waist. This had been my hairstyle since I began growing hair, but it wasn't really a hairstyle at all. It just grew that way because I didn't trim it often. But I had it all chopped off at twenty and I felt free and lighter and new. Friends told me I looked like Cameron Diaz. She must have been at the prime of her life, too.\n\nI spent my first month in Barcelona in dorms with exchange students from all over the world, although the Americans seemed to dominate the place, as we often do. We were supposed to engage in intensive language study and find ourselves places to live, but I don't recall the language study. What I recall is the caf\u00e9 across the street and the thick summer air\u2014the feeling of being beautifully lost, of sitting at plastic tables in front of the dorms and feeling alien, but warmly so.\n\nOn day five, I gathered the courage to wander into the caf\u00e9 I had been staring at every evening since my arrival. I watched the locals and tried to copy them, the way they moved and glanced at each other, but as I walked up to the counter and stared at the chalkboard on the wall, feeling the eyes of the dazzling Spaniards burning into the back of my head, I almost couldn't speak.\n\n\"Caf\u00e9,\" I said, thinking it was coffee. \"Por favor.\" I handed her the pesetas I had counted out in advance and retreated in humiliation. Instead of coffee, I got a tiny something in white ceramic. It was pure espresso. I sat alone at a table in front of the cafe, had a smoke, and drank the espresso black, too scared to add sugar or milk. Soon I would learn that what I wanted was a \"caf\u00e9 con leche.\" I would have hundreds before leaving a year later, and each one would be better than the last.\n\nWhile sitting in my dorm that first month, a British boy named Francis with brown eyes and wild, wavy brown hair that hung down over his forehead walked by my room, or maybe I walked by his, and we chatted for a few minutes before he said, \"I'm taking the train to Madrid tomorrow. Want to come?\"\n\n_Yes, absolutely, guy-I-just-met. I absolutely want to go to a place I've never been with a person I don't know._ There was no voice whispering, \"Hey, you don't know this fella, Janelle. You just arrived in this country, and you barely speak the language.\" Francis was the reason I went to Spain. I wanted adventure. I wanted to press my whole body against the boundaries of the world to see how much it could support. I wanted to be Mick Jagger and Gertrude Stein and Ernest Hemingway at the same damn time. Hemingway never would have said \"no\" to a friendly Brit offering a trip to Madrid. So I, too, said \"yes.\"\n\nI showed up the next morning at the train station wearing thin, wide-leg cotton pants and a tight spaghetti-strap tank top, without a bra. We drank beer on the train in the smoking car and as I watched the countryside speed by, I thought, _I must be in heaven now_.\n\nIn Madrid, Francis and I met his friends who were summering in Spain and somehow all looked like supermodels. We lounged by the pool and drank beer in the living room until somebody set up rows of cocaine on the glass-topped kitchen table, and I knew I was going to be just fine in this country.\n\n\"Yes, please,\" I said, ending a two-year streak of cocaine abstinence. I hadn't abstained for lack of interest, or because I \"wanted better for myself;\" rather, my college-town acquaintances rarely possessed hard drugs, and I was not yet driven to find them.\n\nBut if it had appeared one night, like it did that night in Madrid, I would have said yes, because I always said yes to cocaine. I tried the drug for the first time at seventeen years old in my high school boyfriend's house. We did a couple of grams with friends, sniffing it off a mirror on the bathroom counter until it was gone, and while everybody else in the house smoked weed and drank to ease the spastic comedown and eventually sleep, I said I had to pee, went back to the bathroom, and snorted lint off the floor, thinking surely some blow had dropped to the ground and I could get one more hit.\n\nAfter that night, I never found it necessary to complicate cocaine decisions, never thought twice about chasing the soaring light, the electric meaning, no matter what was happening the next day, or who I was with, or how many times I promised myself I'd never do it again. I would handle that later. In the critical moment when I needed my brain to talk some sense into me, I saw only the high at my fingertips. The Technicolor life. _Oh, the love we would feel, you and I. The truth we would speak._ _Let's watch the boredom burn. Let's see if we can survive. Let's do really stupid shit and get away with it._\n\nThat night in Madrid we danced at a multilevel open-air club filled with soapsuds and bubbles, and I did bumps in the bathroom with my new friends. When we got back to the apartment, Francis and I began kissing on a bedroom floor, but I was coldly uninterested, participating solely out of a young woman's sense of obligation to deliver what she was taught men \"deserve.\" I wished only that we had more coke. I was always the one wishing we had more coke. I was always the one spinning in circles looking for more\u2014in the carpet, the folds of the couch, the crevices of my wallet. When the rest of the party moved on, smoked some hash, took a few shots, accepted the end of the baggie (without a fight, even), I was the one coolly dropping the idea of getting more.\n\n\"Hey, just for fun, let's call the guy to see if he's still around.\" I would smile, reminding myself that next time I needed to hold \"the guy's\" phone number.\n\nThe psychopaths around me would shoot my idea down in midair, and my heart would panic to see the amphetamine light die. My blood fumed at the impending return to regular life, and I was crushed under a wave of sadness, of fiery restlessness. So I'd make my way to alcohol, the strongest drug we had left, and I'd drink it fast and hard and smile faintly when they looked my way.\n\nSomebody in the living room made a joke about coming down. I wanted to rip his face into shreds. Or I wanted to be exactly like him, cool and calm when the drugs ran out. I wanted to enjoy making love there in Madrid, but I was spinning in the daylight, wishing the walls of the nightclub would ever expand as they did under the moonlight, when the promise of tomorrow moved through me like God, and I danced with my face against yours, and to the stars.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nAfter a month in Barcelona, I moved into an apartment full of Spaniards, which I insisted upon because I was strategically avoiding Americans. Most of the other American students rented apartments together, and thought I was foolish, but I couldn't understand why one would move to another country only to inundate themselves with the culture she just left.\n\nOne of my roommates, Santiago, was eighteen and from a Basque village. The second, Marcos, was from Madrid. The name of the third roommate I can't remember because he was old, perhaps twenty-six, and rarely drank with us. Our landlady, Celli, from Galicia, was also our roommate. She lived in a long, skinny, broom-closet-type room off the front hall, which she almost never left. Celli was excessively concerned with our whereabouts, which I resented, because _I did not come to Spain to acquire another well-meaning caregiver_. She smelled strongly of garlic, and I had no idea, ever, what the hell she was saying. My room was meant for two, indicated by bunk beds, but I rented it for myself because I needed space and privacy. I was very profound. Because of this, everybody in the house assumed I was wealthy. I never told them otherwise because it was amusing to be seen that way, and I had a tiny lying problem, particularly in Spain, where nobody could fact-check my stories.\n\nWhen we grew tired of the garlic landlady's busybody nature, Marcos, Santiago, and I rented our own apartment down the road from Gaudi's Park G\u00fcell. My room had giant windows overlooking the city, and from my bed, which was two twin beds shoved together, I could watch the sun rise over the old red city and feel grateful.\n\nAs the days carried on and I settled deeper into the new culture, I realized I was more comfortable in Barcelona than I had ever been in America. It was an odd feeling. The siesta and drinking and late dinners and cigarettes, the bread stores and meat hanging from the ceiling of the butcher's shop. The old people playing bocce ball and men in tight jeans. Chattering teenagers on the subway. The little smoke shops with roll-up doors, the trains and taxis and \"motos.\" The history and museums and heartbreaking cobblestone of the gothic quarter. The haunts set deep in stone, telling their stories of war and occupation and Moroccans and Rome. America felt silly and immature, like a teenager who hadn't yet realized what mattered in life. When I had a kidney infection and spent a day in a Spanish hospital, the doctors took care of me, and when I left, the receptionist handed me my paperwork and said, \"We don't charge students.\"\n\nSpain felt old and wise.\n\nOn Friday afternoons, when Marcos and I had money, we'd run over to the student travel agency after not going to class, and we'd see which deals they had for the weekend. They'd say, \"Paris or Rome or Vienna, but you have to leave in three hours and come back on Tuesday at two a.m.\"\n\n\"Perfect,\" we'd say, and we would go.\n\nI sat in the gardens of castles outside Vienna with nothing to do but watch the people pass, and drank beer on fountain steps in Italy. I watched opera in Paris, drank homemade wine in Sevilla, and stood at the southernmost tip of Spain, where they say you can see Morocco. Every day in Barcelona I stopped by a caf\u00e9 to write in my journal, unable to catch all the ideas and colors and hope flooding through me. I drove a rental car up the coast of Spain with my mother when she came to visit. We had to stop to let a shepherd cross the road with his flock, and we ate shrimp in a village with buildings all in white, and we took a wrong road that ended at the ocean\u2014simply stopped at the sand, though the map showed it continuing to the left.\n\nI missed flights. I stayed in hostels and slept on benches in train stations. I rode mopeds in beach towns and hailed taxis in London and bumped cocaine from glittering necklaces around the necks of gay men in Madrid.\n\nThe first time tourists asked me for directions to Park G\u00fcell while I walked home, mistaking me for a Spaniard, I smiled in the knowing that I was truly, finally home. I realized I could not leave. It would be difficult to tell my parents, but I could not catch that flight back to California. My plan was to simply _stay_ and explain it later.\n\nI never made that phone call, though, because a week before my scheduled flight home, I found myself reading a letter from our landlord saying we hadn't paid the rent in three months and the police were coming for us. My student loan was gone. I had spent every penny on \"partying\" and had no reserves. My family had given me plenty. There was no way to ask for more. I packed up what meant anything to me, rented a motel room with Marcos, who was my only friend left, and waited for the days to click by. I had a plane ticket. I had enough money to buy cigarettes and beer for the next few days.\n\nI had banished myself out of the country I was meant to live in.\n\nStill, I swore I would return. I knew it in my bones. Like the haunts in the gothic quarter.\n\nEight months after returning to America, I was pregnant.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\n\"We have reorganized the copy room and the masking tape is now beneath the binder clips.\"\n\nJoyce, a more senior administrative assistant at the office, was very serious in her coral cardigan and khakis. When another secretary raised her voice to argue with her about the suggested tape placement, I slowly lifted my eyes toward them and let my head fall to one side, refusing to hide how much I hated this moment. They finished in time for someone to bring up parking validation.\n\nThe waist of my black slacks cut into my belly. As I looked down to adjust them, I noticed my shoes were navy blue. I thought, _Wow, I can't match shoes with pants. Guess we're there now, huh?_ My shirt was faded purple and probably a polyester blend. I looked ridiculous. A fat roll spilled over the top of my pants, and I considered pulling the waist down beneath the roll, so the fat bubbled out in one billowing mess. It was more comfortable that way, but felt like giving up. I sat up straighter and pulled my shirt away from my stomach, trying to hide my bulges in that classic self-conscious fat person gesture.\n\n_Perhaps there was going to be more._\n\nBetween emails at my cubicle and commutes home, I dreamed of nights in Barcelona. No, I dreamed of some. Because there were failed classes, lost friends, mornings of regret and shaking desolation. Twice I escaped being raped. Once, barely. I was pinned against a wall in a bar's cellar while a man lifted my skirt and pressed his body against me when my friend \"had a bad feeling,\" came downstairs after me, and began shouting and pounding on the door next to my head. It startled the man long enough that I could shove him off, unbolt the door, and run out. As my friend walked me out of the bar, she said, \"I'm tired of taking care of you. I'm tired of wondering if you made it home okay.\" She got in a cab and didn't call me again.\n\nOnce, I couldn't speak on our couch. I must have done too many or the wrong drugs. I tried, but couldn't make my mouth move. My roommates stuck me in a freezing shower and slapped my face while they looked at me, bored.\n\nThere was all that, plus nights of empty insomnia, which I spent scratching in my journal and at scabs on my legs, but what you remember when living in a house that can't be told apart from the others is walking the brilliant streets of a European city on a bright morning on your way to the subway, realizing that nobody is treating you differently than all the Spaniards around you. If you want, you can walk into any caf\u00e9, order a \"caf\u00e9 con leche,\" and smoke a cigarette\u2014and you'll know it will be right, and you will fit, and life will move in luminous color. What you remember is the feeling that life was going to happen, or that it is happening now, and that it would always move in meaningful directions. But I couldn't stay.\n\n_Mac, are you going to go to college? You don't earn enough. We have no benefits._\n\n_What are we going to do, Mac?_\n\n_Why are you just staring at me? Why don't you care?_\n\n_We need to extend the warranty on these five computers._\n\n_Yes, I'll hold._\n\n_Okay, here are the serial numbers._\n\nI lay on my back while we fucked and stared at the ceiling because I was not drunk enough to make it interesting, or sober enough to make it satisfying, or wasted enough to deny that it had been so long I couldn't run anymore.\n\nThe pills gave me just enough to get my body into the car to drive twenty miles and listen to the guy from NPR, and on the way home, just enough to stop at the grocery store to buy one, maybe two bottles of wine. Walking down the liquor aisle, I'd tell myself, _Janelle, you just can't drink so much again tonight, and dammit, you can't wake up with that hangover like you did today, or put your kid to bed half passed out. One glass, maybe two._\n\nThe pills carried me to the moment I drank my first glass and it all started feeling manageable again, the stucco and lake and office chair and gorgeous blonde-headed child. _Another must be okay_ (of wine, that is). With the second, it was so much better still. Mac would seem witty again, and television would make me smile, and reading Ava a story would entertain me. _Who needs Spain? Who needs love? Who needs what I thought I needed?_\n\n_If I go to the store and buy a bottle of rum_ , I'd think, _I could drink it fast, and things would be that much better still._\n\n_Even still!_\n\nUntil the morning, when I would wake up and swear I wouldn't do it again, not this time, because _I can't keep living like this_. Again. Again. I'd take some ibuprofen, make some coffee, and shuffle into the car from behind sunglasses, where I drove and smoked and listened to music, loud, almost like the girl flying down the rails listening to the Grateful Dead, wondering where the end of Spain is, and how long it would take to get there.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nOnce a week, I would call my mother to inform her I was leaving my marriage. She would listen, genuinely fascinated, and then suggest I talk to him, really explain how I was feeling, and I'd recall the seven hundred and fifty thousand conversations he and I had endured to the bitter end, and she and I, too, to fix her marriage or mine. They never worked, but what the hell else does one do with a failing marriage other than _talk about it incessantly_?\n\nWell, Mac and I would go out together. Grandparents would watch Ava while we concentrated on our sole purpose, which was to get hammered at a bar with no windows. Unfortunately, since he worked weekends and I worked weekdays, one of us was always going to work hungover, but that was a risk we were willing to take. We did it for marriage. It was like a commitment to therapy, but for alcoholics. I'd wedge myself into jeans and drink wine while he got dressed. I'd paint on makeup and style my hair, and we'd smoke cigarettes on the way to the bar, with our best songs playing and each other.\n\nOccasionally we would visit my mother in Mendocino for the weekend, and she would babysit while we went to the Caspar Inn, which is a bar in the middle of the five-building town of Caspar, across the street from a nineteenth-century church. It was packed on Friday and Saturday nights, smelling of whiskey, convenience store perfume, and alcoholism. One night we went to hear Tommy Castro, a local blues-rock band, and out on the deck in the fog we met a man named MYQ, but not pronounced \"Mike.\" His name was pronounced \"M-Y-Q,\" as in the letters themselves. He was making a coffee table book of his facial hair configurations. At the time, he had a spade shaved onto his chin.\n\nA few minutes later, down at the end of the bar, MYQ, Mac, and I met a seemingly homeless man with a kitten in his jacket. Impressed, we bought the man a drink and became fast friends, though I can't remember his name. The kitten's name was Rufus. After talking for a while, we bought him a couple more rounds, smoked a few cigarettes on the misty porch, and shut the bar down. Rufus's owner needed a ride home, and we figured giving him a ride sounded as good as any plan ever sounded, so we hopped in my car and drove north on Highway 1 along the ocean, eventually turning east, into the mountains, then right down a little dirt road. He said he had some beer in the \"main house,\" so I killed the engine.\n\n\"Come on in,\" he said. \"But these people are a little weird.\" Considering he went to bars with a cat in his jacket, I was intrigued to meet somebody he thought was weird.\n\nWhen he opened the front door to the house, I faced a wall of indiscernible material to the ceiling and a smell I can only describe as \"absolutely not.\" There was a single trail through the house, forming a reeking canyon of trash.\n\nI forced a laugh and said, \"No thanks,\" turned around, and walked out. They must have been hoarders. A few minutes later, Mac and Rufus's dad brought out some beer. _Did we just steal beer from hoarders?_ I thought, grabbing one.\n\nOur new friend walked us over to his home, which was a converted school bus on the other side of the property. The inside was covered in quilts and packed with wood carvings and stained glass and paintings, trinkets from every town in northern California. While we sat with him, he filled a little bowl with tofu and pulled a plastic sack out of his pocket. I thought it was bee pollen. Sprinkling it on the food, he said, \"Rufus eats tofu with brewer's yeast on it. It's the only food he likes.\"\n\n\"Oh.\" I nodded, seeing the dirt under the man's nails and his thick, filthy fingers sprinkling the yeast in a little mound right in the center of the bowl.\n\n\"It's hard for me to get to Fort Bragg to buy it, but it's so expensive in Mendocino.\" I almost offered to drive him there right then, but I knew it was a three a.m. idea, and three a.m. ideas are almost uniformly bad. Rufus devoured his dinner.\n\n\"I'm a stained glass artist from Humboldt. I used to travel around to shows with my old lady, but she's gone, and there isn't work anymore. I have this beautiful place though.\" I watched him and tried not to look around, tried not to be the one to break it to him that his bus was not beautiful.\n\nWhen we went outside, I realized he was not talking about the bus. He didn't care about the bus. He was talking about the little river below, so close you could hear it from inside, and the ferns and redwoods, the thick fallen trunks and moss, the scent of ocean in the distance. The silence.\n\nMac and our friend and Rufus went back inside, but I stayed alone and looked out at the little river and the stars and trees, which were mostly sound and shadows in the dark, and I thought about his kitten, and that I had little idea where I was, and I wondered if this was how people got cut up and eaten by axe-murdering psychos. But he was not an axe-murdering psycho. He was a misunderstood stained glass artist who fed his cat brewer's yeast.\n\nI loved Mac on those nights. I loved our adventures, our chemistry, the way we seemed to attract endless weirdos. Everywhere we went, the misfits came running. Reno. Davis. Tahoe. San Francisco. Santa Rosa. Caspar and Mendocino. How many nights had we spent with the outliers of those towns, the loner eccentrics?\n\nMac and I were friends. We were young, lightly renegade partiers, but we had our baby, and we loved her, and when the mavericks at bars would ask about our lives, we told them about her. We told them how smart and beautiful she was, and we seemed to have a better life than them because she existed, and we had each other. That dive-bar life was a tiny piece of a brilliant whole. We had a real life out there in the world with stucco houses and cubicles and cement lakes and neat lawns, where the sane people live, as opposed to the ones making coffee table books out of facial hair photography and stealing beer from hoarders.\n\nAnd yet, I needed the misfits to exist. I needed to party with them and drink with them and inhale deeply with them. I needed to shut down bars with the local drunks, because next to them, we were a millionaire family. Next to them, we really had our acts together.\n\nWe navigated the crazies just fine. It was only at home we lost our way. We tried, though. We talked. Sometimes I'd get my hands on some cocaine and we would really talk then. High as kites, I'd encourage Mac to wake up, liven up, go to school, do something! Grow up, son!\n\nHe'd get excited too, and after a few lines, he'd come up with a plan. \"Tomorrow,\" he'd say, \"I'm going to join the rodeo circuit.\"\n\n\"Yes! You should do that, Mac. You can do it!\"\n\nIt was a three a.m. idea, but it was all we had.\n**6**\n\n# **Rocketship Rock-On**\n\nAfter two years at the firm, I got a promotion and raise that made me question the institution of marriage as a whole. _Janelle,_ I thought, _this is the moment you've been waiting for._ _Your big fucking break. Time to get out on your own and soar._\n\nI found a little house in a 1940s neighborhood of Sacramento and rented it alone, again, announcing my departure one evening while Mac finished his spaghetti. But this time, I explained, he could not come with me because our marriage wasn't working.\n\n\"What do you mean?\" he asked, and then it was my turn to stare silently into the void.\n\nI was horribly confused by his confusion since we had discussed that exact topic every week for two solid years. And we had only been married three.\n\n\"Mac, you're not going to change and I need a future, a life.\" I was pontificating loudly, but lost some gusto when I added, \"I'm not sure I love you anymore.\"\n\n\"I still love you, Janelle,\" he said in a sort of whispered resignation.\n\nI scowled, thinking, _Who would say such a thing at a time like this?_ His eyes were wet and the same as the night we met, and I wanted to love him but could not. I was looking for something lost. I was looking for Barcelona.\n\n\"Mac, look at the way I drink every day. I am miserable. I'm dying like this.\"\n\n\"I don't think you should go,\" he said, holding my eyes. I felt like I was smacking him with the back of my hand while he crouched behind a table, and I think somewhere I knew he could not defend himself or understand or even beg. Life washed over him. He seemed like a boat without a rudder, and I was simply a current that came along once.\n\nOne week later, I was gone. I took the furniture and left him to pack up the house I had rented without him, returning a week later to get the last of my belongings. I found him sitting on the floor in the empty living room, leaning against a wall with his knees up in front of him, watching a movie on a laptop. From the loneliness of that view I had to turn away quickly, but glanced back when I opened the door to leave. He was looking across the room at me with hungry eyes, but I felt only rage.\n\nI couldn't hear his voice again. His broken, thin words. His even-toned flatness. His control. His agreement. He would tell me a hundred times that it would be different. He would do something new. He would go to college. Get a different job.\n\nWe would grow close again. We would not sleep together in machine-like coldness. We would rediscover love.\n\n_Ah, fuck your tears. Fuck our voices._\n\n_I gotta go._\n\n_I am a master of beginnings, and this\u2014this is a goddamn grave._\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nMy new home had old wood floors and a front porch behind a sprawling oak tree. The only time I had to look at the address box was the first time I pulled up and thought, _Well, this place is damn adorable._ It was white with blue-gray trim and had a big lawn out front and a huge backyard with a fountain and lavender plants where bees buzzed. Inside there were two bedrooms to the left of the living room, one in the front and one in the back of the house, with a bathroom in between with tile floors and a pedestal sink. It had a big brick fireplace, and a kitchen with barely any storage or counters. It was perfection.\n\nMac returned to live with his parents at the ranch.\n\nWe split the week with Ava so each of us only had to endure a few days without her. When she was with me, I dressed her in colorful tiered skirts and leather shoes, took her to the bakery down the road for a croissant, and to the park, where I would lie to the other mothers about my marriage. We'd go home and eat lunch, and then I would snuggle into my bed with her, her head on my arm. I'd kiss her over and over again. She'd drift off for a nap, and I would too.\n\nSleep was harder at night, though, because I had never lived alone. The neighborhood was largely retired folks who enjoyed trimming roses and talking to each other, but my house had windows and doors right near the ground, where people could walk up and _climb in_ if they felt so inclined. And I was sure they were so inclined.\n\nSo, before bed, particularly if it was just those wood floors and television and me, I protected myself using a complex inspection routine. First, I of course checked every door and window lock. Then I had to look under my bed and Ava's twin bed, but because I couldn't see to the back of my queen bed I would sometimes do a quick sweep with a broom to make sure nobody was curled up in the corner, where no human could ever fit. I also sometimes had to do that under Ava's twin bed. I then looked in the closets, in the corners, behind the coats I hadn't worn in five years. I could have just looked for feet on the ground, beneath the coats, but that didn't occur to me. I looked behind bedroom, closet, and bathroom doors. I looked in the shower. For people. Intruders. Lurkers. Rapists.\n\nI was not on meth. I was not suffering from schizophrenia. I was scared, and I thought if I knew every corner of the house was clear, I would lie down in my bed and turn off the light and feel safe. I thought I would feel comfortable knowing I had secured the perimeter.\n\nBut it never worked. It didn't matter how thoroughly or often I checked, or how many days passed without incident. I could examine every millimeter of that house, but somehow at the end of the process, I was just as terrified as before I started. I left a light on in the living room and glanced out my bedroom door too many times as I fell asleep in twitchy half-sleep inspection.\n\nI knew it was crazy. I would tell myself when I looked behind a door, \"Janelle, nobody can fit there,\" but I was compelled to look anyway. I had to _do something_ to become unafraid.\n\nIt wasn't my mother on the chopping block as I had imagined when I was younger. It was me. Something was coming for me. Somebody in the closet. Somebody under the bed. Maybe the same man who threatened to chop my hair off when I was a little girl also lurked in the closet of that 1940s house, a monster I never quite saw, for whose existence I had no evidence, but whose power over me was undying and uniform.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nOn the evenings when Ava was gone, I would lie on the couch and watch _Sex and the City_ reruns and sip white wine until I was good and loaded. Then I would make phone calls.\n\n\"Hey, you want to go to SoCal's?\" I'd usually call my friend who'd walked into the law firm with a porn star name.\n\n\"Janelle, it's nine p.m. on a Tuesday.\" she'd say, fake exasperated.\n\n\"So? I know. Come on. I'm bored. One game of pool and a shot.\" I'd soften the urgency in my voice. I'd play it cool.\n\n\"Well, okay.\"\n\n_Oh, thank you, sweet baby Jesus._\n\nI'd be at the bar within fifteen minutes, and I would have a grand time right up until the moment my friend would realize it was eleven p.m. and she needed to get to bed for work the next day. Then I would find myself alone, again, as the world moved on and I looked for more. More.\n\nHours later I would wake up in my nice bright house and whack my alarm, squint beneath the throbbing in my head, the chilly sweat, the strange panic. Advil. Water. Shuffling to the shower. Coffee. Cigarette. There I was, with my promotion and house full of character and freedom, and not a goddamn thing was different.\n\n_Drink more water. Take another pill._\n\nBut there was no pill to fix the regret, the abhorrence of myself each morning. I never woke up hungover thinking, _You know, Janelle, you're really winning at life._ I never thought about the \"fun\" I had, or decided the hangover was \"worth it.\" I never looked back with a flippancy like other people might, the way they do in the movies: \"Wow, we really went on one last night, huh?\"\n\nI woke up with mind-bending shame and deep confusion. _Why can't I stop drinking? Why can't I drink like my friend?_\n\nWhat got me through those mornings was that I knew with every drop of blood in my body that I would not drink that day. I would dunk my head in a sink of ice water and hold it there for as long as I could stand it, in a miracle hangover cure my father had inadvertently taught me. He always laughed and told me it was for his complexion, but as I grew older, I realized it was for the headache. After \"icehead,\" our loving name for our loving cure, I would focus only on getting through the morning, one second at a time: eat food, drink coffee, get to cubicle. Let some hours pass.\n\nBut when I started to feel human again, when my thoughts became crisp, the furious remorse would fade to a whisper in the back of my mind, and every day, as soon as I was well again, I would suspect I was overreacting about the whole \"not going to drink today\" verdict.\n\n_That seems a little extreme,_ I'd think. _Maybe tonight I'll just stop by the store to buy one quality bottle of white wine because I need to relax. Make myself a nice dinner._\n\nLife was officially not getting better without Mac. The only new feature of single life was worrying about Mac falling in love with some broad who would tell Ava what a loser her mother was. Well, that and I didn't have magical nights in buses anymore, or my best person to call to hit the dives and play pool.\n\nBut mostly, when my drinking didn't improve without Mac, I invited him to live with me again because if I was going to be a fucking drunk, I thought I might as well do it with my best friend, and at least some ability to pretend my life was working.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nI made it six months without him, and we made it one week without drunken domestic violence. One night in the parking lot of a Thai restaurant, I sat in Mac's truck and scanned his text messages, engaging in a process of snooping I had only seen in sitcoms. Before I left to pick up our takeout he was quite obviously trying to shield me from his phone, which he had left on the seat of his truck. _What a fucking horrid liar he is_ , I thought. I found messages from a woman who \"really missed him.\" They were sent at eight a.m. on a Saturday. She appeared to have seen him the evening before. He assured me it was \"nothing.\" I assured him I knew all the various ways he'd slept with her.\n\nI was the abuser. He could have killed me if he wanted to, flattened me with one hit, but he didn't touch me. I shoved him while he stood in the entryway. He stumbled backward to the ground against the front door, and I remember him looking up at me in shock and wild confusion. He got up, grabbed his car keys, and tried to leave, but I snatched them away and continued screaming while our daughter slept in her bedroom.\n\nAt this, he walked to our bedroom and I threw his keys at him, but missed. The sight of his back, of his silent retreat, reminded me that I was nothing more than a current that came Mac's way\u2014something that pushed him along through a few years, and when I was gone, there would be another.\n\n_He was not loyal. He was just another man. He could leave me._ Those daggers sat in me like metal in a fire\u2014poised and red hot.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nMac never joined the rodeo. Instead, he signed up for calculus and geology courses at the community college down the road.\n\nA few months after I learned of his non-girlfriend girlfriend, he was supposed to go on a weekend field trip with his geology class to Lake Tahoe. On the evening before he left, he scanned the checklist of items he needed, packing and repacking his backpack. He was eager and anxious like a kid before the first day of school. When he was all ready, I wanted to go to a bar, so I commenced begging.\n\n\"Let's go out for a couple games of pool!\"\n\n\"What? No. I have to leave at six a.m.\" He shook his head and looked at me from beneath his hat like I was insane. I was standing above him, hopping around like a puppy.\n\n\"We won't stay out late. Come on!\" I smiled and yanked his hand.\n\n\"We always stay out late, Janelle.\"\n\n\"We won't this time. I promise, I swear, I promise! Please, baby. Just a couple of games. Come on. We never get to hang out, and Ava's with my mom.\" I pulled his arm and flirted with him until he agreed.\n\nWe played our games of pool, but in the back of the bar I ran into some men with cocaine and did a few lines on the back of a toilet seat, without telling Mac. Then I bought a baggie from them in the dark parking lot, alone, and by the time I got back to Mac it was too late. He was now the husband of a wife on coke, and if he didn't join me, he would be the man who \"didn't party.\" It was already done. Already purchased. To me, his words of \"no thanks\" were a mere inconvenience, an obstacle to be overcome. I was a boulder smashing down a mountain.\n\n\"Have another drink,\" I said, knowing if I got him drunk enough he would get high with me. Sure enough, we went back to somebody's place and did more, and more, and more\u2014until five-thirty a.m. arrived and I drove a sleepless, trembling Mac to meet his class at the school. He pulled his carefully packed backpack along on his drooping shoulder, red-faced and wild-eyed and never supposed to be like this. I watched him get on the bus alongside a bunch of bright-eyed students cradling cups of coffee and smiles, and I thought I had never seen a man look sadder in all my life.\n\nThrough the window of the bus, he mustered a little smile. It broke me.\n\nThrough all that, he smiled at me still. He forgave me already. He already loved me again. I drove out of the parking lot seeing his face and the way he looked at me, and I thought about how he must feel coming down off alcohol and blow among strangers, already shy and reserved, miserable and frantic with nothing but static in the brain, without sleep or a place to rest and get well. But more than that it was the way he refused to not go. He wanted to be better. He wanted to try. He wanted to be with the regular humans, and I ruined it. He wanted to sleep, and wake rested, and join the students on the bus to learn and be good and right and clean.\n\nI sent him off sick and twisted and lonely.\n\nHe could have not gone with me. He could have left his wife with a bunch of men doing cocaine\u2014because he knew I wouldn't leave. I would stay where the drugs were. But he wasn't that kind of man. Or maybe, he wasn't healthy enough to let me go.\n\nAs I turned the corner onto our street to get home and sleep off the disaster, I realized I was wrong about all that \"potential.\" I was not capable. I was not destined for anything. _How do you keep making these decisions, Janelle? How do you keep knowing what's decent and true and then doing the opposite? How do you do it over and over again?_\n\nMy next thought was, _I must have been born without a moral compass_. This wasn't pity. It wasn't groveling, or vapid self-deprecation. It was an observation of the facts, and I accepted them as such. _I was born without morality. I must not care. I am not_ _capable of caring._ I thought about the way I used to chase my brother with the knife, the way I raged at my mother. It had been a long haul of depravity.\n\nI could see my home crumbling. I could see any hope we once had for a decent family fading into an old memory. I could see myself turning into a person not even I recognized.\n\nI begged him to forgive me when he got home, but he already had.\n\n\"We need a new life,\" I said, clinging to him. \"We need a new start.\" And I had been thinking, _Nothing says \"new start\" like a new baby._\n\nIn my mind, if I had two children, _I would join the fucking PTA_. I would carve carrots into little owls and place them lovingly into bento boxes with sober, manicured hands. I would wear yoga pants and actually do yoga. I would decorate cupcakes. I would have a special birthday breakfast plate and a Waldorf candle ring. I would clean up my act and get right with heaven and hell, but mostly, I would stop drinking, and if I stopped drinking I would also stop snorting cocaine, and Mac and I would be in love again. I wouldn't leave him shivering in the cold on a curb, in line to board a bus, waiting to inspect shimmering pines with pupils aching for darkness.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nThe two lines popped up again without hesitation, no longer a \"fuck you\" pink. Mac and I hugged and hugged.\n\n\"Mom, I'm having another baby!\" I told her ten minutes after I took the test.\n\n\"You are? Oh my goodness! I'm moving there.\"\n\n_Of course you are,_ I thought, _because this is our refreshing new life._\n\nMy mother, Mac, Ava, and I moved into a giant house we rented on a big fake lake in Natomas, a slightly fancier suburb than Elk Grove, but still soulless. I was now living in the house I used to admire from afar. I knew which one was ours without looking at the number because the houses were at least large enough to _appear_ different from the others. It had five bedrooms and three bathrooms, an office and a laundry room, and a backyard that opened onto the cement lake. We put a pool table in the formal living room.\n\nAt the four-month ultrasound, the doctor jellied up my belly while Mac and I held hands in the dimly lit room. Ava sat near us on a stool, her blonde ringlets frizzy and wild around big blue eyes. \"You're having a boy,\" the doctor said. He pointed to something on the ultrasound screen that was supposed to indicate this, but all I saw were squirming yellow lines. Still, I gasped and cried, and Mac's eyes filled with tears as Ava hopped off the stool and marched up to the doctor with her hands on her hips, announcing, \"No! We are having a girl! I am having a sister!\"\n\nThe doctor laughed and confirmed that indeed she was having a brother, and then Ava's sobbing ensued.\n\nTo cheer her up, we sat in the parking lot for a moment with Ava in her car seat and asked, \"What should we name him, Ava? Can you help us?\"\n\nWithin seconds, as if it were obvious, as if it were the only name possible in such a situation, she proclaimed: \"Rocketship Rock-On. We need to name him Rocketship Rock-On!\"\n\nWe roared and said that was an excellent name. I looked at Mac and said, \"And because we are Frank Zappa, that name is perfect!\"\n\nHe laughed. She beamed.\n\nShe told everyone we knew, \"I'm having a little brother, and I named him Rocketship.\" She was so proud nobody had the heart to tell her we weren't Frank Zappa.\n\nWith Rocketship, I had a whole room to decorate. I bought an oak crib and changing table. We installed a chair rail and painted it white. We painted the bottom of the room a pastel green and the top blue. Because I wanted him to use it for years, like an heirloom, we spent real money on a matching honey-colored oak dresser from the fancy baby store.\n\nA boy. A son. _My son!_\n\nMy job was rising. Our home was huge. I was sober as hell and decorating a nursery. I bought playful maternity skirts and ruched blouses and strappy sandals. He was due in September, the most beautiful month, and every appointment was happy news. I sat in the rocking chair of his color-coordinated nursery, a room straight out of a catalogue. I hung his tiny clothes on fuzzy little hangers, organized by size. I washed it all in baby-friendly detergent and folded the washcloths into tiny squares. All the cloth diapers were ready, folded, cleaned, and placed in gingham-lined baskets. There was even a patchwork quilt draped over the back of the rocking chair.\n\nLabor began two days before his due date, four days into my maternity leave\u2014because he was a gentleman who would never imagine arriving late. His birth was the kind they show in hippie movies trying to convince women birth is like dancing among lilies in morning dew. It lasted seven hours, beginning at home. When a contraction came, I leaned against the wall and swayed, moaning, resting on my bed in between. I took showers. I swayed some more. Around seven p.m., Mac told me we had to leave for the hospital. I told him I was okay where I was. I had never been so okay.\n\nWhile in the shower, I felt the familiar agony and delirious pain of hard contractions, and I thought, _No! I cannot do this again._ I began panicking, resisting the pain, but I had read somewhere in those hippie books that you should think of all the women who were birthing with you in that exact moment, and that you had to let go and ride the pain through, because fighting made it unbearable.\n\nSo I surrendered, consciously. I let go. I visualized myself among a few thousand women all over the world\u2014in rivers and huts and hospitals. By the time Mac told me again we had to leave I was in another world with those women, peacefully birthing my baby like those bitches in the movies nobody believes are real.\n\nIn the car that September day, the sun pounded through the glass and it was, of course, Friday evening, when the traffic is terrible. I even screamed at Mac about how much I hated him. I tell you it was a perfect birth. When I got to the hospital, the nurses didn't believe I was in active labor because I was \"so quiet and calm,\" but they booked me into a room and demanded I get on the bed for twenty minutes of continuous fetal monitoring. I told them to go to hell. I was standing and swaying. That's how I was riding the pain. I ultimately agreed to stand against the machine so they could do their monitoring, and then they left. I was delighted to see them go. I wanted to be alone, alone with this boy, alone to have my baby.\n\nI almost immediately felt an urge to push. My mother yelled down the hall, \"Somebody better get down here! She wants to push!\"\n\nI wanted to deliver in the water, so the midwife helped me into the birthing tub. I had three more contractions and pushed twice, and then turned over onto all fours. In one contraction he was born. I heard the midwife say, \"Turn around and pick up your son.\"\n\nI flipped my leg up and over the umbilical cord and looked into the water and saw him there, pushing the water, eyes wide open, with his palms out and his arms and legs reaching. I brought him to the surface and pressed my face against his as close as I could without crushing him. I felt his velvet cheeks and inhaled the sweet newness at his neck. I cradled him against me on my arm, and I watched him pull his first breath of the air we shared, and his body flood pink with my blood. He looked me right in the eyes and sputtered. They rubbed his palm to make him cry, though I thought that was unnecessary. I didn't understand why they needed to hurt him, even a little. Mac was pressed against me, his head on my shoulder, and my mother and Mac and the midwives were hushed and whispering in the gray room. When they asked how I felt, I said, \"Elated.\"\n\nHe came two days before his due date in a birth that felt like the sunrise. When I walked in the door of our home I knew life was going to be different. This son. This perfect son. Nobody could ruin this life, not even me.\n\n# **Part Two**\n**7**\n\n# **Failure That Isn't Funny**\n\nI woke from a few moments of sleep, or maybe just shut eyes, shaking. Not the shaking of a chill, but a quiver I couldn't quite feel. It drove me up and out and around the house in circles, though my body perhaps stayed on the couch, drinking leftover alcohol out of a coffee cup and rocking back and forth, like the baby on my left who wanted breakfast. It was as if the blood in my veins wouldn't settle down, as if it were pulsing out of me rather than through me, scratching the walls for escape, tossing me around the room and into every insane thought, regret, and memory of the past twenty-four or forty-eight hours, or maybe my entire life.\n\nIt drove me outside for yet another cigarette, the twentieth or fiftieth in the past two days, but it was worse in the sun, in the flickering leaves and slamming roar of passing cars. I squinted and hid from my neighbors behind our house, pulling that cigarette with all my strength, but it didn't have what I needed.\n\nI fed my baby, Rocket. This was the only variation of \"Rocketship\" Ava would allow. For an entire year, none of us had the heart to tell her we weren't rock stars. The name grew on us while we waited for her to change her mind.\n\nWhen Ava shuffled into the living room in her flannel pajamas, I turned the channel to PBS because it was a decent learning channel with soft colors and slow images. I hated the cartoons that screamed and slammed her little mind with fluorescent images and rapid-fire, vapid dialogue. She was five. I wanted her to see wholesome things.\n\nMac and I had been on cocaine for two and a half days. We went out on Thursday to have a few drinks. Then it was Sunday at eight a.m., and we had been awake the entire time.\n\nBut this Sunday was Rocket's first birthday, and I had an enormous party planned. I had bought an outfit for him weeks before\u2014a deep blue button-down shirt, black pinstriped pants, black leather shoes, and black socks to match.\n\n_Seven hours until the party_ , I thought.\n\n_Maybe I can feel better by then. Maybe I can sleep._\n\nBut the quiver would never let me rest, and I knew it. I considered drinking enough to pass out for an hour or two before the party, but then I would be drunk at the party, though I probably wouldn't wake up anyway. After spun-out days, sleep, when it finally comes, is cavernous.\n\nI had decorations, streamers, and presents. I had Brie and blue cheese and baguettes and figs. _I have it all ready, son. I prepared it all, thinking of you, my boy, and loving you, with your endless blue eyes and curls of strawberry red hair that stick to your forehead when you sweat. (I always say you got the red from Daddy's beard.)_\n\n_I can't do it. I can't show up like this._\n\nI resolved to cancel, then immediately remembered how grandparents and great-grandparents were coming from other towns, and twenty friends. It was too late.\n\n_Here I am again._\n\nSix months before, when I felt myself slipping back into drinking after Rocket's birth, I enrolled in a master's program in English to \"challenge my brain,\" thinking, _Surely, I must be bored. Surely, my vanilla admin job is driving me to drink._\n\nWhen the red wine continued to pour despite rampant critical theory courses and Marxist analyses of lost generation texts, when I looked down and noticed my very own hand pouring that wine, night after night, despite continued daily declarations of _not tonight, not tonight, not tonight,_ the thought came to me: _Janelle, maybe you are an alcoholic._\n\nI thought of my father, newly in recovery. I thought of when we were sure he was going to die from alcoholism. I thought of his brother, my uncle, who did die from it. I thought about how those D.A.R.E. cops always told us alcoholism is genetic.\n\nAnd then I thought, _If I am, so be it_.\n\nBecause by then, the consequences of not drinking were far greater than anything that could have happened from drinking. Internally, that is, because I drank to repair my inner self. The external penalties for my habit were damn near imperceptible in the shadow of the colossal misery that was sobriety. I drank because sobriety was intolerable, and that intolerability arose from within me, slowly from my guts, increasing with every passing sober hour, until I found myself drinking again, only to soothe the wild discomfort. If not the bottle, it seemed a bullet to the brain would be the only viable alternative.\n\nAlcohol was my most reliable friend, offering me with every warm hot kiss that which the rest of the world promised but never delivered: peace and meaning.\n\nI knew this somewhere. I knew I drank to fix the unfixable, and I knew it when my outer life was \"perfect\" and nothing had changed. _Here I am with a good job, a good house, two perfectly good children, physical health, a scintillating life in graduate school, and I still cannot stop drinking._\n\nI imagined my childhood must have really fucked me up. Psychiatry was the obvious answer. I began seeking help to fix my insides, thinking, _If I just get happy, I won't need alcohol anymore._ But on the night I met Ben, the cocaine dealer who delivered straight to our front door, I wasn't wondering what was wrong with me anymore. I was simply buying more.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nMy crying on the morning of Rocket's first birthday was unhinged.\n\n\"What's wrong, Mama?\" Ava asked. She had changed from pajamas into a green Tinkerbell costume with a tulle skirt and jeans underneath. Her eyes were wide with concern beneath unbrushed waves of blonde.\n\n\"Oh, nothing, sweetie,\" I said, but I didn't mask the lie. I was still in jeans. My eyes were set in deep black circles. I said it through gasps and tears.\n\nMac was at work. I tried to imagine him there, wet and muddy, punching the hide off a lamb, handling knives with vibrating hands. It felt like the morning I left him at the college field trip when he tried to smile.\n\n_What kind of fucking people have we become?_\n\nI feared he would die. I feared he would cut himself, or fall asleep in front of the meat saw, or flinch while killing a cow with a shotgun.\n\nI called him, and said words I knew wouldn't do a damn thing. \"Mac, this is insanity. You can't stay. I know you feel like I do. Please come home.\"\n\n\"Alright. I just have to finish cutting this meat.\" I was correct. He was standing next to a meat saw coming down off a three-night cocaine binge, and I realized it had gotten so bad he agreed to come home.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\n_I wanted it to be just right and nice for you, son, the cake I ordered from the fancy bakery, food from the nicest store in town, the recipes I chose a week ago. I wanted it all to come together in this exact moment, and for me to be there, and for all the guests to celebrate you, but instead I am sitting on a couch, shaking but not shaking, reeking of dirt of the internal kind, and wondering if anybody would notice if I just drove away._ _Maybe into that fucking cement lake in front of me._\n\nI stared at the shifting water, smoked another cigarette, and wondered how much money we had stolen to make the last three nights happen, how many checks I had written to myself with money I couldn't cover to put in the ATM machine at three a.m. to get cash out, knowing they would only bounce and be deducted from the same account from which I was trying to pull the cash. _One more bag, just one more bag._\n\nWith renewed strength rising from self-disgust, from a will to never repeat the hell I was then living, I decided not to cancel the party. _I will get through today to make this pain mean something. Right now it all changes. This failure, this coke-addicted drunk fuck of a mother in a suburban home on her son's first birthday. It will not happen in vain._\n\n_This is it. This is the day I learn._\n\n_It's okay, now. It's okay, son._\n\nI meant it. I had the party because I knew it was the end, and I succeeded. Nobody knew, because I smiled and laughed and only collapsed after the last guest had driven away.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nThree weeks later, nine a.m. rolled around on the day Ava was supposed to attend the birthday party of a little girl at her school. I didn't wake up like the day of Rocket's first birthday, because I was already awake. Still awake, still high. The quiver remained.\n\nIt occurred to me we had no gift. I considered telling Ava she couldn't go, but it was the first birthday party she'd ever been invited to, and I couldn't disappoint her. Not again, not now.\n\n\"Hey Ava, let's pick something out of your closet to give to your friend, and I will buy you another one tomorrow. I promise. We will go _tomorrow_. Is that okay? Can we do that?\" My words rushed together in idiotic cocaine excitement.\n\n\"Sure,\" she said. \"That's fine, Mama.\" And she ran up the stairs with her blonde hair bouncing around her, and me, behind, nearly dead weight.\n\n\"You're so awesome! Thank you for being so patient and giving, Ava!\" In her closet, I found a silk rainbow streamer. I grabbed it and thought the girl would like it because they went to a Montessori school and that was a good hippie gift.\n\n\"How about this?\" I asked. \"Can we give her this?\" I held it up and tried to smile.\n\n\"Okay, Mama.\" Ava said. She didn't even look disappointed. She didn't even look at me like I was shoving all my words together or stinking of cigarette smoke or scratching scabs on my shins because I couldn't stop picking.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nAva put on a pink dress with tiny white smocked flowers around the chest while I wrapped the gift and snorted a line in my bedroom before getting Ava into the car and driving to Woodland, a town twenty minutes away. Mac stayed home with Rocket. He was missing work. He did that more often now.\n\nHe had offered to drive, but I didn't trust him. I was as loaded as he was, but I never trusted anybody to drive as carefully as I did when intoxicated. People were idiots. They got swept up in the euphoria. They got carried away in the feeling. They forgot it wasn't real. They forgot that you have to focus on signs, on sober reality\u2014signals of truth\u2014to differentiate between what you see and what's actually happening. Whenever a friend in high school was tripping too far from us on some psychedelic, I'd say, \"Look at the clock. The clock is always sober.\" It was a grounding device. And I thought I was a master at that game.\n\nSo I looked at the clock, double-checked my seatbelt, lights, and mirrors, made sure I had my purse and license, moved my baggie from my wallet to a CD case on the floor. I had to take it with me, because I knew I'd need it before I returned home. I drove deliberately, exactly at the speed limit, focusing three times harder than I normally did, watching the lines and speedometer, studying the cars around me in a routine I knew like air. I hated driving drunk and on drugs, and every subsequent morning I would shudder in shame and horror at what I had done, but I knew in the moment I must minimize risk of swerving or speeding or missing somebody's sudden turn or braking. I refused to turn on the radio. It would interrupt my attention. Ava tried to talk to me, excited about the party, but her voice was like the chattering of a squirrel. In my mind, it was a stream of impossible sound.\n\n\"Honey, please let me focus on driving.\" She quieted down for a moment, then started back up again. I tuned her out the best I could and kept my eyes on the road and clock.\n\nI parked unreasonably far away from the house, put on sunglasses, and walked my daughter to her first birthday party. I was high, half-drunk, reeking of cigarettes, with a stolen gift and a little girl holding my hand, elated, wearing a pink dress and pink Western cowboy boots. I reminded her I would buy another streamer.\n\n\"I know you will, Mama.\" She smiled at me, and for a moment I felt better. She believed I would do it, so I could believe that too.\n\nThe girl's mother invited me in when we arrived at the doorstep, but I mumbled something about an appointment. I told her how sorry I was to miss the party. Then I walked alone back to the car in the relentless sunlight to do another line on the back of the CD case while parked right there on the street. I needed it to get back home. I wondered how I was going to pick up Ava in three hours, but set that aside as a concern of the future.\n\nAs I put the CD case away, I thought of her laughing and playing at the party without her mom, while all the other mothers stood around smiling at their kids' antics and games, and I felt so blackened with my own sin I slammed my fist into the steering wheel and dash until I couldn't anymore. I lit a cigarette and drove, telling myself this had to be the end.\n\n_Please, God, let it be the end._\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\n\"I was not fired. I was placed on a mental health leave.\" That is what I told my friends when they asked why I wasn't working anymore.\n\n\"Oh, I needed to take a semester off to focus on my mental health.\" That is what I told my family when they asked why I wasn't in graduate school anymore.\n\nMy mother moved out of our big house on the lake, and Mac and I were supposed to move out too, but we decided to leave a couple of months after my mother. None of us could afford the big house anymore. It was 2007 and everything was tanking.\n\nTwo weeks after she moved out, my mother knocked on our front door one Saturday morning and told me she was going to take the kids to the park. I knew this was not true because it was seven a.m., raining, and January, but I told her okay because I wanted to go back to bed. And I knew somewhere they were better off without me.\n\nBack in bed, I told myself it would only be a couple of days.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nTwo days later, I reminded myself they would be back soon, but I told my mother, \"I'm just too sick to have the kids, Mom.\"\n\n\"I agree, Janelle.\" She said softly.\n\n\"I just need some time to get better, Mom.\"\n\n\"You know I'll do anything for you.\" The sweetness in her voice was relieving this time. Her unquestioning devotion. Her acceptance. I knew I would get what I wanted that day\u2014wide open space for addiction.\n\nBy \"sick\" I meant \"what my shrinks told me,\" and I had seen many as I sought answers for my inability to quit drinking, as I sought answers for where exactly all my \"potential\" went. _How does a smart, middle-class honors student with a \"good head on her shoulders\" end up unable to quit drinking and pumping herself full of powdered stimulants?_\n\nThat was my question for the professionals, and in response, they told me I had borderline personality disorder (which seemed accurate but is basically incurable, unfortunately for me), bipolar II (when they asked me about mood swings I said, \"Um, yeah. I'm a coke addict,\" but they gave me the diagnosis and anti-psychotics anyway), chronic depression (obviously), and PTSD ( _Oh, come the fuck on, that's just ridiculous_ ).\n\nThe psychiatrist prescribed seven psychotropic medications but never explained the source of trauma that ruined me. Walking out of his office, I felt myself fully armed with the reason for my drinking, drugs, and failure.\n\n_I'm broken_ , I thought. _I'm a broken insane person. It's not my fault. I'm self-medicating._\n\nNobody mentioned I might just be an alcoholic.\n\nLamictal. Klonopin. Seroquel. Neurontin. Effexor. Zoloft. Ambien. I took them all, mostly. I took them all, usually. I often took the Ambien and always the Klonopin. ( _It's not my fault. I have mental illnesses._ )\n\nThe therapists fixated on events of my childhood, particularly those of a sexual nature. Another one spoke of my father's absence. During our next session, we discussed how my mother and I had an \"unstable\" relationship that left my personhood ill-defined. I never knew I was so damaged by those things. _But now that you mention it, doc, I do feel damaged._ I especially felt damaged when people came at me with criticisms of the way I was living.\n\n_If what happened to me had happened to you, you'd be living this way, too,_ I'd think.\n\n_Just try to tell me to clean up my act again. Just_ try _to fucking tell me._\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nMac and I began frequenting a tiny, dark, terrifying hovel belonging to a man I called Charlie, although that was not his name. When we arrived, he had recently spray-painted the walls of his kitchen with unrelated German words. His girlfriend was unimpressed. There was always a large selection of people there, none of whom we knew. I wasn't even entirely sure why _we_ were there, but we always stayed awhile, often talking to half-naked people on a bed.\n\nThe children were still with my mother. I reiterated to Charlie and the half-naked people how very sick I was, and how beautiful and smart my children were. They listened, spellbound, warm in cocaine compassion.\n\nOne night after returning from Charlie's, in the kitchen of our home, I couldn't stop shaking my head and saying strange things. I gently tapped my head against the wall. By hour one, Mac was weeping, but I couldn't stop the tapping.\n\n\"Janelle, please don't stay like this. Please come back. Please be okay,\" I heard him talking. His voice was slowed down and I thought I could see the sound waves. His mouth and the sound were not lining up, so I merely observed him.\n\nI stood by the dining table in the corner of the kitchen in the early morning light, and I saw him looking into my face. I knew he was seeing me insane, and I wanted to be better for him, but I could not.\n\n\"Janelle,\" he said with his hands on my face. \"You're talking nonsense.\"\n\nI was speaking in tongues, my mouth moving against my will. As he paced and begged, I faced the corner of the wall and began hitting my head harder and talking, and then I was sitting in a kitchen chair I had towed to the middle of the garage, smoking. He sat behind me with tears and concern, trying to give me space. Our border collie whined from the crate. Mac let the dog out, fed him his breakfast, and, I imagine, patted him on the head. He returned, handed me another smoke, and crouched down to watch me. Right in front of me. I saw terror. In his big brown eyes I saw terror. He watched me silently and waited.\n\nOver time, I moved a little closer to him, to the ground, spoke in a language the people understand.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\n_I was not fired. I was placed on mental health leave._\n\nFrom our motel in Sacramento, Mac suggested we go home. \"It's a half-mile away, Janelle. We can't afford to stay here.\" He was puffy-faced and had put on a few pounds. He wore a huge camo jacket with pockets everywhere. We had bought it two years before at an army surplus store. He hid liquor bottles in it when he returned to our motel room from the grocery store. He believed they should be hidden, even from strangers, and even though they were legal.\n\n\"No, we can't go home. Somebody will find us.\"\n\n\"Who, Janelle? Who will find us?\"\n\n_We just need to stay here in this motel room with towels shoved under the door because I think I see feet. I'm 90 percent sure I see feet. Those are definitely feet. How do you not see them?_\n\n\"Fine, we can run home for clothes,\" I said. \"I can do it. I'll do it. I'll run home for clothes. I can do it. Don't come with me. I want to go alone.\" I saw him as a liability. If we had to do something as dangerous as drive across town and enter our home, I needed to do it myself. I was the only one I trusted.\n\nBack in our house, the big one on the lake where we had brought Rocketship Rock-On home in his blue pastel smocked bubble, I decided we could stay for a few days, so I called Ben, the cocaine-delivery guy, and told him we had relocated. He brought me more.\n\nBut there was too much blood in my nose to do another line and my heart was doing something strange and I wasn't entirely sure I could feel my feet, so I asked Mac to Google \"heart attack from cocaine.\" He yelled from the other room, \"Does your chest hurt?\"\n\nI could tell by his voice he was scared, and if he was scared, he might block me from doing more drugs, so I yelled, \"No,\" and then he yelled, \"Are your fingers tingling?\"\n\nAnd I didn't think so, so I yelled back, \"No, baby!\" And at first I enjoyed the \"possibly overdosing\" attention, but then it turned on me. I just wanted to do more, so I told him \"never mind\" and asked him to come back and told him all the racing heartbeats were gone.\n\n_I'm okay. Bring me a straw and the baggie after I rinse my nose to wash out the blood. Bring it to me on the couch because I cannot stand. Bring me a cocktail to slow my heart. Tilt the straw because I cannot lift my head. Bring me my pills because I'm getting dizzy. If I don't take the Effexor I get very dizzy. Has it been two days already?_\n\nI staggered up the stairs after the Effexor kicked in and I could walk again to do a line off our wall mirror, which was lying flat on my bed now. When I got to the top stair and turned toward my bedroom, I heard it: \"You are going to die if you do another line.\" I thought it was God. No, I knew it was God, and I knew it was true. It was a voice that rose clear and clean from the thick mud in my mind. It boomed.\n\nIt roared, and when it came, I knew it was not from me, and I didn't want to die.\n**8**\n\n# **Nothing Left to Hide Now**\n\nThat morning, instead of walking into the bedroom, I turned around and went back downstairs, leaving half of our last baggie of cocaine untouched. This was an act I had never accomplished before that very moment. I had voluntarily faced the beginnings of detox. I knew then it must have been God.\n\n\"I'm done, Mac. I'm going to die if I do more,\" I said. I paced the kitchen and then filled a beer stein with Captain Morgan, capping it off with flat Coke, readying myself for the feverish craving already crawling up the floor into my feet. It would get worse before it got better, but I had endured the withdrawal before. I had done it countless times before.\n\nBut this time, I had no desire to continue. _I could not continue_. I recoiled from the drug as if it were a food that had just poisoned me. My body rejected it on a visceral level.\n\nMac was still wearing his camouflage jacket, after all these days, and in our warm house. His black curls were wild, flat on one side, and his eyes were deep in amused skepticism.\n\n\"You don't have to stop, Mac. I don't care. Finish the bag. It's right upstairs.\"\n\n\"No, it's cool. I don't need more.\"\n\n_Weirdo_ , I thought.\n\nHe approached me in a motion I feared preceded a hug, a touch I knew would set my skin burning hotter than it already burned. He often wanted to touch me when all I wanted was to disappear into the black alone\u2014the black of cocaine, of alcohol, of sleep. It didn't matter what it was, I simply did not want him close. I wanted him to get the hell away from me until I felt some control again.\n\n\"I have to call my mom,\" I said, sidestepping him and grabbing cigarettes and the house phone on my way to the backyard. I looked out over the fake lake and then squinted at the pulsating numbers on the phone, knowing my eyes were amphetamine eyes. I pressed each number with stupidly measured focus. She answered immediately.\n\n\"Hey, Mom,\" I said, cracked.\n\n\"Hi, Janelle.\" Her voice was thick with worry, a tone I would have called \"overly dramatic.\"\n\n\"I need help. You have got to help me. I'm addicted to cocaine.\"\n\nI thought she would cry or yell or pass out in shattering surprise, but she said, \"I've been waiting for this call.\"\n\n_Strange,_ I thought, _since_ _I had been so sly._\n\n\"I'll be right there,\" she said. \"Do not move.\" She arrived thirty minutes later with a furrowed brow and stood in the kitchen looking at Mac and me, in the awkward awareness of a lie just brought to the surface. _Nothing left to hide now_ , so I took huge early-morning swigs from my stein and smoked the cigarettes I used to hide from her.\n\nI fell finally into a deep sleep, and that evening, when I could sit still again, I sat on the couch with my laptop and began searching for the rehab that would cure me. Mac and my mother looked at me with irritating severity from across the living room.\n\n\"God, why are you two so serious? None of this is that big of a deal.\" I wished they'd both settle down.\n\n\"Not a big deal?\" My mother appeared incredulous. \"You just told us you were about to die from cocaine.\"\n\n\"I know, but\u2014whatever. You guys are making me nervous. I don't know why everybody's gotta be so fucking dramatic.\"\n\n\"Why don't you just find a rehab you like?\" My mother looked at Mac for support, but he looked at me, and I typed \"Northern California rehabs\" into Google.\n\nI had two stipulations for a treatment center: First, it couldn't be part of that coffee-drinking cult. Second, it couldn't be one of those God places. It was quite thoughtful of God to speak to me in a mental lightning bolt, but I had no need for a relationship with the man. _Besides,_ _I had one with Him once, and look where that got me._\n\nI found a rehab near the ocean in Northern California among the redwoods and hippies. It boasted science-based therapy, and on our way there the very next evening (the intake specialist told my mother, \"Come now before she changes her mind\"), Mac and I stopped at Nordstrom and one of those import stores where white people buy drapes, couches, Italian sodas, and small statues of Ganesh.\n\nAt Nordstrom, I bought a pair of leather tennis shoes, perhaps as some sort of consolation prize, or because I had no closed-toed shoes even though it was March and had been raining for weeks. Every day, I wore a long skirt and flip-flops, possibly with a sweatshirt, mostly due to all the weight I gained after starting the medications that were supposed to heal me but only made me fat.\n\nAt the import store, we bought a silk and cotton blanket with elephants embroidered along the edges to decorate the potentially drab rehab bed ( _nobody wants that!_ ) and a tiny Buddha statue, to represent my new life of spiritual greatness. I packed a journal to record my transformation, pictures of Ava, Rocket, and Mac, a copy of Emily Dickinson's collected poetry, pajamas, and my flowing, ripped skirts.\n\nSure, I had lost my job, children, dignity, health, mind, and respect as an unfit drug-addicted mother, and was on my way to an institution hoping to save me from myself, but what occurred to me was that I needed $80 Nikes and a throw blanket.\n\nMac and I drove quietly through the rain. We were headed for the coast again, but for different reasons. This time we sat in a bath of misery and hope rather than excitement, a sort of determined agony that comes when you've reached the end of a long catastrophe, or think you have\u2014and it all feels urgent and heavy and new. We listened to live Grateful Dead, the same songs my father sent me on cassette when I was a little girl, which I replayed for hours on my boom box. I wondered if they allowed music in rehab. _I should have brought some_ , I thought. If I were to bring music, I would have brought the bands I grew up on: the Rolling Stones, the Dead, Bob Dylan, and Neil Young. Some Janis Joplin, perhaps.\n\nWhen \"Ripple\" came on, I glanced at Mac and thought about him\u2014my old friend sitting there, driving me through the rain\u2014and how it had been a long time since I watched him chase unruly chickens, since we shot pool in dive bars, since M-Y-Q and the almost homeless man with the kitten who ate brewer's yeast.\n\nWhen Jerry sang, \"If your cup is full, may it be again...,\" I thought, _Alright, is this going to be when my cup gets full again?_ It was almost too sad to think about, his tunes, his black-tar humanity. I wished we had gone in the daylight. My mind drifted to the goodbye I would soon face, and the time I said goodbye to Mac that Saturday morning while he stumbled onto that goddamn bus with all those goddamn bright-eyed students, and how we were so much sicker now. I had thought we couldn't possibly get worse than that day, and yet, _here we are._\n\n_Well, here_ I _am_. I suspected it was mostly me.\n\n\"I can't believe the shit we've done, Mac,\" I said. \"What happened to us?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" he shrugged. I wished he'd say more, but he never said more. If I had looked harder at his eyes I probably would have seen they were damp with tears.\n\n\"I don't want to live that way again,\" I said.\n\n\"Me either.\" He smiled at me while I kicked off my shoes and reclined the seat, put my feet on the dash, and lit a cigarette. We had traveled the road to hell, but we had done it together.\n\nI heard Jerry sing \"If I knew the way, I would take you home,\" and I had to hear it again, because I've always thought it was the most beautiful lyric ever written. How simple the thought, how true, to want to lead with love, back home, into safety, but having no idea where to even begin.\n\nI reached down and skipped the song back.\n\nMac was the only one who knew the whole truth, of me, of my life. Insane nights in motel rooms. Beating heads. Speaking in tongues. Broken tears and the homeless guy who asked us if we would please take him back to his spot under the overpass. \"You frighten me,\" he had said. That one night when Mac knelt for hours naked in the bedroom doorway, to \"guard\" us from intruders (in our minds). He explained, \"Well, if someone opens the door, they'll see me here and turn around.\" I laughed, telling him it was a really shit plan.\n\nSince the day we met seven years before, we had never spent more than a few days apart. Even when I lived alone in that 1940s house, we always somehow ended up back in each other's arms. We were friends, I guess. We were always good friends.\n\nBeginning that night, I would live thirty days without my friend, and my beautiful Ava, and my baby Rocket.\n\nMy boy. My sweet boy who was going to fix me up. The pregnancy that was going to straighten me out for good. I thought about the day I found out I was pregnant, the day I found out he was a boy, the day I brought him home. I thought of the ringlets that bounced under his chin, the way his knuckles dimpled and his tiny perfect hands held dolls and hammers in that endless toddler fascination, and I thought about his silence. He barely said a word, except \"no\" and \"mama.\" He was so quiet, a hushed angel with giant blue eyes who toddled around, smiled, climbed things, cuddled, and laughed, until he was gone. I thought of the morning my mother took them and the way I let them go.\n\n_I am here now. It won't be in vain._\n\nI couldn't stop looking at Mac while we drove, as if I wanted to burn his image into my mind. I wondered if I should say something, but I couldn't think of anything, so I kept staring until he smiled again, his face small and childlike with the same heavy yearning eyes, offering still a thousand years of love and adoration. I looked away, partly in disgust, in that old familiar repulsion, because he loved me unquestioningly. I threw my weight against him because I had nowhere to lean, because he was there and I loved him, but why did he stay with me? I thought it was all he could do, all he knew how to do, some weakness, some sad routine he developed over the years because he couldn't find a better one.\n\nI didn't think it was a choice he'd made, or some gift, some beautiful generosity of spirit he was born with. It seemed more like blind devotion\u2014weak and frail\u2014to love a woman like me.\n\nYet I hated myself for abusing his love. I wanted him to stand up to me. I wanted him to fight me. I wanted him to shove me back or scream in my face or walk out or fuck somebody else. Anything. But the second I thought he was pushing back, or walking away, I panicked and begged him not to leave. In therapy, they told me this was \"borderline.\"\n\nBut he never did any of that. He simply stuck around and asked me to stay too. He stuck around and drank and took drugs with me even though he almost always responded to my first request with: \"No, this is a bad idea,\" and \"Janelle, let's just go home.\" He stuck around while I begged and pleaded for one more baggie even though the night had already gone horribly sour, and we were stuck in a stranger's house downtown with blabbering idiots on a four-day drug run. He stuck around the next day while I paced the house, barefoot in a ripped skirt over bleeding scabs, and he stuck around when I told him I hated him and that he had ruined my life. He stuck around even when our children were gone. He stuck around waiting. For me to get healed.\n\n\"I'm going to miss you, Mac.\" I closed my eyes when I said it and looked away.\n\n\"Don't cheat on me in rehab,\" he said, smirking.\n\n\"Who the fuck would I cheat on you with?\"\n\n\"I don't know. Some dude.\" His jealousy made me smile.\n\n\"I love you,\" I said. \"Everything is going to change, Mac. It has to.\"\n\n\"I know, Janelle. Okay,\" he said, but I wondered if he believed me.\n\n\"If I knew the way, I would take you home,\" Mac sang along this time, not mentioning that I had started the song over, to hear that line again.\n\nI wanted to hear Jerry sing it. And I wanted to believe him.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nIn the rehab parking lot under the drizzly rain, I refused to cry. Instead, I held on to Mac too long. He felt giant in my arms, like pure rock warmth, and I couldn't believe I was leaving him. I wondered if I had even noticed that warmth before.\n\nI regretted coming to this place immediately. I wanted to get back in the car and head out with Mac, anywhere. Like we used to.\n\nAlmost as if he knew I was about to bolt, a lively redheaded man in his early twenties came bouncing out the front door to retrieve me. He shook our hands with the enthusiasm of zealots trying to sell religion on a doorstep, then merrily picked up my bags. Mac stood shifting back and forth, looking at me from under his downturned face, watching, waiting for a cue how to behave.\n\nI mumbled an encouraging platitude and realized it was time, so Mac and I hugged again and kissed. I watched him back out of the parking spot, waving to me out the window. My guts turned into lonely disgust, as if the reality of my life were unfolding in that moment, when the last of my family drove down a hill without me.\n\nThe bouncing man reappeared, and I observed that he was wearing cargo shorts and flip-flops. He appeared too young to be escorting people into their new lives. I seriously doubted his qualifications and wished he'd talk less\u2014or better yet, stop talking entirely. Nothing is more nauseating to a drug addict facing clean living than a joyful person already there.\n\nTo make matters worse, his name was Brent. _Of course it fucking is_ , I thought. _I bet you also drink soy lattes and wear those shoes that look like feet._ I wondered if I was going to have to see him every day, and, if so, whether or not anybody would notice if I killed him.\n\nOnce inside, he led me to a small room for the beginning of the \"intake process,\" which involved him and some equally elated young woman relieving me of my cell phone and face toner (it had alcohol in it and could be consumed) and requesting that I get naked to make sure I didn't have any drugs duct-taped to my body. Luckily, only the woman was there for the strip-down part. I wondered if she was also going to make me bend over and cough to check my asshole for heroin. I had seen that in the movies.\n\n_Jesus, these people are serious. Who the fuck would drink face toner?_ I wondered if perhaps I wasn't as sick as I formerly imagined.\n\nAfter the body search, which did not involve my anal cavity, they led me to the office of a somber man with white hair who appeared to be in his fifties. He wore a striped, collared short-sleeved shirt and khakis. His desk and office seemed very official, with diplomas hanging on the wall in frames and tasteful plants by the window. When he said hello and began perusing a file, he struck me as a middle-management type, the kind of person who was always trying to prove his worth. He asked about when I had last used drugs, which medications I was on, and whether or not I was having suicidal thoughts.\n\nThough he smiled incessantly, the way he spoke to me\u2014slowly, skeptically, with a touch of condescension\u2014reminded me of being a receptionist, of being considered so irrelevant you disappear.\n\n\"Sign here,\" he said. \"And give Brent your purse so he can look through it.\" I handed it over.\n\n\"Good, now Linda will show you to the house.\"\n\n\"Oh, we don't sleep somewhere here?\" I asked, looking around. I thought the place looked pretty homey.\n\n\"No, this is where you'll come each day for group.\"\n\nI had no idea what \"group\" was, but it sounded awful. Like the kind of place where one is expected to \"process feelings.\"\n\n\"Sounds good,\" I said, and smiled, wondering if it was possible to get released on good behavior.\n\nLinda was a woman in her forties with brown wavy hair and several pieces of turquoise and silver jewelry scattered across her ears, neck, and arms. By the time she arrived, I was already bored and impatient to get to the self-improvement portion of the adventure\u2014the part where they fixed me. The part where they showed me how to quit abusing drugs and alcohol so I could get my life back. The part where I no longer _wanted_ the drugs and alcohol because I was healed. The part where I got happy. Or, if they couldn't teach me all that, perhaps they could at least tell me how to stop buying eight-balls of cocaine on a Tuesday.\n\n_Or any time, really. I guess no cocaine at all is the thing we're shooting for now._\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nLinda drove me down the road a half mile or so, and slowed down in front of a house right in the middle of a remarkably standard neighborhood, among the homes of the regular people. We pulled into the garage and walked into a kitchen smelling of bleach. It had brown tile floors and immaculate counters, and I noticed on the wall by the pantry a large bulletin board with laminated rules, schedules, names, and numbers. I stopped to read them, but Linda said, \"Oh, you have all that information in your packet,\" and I remembered I had a folder in my hand.\n\nMy room was toward the back of the house, down a long hallway with gray carpet, and as I walked by other bedrooms, I peeked inside hoping to catch a glimpse of some shivering junkie, but they were all empty.\n\n\"Everyone is at the bonfire tonight!\" she announced.\n\n\"Bonfire? That sounds fun,\" I lied.\n\n\"It is. It's really fun. There are a lot of fun things you can do in sobriety,\" which was the exact moment I decided never to listen to anything she said again. But I smiled anyway and said, \"Yes! Looking forward to that.\"\n\nMy room was plain and comfortable, with two twin beds against one wall, a nightstand for each, and a dresser at the foot of each bed. The comforters were thin like motel bedspreads, but the pillows were big and fluffy. Mall art hung on the walls\u2014watercolor posters with egrets and oceans and rivers, framed in blue pressboard.\n\nThe second bed was empty, but Linda let me know it would be filled soon. I said a quick prayer that she was mistaken.\n\nLooking around the room, I missed Mac. I missed my babies. It was strange to be so fully alone, in a new place around new people who knew nothing of me, people who would judge me only for the way I presented myself. I grew exhausted just thinking about it.\n\nI folded my red silk blanket on the foot of my bed and missed Mac even more, remembering how Brent had confiscated my phone when he inspected my purse.\n\n\"You can use the pay phone in the kitchen!\" Brent had said, as if he were announcing the most thrilling of news.\n\n\"That sounds fun,\" I said, thinking how I could never understand perkiness as a personality trait. It just seemed so damn unnecessary.\n\nSo I couldn't hear Mac's voice. I set Emily Dickinson on the nightstand and Buddha on the dresser next to my journal and pictures. I unloaded my clothes into the drawers, noticing that some of the shirts and skirts weren't even clean. I had packed in a hurry and left in such a rush, I never said goodbye to the kids.\n\nI hadn't seen them for a week, since before the final coke run, and I knew they were safe with my mother, but I couldn't shake the feeling that I shouldn't be in this place. I didn't belong here.\n\n_How do I explain to these people that I am a mother, not a drug addict?_ I picked up a picture of Ava and Rocket on Mother's Day the year before. Ava was sitting on a couch looking up at the camera, wearing a navy and white linen dress. She had pigtails in her hair and they were perfect, no lumps. Rocket sat on her lap, a baby of eight months\u2014my favorite age, when they are fat and giggly but still can't walk. He grinned widely in a green jumper with smocking and embroidered rabbits across the chest, his hair an ineffable strawberry blond. I felt sick to my stomach.\n\nRocket was now seventeen months old and still not fully weaned. Although he had been away from me for two months, and my milk was gone, every time I visited him he wanted to nurse. But he was used to rejection, used to replacements, used to his mother's body as a site of toxicity. On many nights in our big house, I had to hide. I had to not comfort him when he woke up crying. I had to rely on Mac and my mother. A few times I went upstairs anyway, and, when I sobered up, wanted to die. Every time I sobered up, I wanted to die. Because _what kind of trash..._\n\nAnd yet, I never wanted to give up on us entirely. On me, I suppose. On my ability to be a good, nursing mother. _Good mothers breastfeed. Tomorrow I will be different._\n\nAnd now, now I would be gone thirty more days.\n\n_He doesn't even know where I went._\n\nI knew he would stop trying to nurse by the time I returned. _It's okay. I had no business doing that anyway._ _Poisoned. The most beautiful act, I poisoned._\n\nI threw the pictures in the drawer and walked out of the room to have a smoke in the backyard.\n\nOn my way back, I reviewed the house rules in the kitchen: when they would give us meds, what we could eat, where we could go, what would happen if we shot up. I wished the other addicts were there so I could have a distraction from the swirling anxiety in my brain.\n\nFrom my bed that night, I heard the housemates roll in, their laughing and cheerful talking and shouts of \"good night,\" and when it all quieted down, I got up and locked my door.\n**9**\n\n# **Who's the Sickest in the Room?**\n\nOn my first morning in treatment, I woke early, got dressed, and put on makeup, which I hadn't done in weeks. I was the last person to climb into the van, nodding and mumbling quick hellos to the other clients. The man next to me looked about twenty, and I could hear his music rattling out of his headphones. I liked him already. He didn't want to talk either. Back at the main building, we filed into a large conference room and found seats around a huge oak table. We sipped coffee and stacked our journals, pens, and cigarettes alongside us.\n\nNed, a therapist and substance abuse counselor, rose in front of the room and handed out worksheets. He was about fifty years old, short, with a square jaw and gray hair. He obviously exercised on a regular basis\u2014and probably outdoors too, for the added mental benefit of sunshine. To me, he looked like some sort of Herculean god of health. His body was firm, muscular, and rationally tanned. I hadn't seen a human like him in a long time. His clothes fit perfectly, and he even wore a belt that matched his shoes. His eyes were bright and clear, his hair strategically disheveled, just enough to make him accessible\u2014an everyday, chilled-out California bicyclist guy.\n\nWhile I constructed a yuppie past for him, he told us how he had spent ten years on the streets of Los Angeles shooting cocaine and drinking. My head cocked to one side while I contemplated whether or not to believe him. His details seemed accurate. _Alright_ , I thought, _he appears to_ _know things._ He explained how he was twenty years sober and a cognitive behavioral therapist. He didn't believe in God and wasn't sober through anonymous meetings. I liked him more than before.\n\nNed stood in stark contrast to the mostly white, twenty-something misfits in front of him, fumbling, fidgeting, and analyzing each another. The new arrivals were red-faced and pale, with big black circles under their eyes. The addicts completing their thirty days were bright-eyed, high-fiving the staff, bouncing like the teenagers I knew in high school whose confidence I wished I could steal and make my own.\n\nLooking around the table, I noticed we were all either fat or emaciated. Drowning in clothes or barely wearing them. We had our hoods up and chins down or our chests puffed out. Our eyes darted around the room or stared unflinchingly at a scratch on the table, a spot chosen as to avoid eye contact. _We are the human embodiments of excess,_ I thought.\n\nI watched a quick-talking, black-haired man with a nose ring and tattoos covering his arms and neck flirt with the girl next to him. He had been in the rehab twenty-five days and clearly believed himself healed. She had arrived that morning. I watched in disgust at his opportunism\u2014 _quick, get the sad new addict before she cleans up enough to realize you are dull and slimy_. Ten seconds later, I felt a touch of jealousy that nobody was flirting with me. I recalled Mac's words, \"Don't cheat on me in rehab.\"\n\n_None of these assholes are going to stay sober_ , I thought. But I would. I wanted it more than them.\n\n\"This chart outlines the Stages of Relapse,\" Ned said. \"It shows what happens when an addict starts using again after a period of abstinence.\" He looked down at the paper, his page highlighted with notes everywhere, and I followed his lead, scanning the page, picking up my pen and underlining words like \"drug glorification,\" \"negative emotions,\" \"coping skills,\" \"loss of daily structure,\" \"social isolation,\" \"triggers,\" and \"problematic thinking.\"\n\n_Oh_ , I thought. _I don't have that. My thinking is just fine._\n\nI took notes, underlined important concepts. _So, rehab is like school_ , I thought. _Perfect._\n\nAfter defining each term, Ned asked us to go around the room and explain our most recent relapse. A tiny dark-haired woman named Danny with librarian glasses and Sailor Jerry tattoos on her forearms spoke first: \"I moved back to Portland, got a job, but one day after work, I went to a bar for happy hour. I just went for a beer. But there were old friends there, and they offered me a hit, so I took it, and nearly overdosed. I was high for two more years.\"\n\nNed paused, smiling, and asked, \"Why did you go to the bar? Why did you go back to the place you knew would trigger you?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I wanted a beer,\" she said.\n\n\"But you ended up shooting heroin,\" he said, framing the question as a statement.\n\n\"Yes. In the bathroom.\"\n\n\"You weren't there for a beer,\" responded Ned. \"You were there for something else.\"\n\n\"Okay.\" The woman narrowed her brow. She had no idea what the hell he was talking about and neither did I. _I would go for a beer too, Ned. You go for a beer and shit happens, Ned._ I wondered if Ned was lying about the whole ex-addict thing.\n\n_What kind of addict doesn't understand stopping by for a quick drink only to find yourself two hours later doing hard drugs in a bathroom stall?_\n\nSitting next to the junkie was Shelly. Shelly had bleached, frizzy blonde hair with black roots that fell into a deep V down her back. She was impossibly thin and wearing huge gold earrings and tight jeans. She had no visible muscle. Her bones held pockets of waggling skin, like silk draped over a stick. I noticed her forearms were dotted with scars and scratches. She began explaining: \"I was doing so great. I was working and back with my family and everything was going so great, but then my mom died, and I found out my husband was fucking around with his ex\u2014the mother of his kids, who I've raised since day one\u2014because that woman is a useless bitch, never given us a damn penny, and her kids? You know what? They call me Mama. They've always called me Mama. Do they call her Mama? No, cause she's not there. Who went to their kindergarten graduation? Me. They aren't even my kids. And when the oldest had pneumonia, who took him to the doctor? Me...\"\n\nIt was then I realized we had a tweaker on our hands, and I glanced at Ned to see if he was going to shut the chattering woman up anytime soon. He merely gazed at her compassionately, which felt to me like an underhanded insult, as if he were trying to say I was an asshole.\n\nShe continued, \"So I find out my old man is fucking around with her and you know how I found out? She told me. She just showed up at my work one day and told me she and him had been screwing around for months. And she's pregnant again, but I don't believe it's his baby. And then I find out I'm pregnant too. But I know it's his baby. So here I am, pregnant, and I was so sad and angry, so one night I scored some dope\u2014\"\n\nAt the word \"dope,\" I hit my breaking point and rolled my eyes, because she wasn't a junkie, and \"dope\" is heroin. She was trying to sound as hard as the junkie, and it infuriated me. _Everyone knows you're smoking rocks in a barn, lady._ She probably didn't even shoot up.\n\nShe wrapped up her inane diatribe with the words \"and then I was off and running,\" which hit my ears like somebody eating potato chips with her mouth open. _Why the hell say things like \"off and running\"?_ I wondered how she could afford this place, and if, perhaps, they offer government subsidies for rehab. I made a mental note to avoid Shelly for the next thirty days and the rest of my life.\n\nThe next speaker looked vaguely promising. She was clean and less jumpy. Her name was Shannon, and she reminded me of the mothers in my suburban neighborhood. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt with the words \"Lake Tahoe\" on the front.\n\nHer face contorted into a pained expression while she said, \"When my two-year-old pretended there was wine in his sippy cup, I knew I couldn't drink any more. I saw right then what my life had become.\" She looked at her feet, as if that were the saddest image she'd ever conjured.\n\nI suppressed another eye roll, thinking, _Oh, did you lose your Mercedes-Benz too?_ I wished I could say it out loud, but I couldn't (not yet at least), so I tried killing her with my eyes. _Your kid pretended to drink wine out of a sippy cup and you check yourself into rehab? My God, did you even get a hangover once?_\n\nIt occurred to me that I was going to spend every day for the next thirty days with this horrific conglomerate of humans, and I had no idea how I would survive it. I hated everyone in the room except the dude with the scruffy half-beard who refused to remove his headphones.\n\nShannon was obviously the healthiest person in the room\u2014with her bobbed hair and polished nails and rampant sanity. _What a loser._ I considered letting Ned know he should probably send her home. But he nodded encouragingly at her while she explained how her husband had been sleeping in the guest room for six months, and I returned to wondering if Ned was ever a drug addict at all.\n\nHarvey, a red-faced man in his sixties wearing a button-down plaid shirt and blue jeans, began: \"I have never been able to quit drinking for long. I made it six months after my baby son died from crib death and I was out drinking when it happened, but I don't know. I always start again. I've never done a drug and I still own a little company, but I can barely show up to work anymore, and my wife and kids are gone, but I think this time it's going to be different. I think for sure\u2014I mean this is my fourth time in rehab.\" He forced a small, sad smile.\n\nI was bored just thinking about him, and decided he must have some intellectual deficiency. He went to rehab four times just on booze? _How do you get taken down by alcohol alone, man?_\n\nHe kept speaking as Ned asked him questions, but I had ceased listening because I knew I was next and needed to figure out what sort of first impression I was going to make to the group. _Do I go quiet and reserved? Do I go loud and funny? Do I hold my shocking story close or lay it on them right now?_\n\n\"Why did you relapse?\" Ned asked me with a smile.\n\n\"This is my first time in rehab, so I don't think I've done that,\" I said, feeling immediately embarrassed.\n\nNed sat down, as if settling in for the long haul. \"A relapse doesn't just follow treatment. It's any time you start drinking again after a period of sobriety, after really trying to stay sober.\"\n\n\"Well, I do that with alcohol every day.\" I laughed.\n\n\"Right,\" Ned said. \"But have you ever been sober for a long period, then started using again?\"\n\nI thought about the way I _knew_ Rocket was going to turn me into a PTA mother but instead I ended up doing blow in the bathroom. \"Yeah, I guess I did that with cocaine after my son's birth. I was sure I'd never use it again, and then I did after a long time.\"\n\nNed looked at me, waiting for me to continue, but I had nothing to add, so I resorted to honesty, saying, \"But I don't know why I did it.\" I looked away from his face.\n\n\"Do you mind sharing the circumstances?\" I flinched, because I hated when people said heartfelt words like \"sharing.\" It made me uneasy.\n\n\"I was nursing my newborn son and wanted a beer, so I had one\u2014a really yeasty one\u2014because it helps with milk production. That was what I told myself: 'It helps with milk.' And everything was fine for a few months. I even started grad school. I only drank beer and wine, but as my son got older, and I could leave him with my mom, my husband and I started going to bars again, and one night I met a guy who would bring blow to our house, so I bought an eight-ball from him, and then every time I drank I wanted cocaine.\"\n\n\"So your relapse started with a beer?\"\n\n\"I guess, but beer wasn't my problem. Cocaine is what always takes me down.\"\n\n\"Sounds to me like it was that first beer that took you down.\" Ned didn't smile this time, but instead leaned toward me and looked right in my eyes, and I decided for sure he was not a nice man. Once again, I had no idea what he was talking about.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nAfter lunch, we gathered in a large room for our first \"group therapy\" session, or \"group\" for short, where we all sat in a circle and took turns speaking of \"how we're doing,\" with or without a Native American talking stick. In addition to \"processing\" and creating \"relapse prevention plans,\" I learned we were defining and cementing our own special disaster hierarchy.\n\nNobody was in that place because life was spinning out of control in success. No, we were there because we were failing, for whatever reason, and probably miserably. And yet, every one of our egos remained miraculously intact. But since we couldn't battle each other for top position of highest achiever or smartest\u2014clearly, that ship had sailed\u2014we focused instead on a one-upping contest I liked to call \"Who's the sickest in the room?\"\n\nIn rehab, we fought for the bottom. We shuffled and scooted for the lowest rung. Everybody in that place believed he or she was the most desperate case: the most addicted, the most fucked-up, the most shocking. We wore our catastrophe like shimmering medals.\n\nThe heroin addicts were royalty\u2014not only because sticking a needle in your vein is terrifying, but also because shooting heroin has that screw-it-all suicide vibe that most of us found \"just too far.\" I would watch Danny like a character out of _Trainspotting_. __ She and the other junkies had a sort of stoic, matter-of-fact approach to addiction that awed the rest of us. When Danny spoke, we stopped muttering to neighbors and listened, in deep regard. I thought I was hard, very tough, but soon realized I hadn't done \"addiction\" until I'd lived like a junkie. Everyone's just trying to keep them from dying and off the streets, to \"reduce harm.\"\n\nHeroin is the most fucked-up drug to be fucked up on, but the meth addicts never stopped talking about theirs. Shelly and her gang called themselves \"dope fiends\" while the rest of us looked at them and thought, _Oh, come on. You're just another white trash methhead._\n\nThe goddamn tweakers. They walked into morning art therapy all pockmarked, toothless, and talking talking talking, with wiry, frizzy hair and perpetually black-smeared eyeliner, telling us how they lived in a hollowed-out redwood with their baby daddy and two kids, turning tricks in the back of a van and dismantling microwaves in their free time until CPS closed the adoption case on the first six kids they lost but now they are _going to change for sure!_\n\nI would look at them and think, _Bitch, you can't even form a sentence. What do you know about getting well? Maybe stop smoking battery acid and see how that goes._\n\nAnd then I would lean back in sweet superiority because I always chose cocaine, the rich man's drug, and hated meth, the white trash drug. Admittedly, I had tried meth once with Mac in some man's converted garage, because there was nothing else available. I felt like I had consumed ninety million cups of coffee and lit my brain on fire: a lot of action, no thought. I could not find the fun there. I wanted my brain to think excellent, comforting things, at least for a few seconds until it started wailing about the next line, or, even worse, grappling with the inevitable end of the line.\n\nI had always hated tweakers. First, they never shut up. Second, they were dumb. Whether they started dumb or became dumb on account of all the cold medicine they smoked was a mystery, but the result was the same. Third, they hurt people. In the news and among my addict friends, I would hear stories of what the tweakers had done. I heard about one near my town who passed out alongside a river in winter with her baby tucked next to her, a baby wearing nothing but a cotton shirt and wet diaper, until the baby froze to death. I read about another one spinning out for six days and raping a nine-year-old girl while the girl's mother smoked meth in the garage.\n\nTo me, tweakers were the addicts without standards, the druggies without a single code of basic decency. If we were all Mafia members, meth addicts were the mob bosses who killed wives and children. The rest of us were Don Corleone.\n\nUpon returning to my room after that first day, I met my new roommate, Alice, a woman in her fifties who I imagined had been smoking cigarettes for thirty-five years. She looked seventy-five, with deep lines around her jaw, which jerked to one side or the other at the end of sentences, and eyes beneath drooping lids\u2014eyes that darted arbitrarily from one spot to the next. Her smile revealed missing teeth on the upper right and left side of her mouth and one missing tooth on the bottom. Her gums were yellowed.\n\n_Meth mouth_ , I thought.\n\nHer laugh was cavernous and burly, and her voice was like sandpaper, rough and grating through years of smoke snaking through her throat. I forced a \"hello\" and shook her limp, tiny hand, then said, \"Oh, I have to go get something,\" and left to gather myself outside. I wanted to figure out what sort of physical ailment would convince the house manager I needed a new room. Some sort of inarguable disease that required isolation. _Maybe I_ _should tell her I have asthma and can't be around smokers._ As I took a drag of my cigarette, the fault in my plan dawned on me.\n\nI heard the sliding door open, and Alice emerged onto the back porch. She sat down at the table across from me, pulled out a pack of Pall Mall cigarettes, and retrieved a half-smoked one from the pack. I offered her a light, out of habit mostly. She glanced at me, inhaled deeply, and looked around the yard. I found myself chattering.\n\n\"So how's it going?\" I asked, adding, \"Well, I guess that's a stupid question.\"\n\nShe cackled and said, \"I'm better than I was a week ago. Guess that's something. Shit.\"\n\n\"That's the truth,\" I said. \"I can't believe how weird this place is.\" I felt like a fraud, chatting with a woman I had just scrambled to avoid. But I couldn't find it in me to snub her. I could only judge from afar.\n\n\"Yeah, I don't know why I'm here,\" she said flatly.\n\n\" _Really_?\" I sputtered sarcastically. It was rude, and I knew it, because what I was really saying was, \"Lady, I can tell just looking at you why you're here.\"\n\n\"This is a waste of fuckin' time,\" she said. \"I won't stay clean.\"\n\nShe talked less than most tweakers I had known, less than Shelly in group, less than the addicts I had met at various houses over the years. She was reserved, even shy.\n\n\"Then why come?\" I asked.\n\n\"I'm here for my daughter. She won't let me see my grandkids anymore.\"\n\nI told her that must be rough, and she asked me if I had children.\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, brightening. \"Two.\"\n\n\"Are they still with you?\"\n\nMy smile faded and a wave of humiliated rage poured over me when I realized Alice and I had both been relieved of the children in our lives. _This fucking tweaker and me._ _We had the same result._\n\nI stamped my smoke in the ashtray and mumbled, \"I see them a lot,\" and left.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nDuring one-on-one therapy, Ned tried to claim I hated tweakers because of what they represented in me, that somewhere I knew I was no better than them, and could have done any one of those things had I gotten hooked on a drug that turned my brain into soup as fast as methamphetamines do. I explained to Ned that I was in fact better than them because I didn't choose a drug that turned my brain into soup.\n\n\"You know, Janelle,\" he said during our third therapy session. \"We hate the traits in others that mirror ourselves.\"\n\n_What kind of madness is this_ , I thought. \"A mirror to what I hate about myself.\" That was the kind of bumbling nonsense Ned used to throw at me during \"sessions,\" but I knew he simply didn't understand my position.\n\nIn group over the next four weeks, I met all the other addicts and categorized them based on how much they irritated me. I met the pill poppers, who seemed less sick than the rest of us merely on account of their failure to shoot, snort, or smoke anything. The psychedelic drug types, who I didn't understand because acid is a thing you do in high school and then abandon, and the potheads, who everyone felt sorry for, because truly, _how do you need rehab for weed?_\n\nNext to the tweakers, the most insufferable humans were the \"dual-diagnosis\" people, because they thought they were _very special_. I wondered how they felt so special when almost everyone in the room had in fact been dually diagnosed with a mental illness as well as addiction. We all had depression and addiction, or bipolar and addiction. We were all self-medicating. We were all super sick. We were all very sad. But they wore their mental illness like letters at the end of their names.\n\nBy the end of my time in rehab, the people who fascinated me the most were the straight alcoholics. The drunks. The boozers. The men and women who didn't shoot, smoke, eat, or snort drugs, and who possibly never had. The ones who woke in the morning at four a.m. to take a shot of whiskey from a bottle in the hall closet simply to kill the shakes and sleep again, only to shuffle to the shower at eight a.m. after a quick swig of vodka (because it's \"odorless\") and make it to work red-faced and sweaty, to sit in a cubicle or run a business or sell a car, to run across the street and have another shot at lunch, to smoke hasty cigarettes behind the garage, to scream at their kids and beat their husbands and wives, to swear tomorrow they will quit, to carry on for ten or twenty or thirty years. And end up here, in group, with Ned and me, mumbling, \"Oh, I never did any of the crazy things you all are talking about. I just drank.\"\n\nAt night, I'd wonder if they _were_ perhaps the sickest people in the room, people who would die under the radar of \"functioning alcoholism,\" lacking the flash to get noticed, failing to pose sufficient threat to society to get locked up, dying by a rope in a closet one day, or a car smashed into a tree, or down the road in the ER after liver failure, or old, tired, and miserable, in the park with a bag. Shuffling down the sidewalk, still sure they aren't that sick.\n\nI loved them, every damn one of them, though I didn't know why.\n\nWhen it was my turn with the talking stick, I either spoke in short, withholding sentences with my arms crossed defiantly in front of me, or dumped the most shocking version of my story into the room. I was always playing \"Who's the sickest in the room?\" I was so sick I was raging and cold and disengaged. I was so sick I would tell you about _my_ diagnosis of borderline personality disorder\u2014a diagnosis with an unofficial prognosis of \"you are trash and there is no hope for you.\" After my first diagnosis of the disorder many months before, I learned that borderlines are so impossible many therapists flatly refuse to work with them. Borderlines ruin children through sick and twisted rage, harm themselves, generally exploding the lives around them plus their own. And the worst part was I actually did, in fact, _feel_ borderline. When I read the collection of symptoms making up \"my kind,\" I felt I read the first accurate description of the way I had felt since childhood.\n\nI split. I saw people as all good or all bad, and sometimes that changed within an hour. I cut my arms to watch the blood rise. I cheated, lied, and manipulated. I raged. Oh, God, the rage. Psychiatrists had also diagnosed me with bipolar II, but that was nonsense, because the doctor would ask, \"Do you have mood swings?\" And I'd say, \"Yes, yes I do. I am a cocaine addict. Of course I have mood swings.\" But nobody explained how they differentiated between the two.\n\nThen he'd ask if I went on drug binges, which I explained was affirmative. And then he'd ask if I went on spending binges, which was obviously a yes as well. In fact, I used to fill whole carts in stores like Marshalls and Ross Dress for Less and Target, but then I'd look around the store and at the cart and realize I couldn't handle the gravity of the situation. The cart. Checking out. Continuing to push it. So I would make sure no employees were watching, and I would leave, walking away from the whole damn fiasco, to sit alone in an aisle somewhere. Sometimes I would obsess over one item in particular, like gift bags or candles or embroidery thread. I would buy fifty. They thought this was \"manic.\" I thought it was simply \"confused.\"\n\nThen the doctors diagnosed chronic depression, which seemed accurate. I mean, _wouldn't you be depressed if you couldn't stop buying gift bags?_ They also diagnosed me with PTSD but never explained the trauma that damaged me, which made me wonder if they simply drew diagnoses out of large, expensive wool hats.\n\nNo matter what they said, I knew the depression and mood swings and binges and erratic behavior were somehow related to the drinking and drugs. The borderline, though? That was me to my bones. That was me before I started drinking, and in the dark when nobody was looking. My doctors talked about borderlines having so sense of self. No sense of identity. They were shells of people.\n\nI felt like that. I could never figure out if I actually loved _anyone_.\n\n_Do I care if you live or die? Why do I hurt everyone? Why am I not showing up again? Why am I slicing my arms with little blades? Why am I so afraid you'll leave when I'm not even sure I want you here? Why am I devastated you are suffering? Do I want to die for you? Does your pain erase me? Can I fix it? Why am I screaming \"I hate you?\" Why am I shoving you away when I wanted you here? Why do you not see what I see? Why am I still drinking? Why can't I cry?_\n\nI studied that bulleted list of borderline symptoms and found inarguable evidence that I was, in fact, born without a moral compass. At least I was right about that.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nI don't think Alice moved when she slept, and she made almost no sound when she walked. It was as if she were trying to take up as little space in the world as she possibly could. She only talked if you engaged her first. Well, except one night at dinner when Shelly the chattering tweaker was complaining about her kids. Alice stood up, shoved her chair in, and said, \"You shouldn't let those babies go.\"\n\nWe became friends, Alice and I, and we'd laugh at Ned's endless positivity, and theorize who was going to sleep with whom and get kicked out. She told me about her Chihuahua, and we spoke of ridiculous, simple things like pizza and swimming pools.\n\nWhen Alice was twelve, she was traded to a fifty-year-old man by her mother for a bag of heroin and a case of beer. She escaped him when she was fourteen, and survived on the streets until age eighteen, when she met a man who would \"take care of her.\" She had six children, all of them taken by child protective services, and got sober for the first time when the man died and she went to prison, where she birthed her daughter.\n\nWhen her daughter was nineteen, Alice relapsed, and couldn't afford heroin, so she landed on meth. She lost her teeth and face and mind, but probably not her heart, because when I asked her what her favorite song was she said, \"Boots of Spanish Leather\" by Bob Dylan, and I thought, _Well, damn._ I had been singing that song for as long as I could remember.\n\nShe had given up. She had not a single thought of change in her mind, not a shred of power at her fingertips, but she loved a song like that. She still flipped over a single cigarette as a \"lucky.\" I teased her, saying, \"Alice, nobody does that past the age of fifteen.\"\n\nShe flipped me off and said, \"They would if they had my luck.\"\n\nShe ruined everything I knew about tweakers.\n\nTwo weeks after she arrived, Alice left, because her daughter could only afford two weeks. I was glad to have given her my Buddha statue, because it was a little thing I could remember her by.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nOn my twenty-seventh day in rehab, I received calls from my father, mother, and mother-in-law, all letting me know Mac hadn't been seen in three days.\n\nTheir voices were urgent and severe. \"Do you have any idea where he is? Can you guess? This is just insane!\"\n\nI was unconcerned, irritated, and marginally jealous. _He's fine, people. Just on a drug run. Calm the fuck down._\n\n\"Not exactly,\" I told my mother-in-law. \"But he's probably somewhere near Charlie, the drug addict who is not actually named Charlie and likes to spray paint kitchens.\" I tried to think of the street where Charlie lived but only recalled the alley where we used to park. I told her about that and the coffee shop a couple of blocks down from his hovel.\n\nShe paused, and asked slowly, \"Well, what is his actual name, Janelle?\"\n\n\"I have no idea, but you don't need his name. Just go see if Mac's truck is in the alley, then wait, and if he isn't there, he's probably around there somewhere.\"\n\nSo Mac's older sister went looking for him, and found him wandering the streets of downtown Sacramento, just where I said he'd be. She found him at five a.m., walking barefoot, without his wallet or keys.\n\nThe next day, on day twenty-eight, two days before my scheduled rehab departure, Mac and I spoke on the phone. It turned out he was sitting alone one night in the adorable country house we had just rented to begin our life anew, and in a flash of brilliance remembered the abandoned cocaine baggie from the day God spoke to me. So he took it, and drank a bottle of rum, and got lost on the streets of Sacramento after hanging out with Charlie.\n\nWhile I could relate from a past life, I was healed now in rehab and therefore outraged at his poor choices.\n\n\"WHERE WERE THE KIDS, MAC?\" I screamed into the phone, sitting on the couch beneath a watercolor of a snow leopard. My privileges had been upgraded to use of the portable house phone as opposed to the pay phone, but we weren't allowed to use it in our rooms. Consequently, everybody squealed at their spouses in common areas, and absolutely nobody cared. \"WERE YOU FUCKING SOME BROAD, TOO?\" I thought of that night in the Thai restaurant parking lot.\n\nHe was quiet and sounded tired, with a shade of guilt and the slightest wash of shame. \"What? No. What? What are you talking about? They were at my parents'. I'm sorry, Janelle.\"\n\n\"And now you're going to rehab for ninety days on a goddamn beach in Southern California to find your inner child while I come back to pick up the pieces of our family?\" In twenty-eight days, I had transformed from mentally ill cocaine addict to doting savior.\n\n\"Janelle, aren't you just coming back from a rehab?\" He was growing irritated.\n\n\"Mine was only thirty days, Mac!\" I hung up to call my mother and tell her she needed to come get me, right then, so I could go home and clean up the mess my cosmic disaster of a husband made.\n\nWhen I heard Mac and I would be in rehab at the same time, I decided my in-laws and parents were going to try to steal my children. I envisioned long, drawn-out, vicious court battles between them. I had no evidence of grandparents or anybody else for that matter vying for possession of our kids; in fact, I had no evidence of anything but support from all of them, but I felt untethered. I was convinced that if I stayed the last two days of my program, I would lose them. _One of us has to be with them_ , I thought.\n\nThe counselors advised against leaving early, saying, \"Janelle, in your new life you must start following through on commitments.\" But I had done twenty-eight days out of thirty, and that was good enough for me. So I thanked them for their service and convinced my mother to retrieve me. Once again, she believed I knew best and agreed to come that very day.\n\n\"Will you bring the kids?\" I asked, holding my breath.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, and I could hear her smile. \"They're sitting right here.\" I felt my heart jump.\n\nI packed my clothes in fifteen minutes, and the two hours I waited for them to arrive felt like Christmas Eve when I was nine. They ran to me in the front yard of the rehab house, and I got on my knees to hold them. I couldn't believe they could be so beautiful. In the car, I tried to nurse Rocket, but he had no interest. He turned his head away and sat up, and for the first time, it occurred to me that there were two children without their actual mother, and that they missed her in a material, clear way, and would create their own defenses to protect themselves. I thought again about the nursery I had made for Rocket, the clothes all lined up by size, the morning I brought him home, and the morning he left. I shook my head right and left to knock the images out of my skull.\n\nThen I reminded myself how very sick I was, and I asked my mom to please drive, because I had to get home.\n**10**\n\n# **Maintenance Whiskey**\n\nOne week after I left rehab, my mother and I sat in her living room in big, soft easy chairs with the footrests kicked out, constructing plans to prevent me from detonating my life. My plan was that I would live in the house Mac and I had rented before I went to rehab. Mac had moved our belongings from the big Natomas house to the new one, but didn't get beyond dropping off furniture and stacking unmarked boxes in every room. This was the extent of my plan.\n\nHer plan was: \"Devote your life to recovery.\"\n\n\"Don't your counselors say you should take time to just focus on recovery before trying to do life again?\" It was not an actual question, but I answered anyway.\n\n\"Yes,\" I said. \"And I have, right?\" I narrowed my eyes at her, sensing she had an opinion on my life that differed from my own.\n\n\"You have, but I think you need to get all this psych stuff in order before you get back with the kids.\" As if cued, Rocket bolted out of the bedroom holding a wooden screwdriver and a brown-headed doll with matted hair. When he passed me, I leaned over and grabbed his shirt, yelling \"Hey!\" and demanding a hug. He spun around in smiles and folded into my arms just long enough for me to get a whiff of the sweet honey sweat of his chubby neck before he ran off.\n\n\"I need to be with the kids, Mom, and Mac and I just rented that house. Have you seen the porch? It's amazing. Right next to a horse ranch.\"\n\n\"Yes, it's nice, but you rented that when Mac was still working. He's in a ninety-day program and you're out of money. You're on mental health leave for two more months.\"\n\n\"How do you know that?\" If I told her that, I had forgotten.\n\n\"Because your boss and I talk, Janelle. Everybody talks about your health now.\" _Good Lord_ , I thought. _Everybody is so earnest about everything._\n\n\"Weird.\" I rolled my eyes, pondering how they all couldn't see how I had my life handled now.\n\nSince she seemed to make a decent point, even better than mine, I turned my attention to the show we hadn't been watching but that played in the background because it was comforting\u2014the way it droned on, the hum of canned laughter and commercials with all the happiness they promised. All those beautiful people. All the beautiful things to buy. Like candles and gift bags.\n\nShe lowered the volume with the remote, looked at me, and asked, \"So, you think all those diagnoses are true? Your dad wonders about them.\"\n\n\"You talk to Dad?\" I asked, surprised.\n\n\"Of course. He's been helping me with the kids.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\" Now I was utterly shocked.\n\n\"What do _you_ mean? I have to work. Mac's parents work. Your dad works. Everyone works.\" She seemed mildly exasperated.\n\n\"Wow, that's really nice of him. Too bad he didn't do that for me when I was a kid.\"\n\n\"Well, he's doing it now,\" she said dismissively as she shrugged her shoulders, clearly on his side. It was strange to think of all the life going on behind the scenes while Mac and I hid out in motel rooms. I had a fleeting thought of all the trouble I had caused, of all the grandparents scrambling to compensate for our deficiencies, but I shoved it out of my mind with the thought, _Well,_ _I am very sick._\n\n\"Mom,\" I said. \"If you don't think all that 'psych stuff' is true, why are you telling me to take care of it?\" I had spotted a hole in her argument.\n\n\"I didn't say that. Your dad and I were just saying it seems a little _excessive_. I mean, you weren't ever like this before.\"\n\nI turned to face her. \"You sent me to my first shrink when I was in high school. Remember that dude with the beard who hooked my fingers up to some machine and talked to me about chakras?\" I lifted my eyebrows and smirked, knowing the memory would make her laugh. We loved making fun of new-age hippies.\n\n\"You were sixteen and wild and very angry. I didn't know what to do with you.\"\n\n\"I loved that guy,\" I said. \"What was his name?\"\n\n\"Sergio.\" She smiled, and I laughed.\n\n\"But I've kind of always been crazy, Mom.\" I said, wondering why it was suddenly so important to me that my mother understood I was _definitely mentally ill_.\n\n\"Well, what do you think about what the doctors say, in your heart of hearts?\"\n\n\"Please don't say 'heart of hearts.' I can't talk to you when you say things like that.\" I was not joking.\n\nI stared at the television, though I was, in fact, thinking of a real answer. \"The borderline seems true. The rest I don't know. Bipolar maybe. But not really. Hard to tell when you're a coke addict.\" I watched her flinch at my last two words.\n\nShe looked away, and I continued, \"I get really depressed, but maybe that's the drinking. And Mac and I fight all the time.\"\n\n\"I know,\" she said, and paused. \"I think you should go into one of those 'sober living environments,' Janelle, and do an outpatient program, just to be safe, so you can really get well. We can take care of the kids.\" She looked at Ava sitting at the kitchen counter, coloring in a Hello Kitty coloring book. Rocket came darting back into the room, launching himself onto a couch cushion on the floor. He distracted my mother, so I didn't answer.\n\n\"Pick that up, Rocket. It's not a toy. It goes on the couch.\"\n\nHe turned around and looked at her, deciding whether or not to obey. She looked at him harder and he kicked the cushion, then set it on the couch. \"Thank you, sweetie,\" she said cheerfully.\n\nHe didn't respond.\n\n\"He's still not talking, huh?\" I asked, making sure I didn't sound too worried.\n\n\"No, but he's barely eighteen months!\"\n\n\"Ava had tons of words by this age. Do you think he's okay?\" I watched him drag a wooden frog pull toy around the room.\n\n\"He's fine. Boys develop slower than girls. Your cousin Benjamin didn't speak until three, and then he spoke in full sentences.\" She was relaxed, and got up to make dinner.\n\nStill, I wondered if I had broken him. He was so silent. _Why is he so silent?_ I thought of Alice and wondered if she was still alive, and if she got to see her grandkids.\n\n\"Where would I go to outpatient, Mom?\" I yelled from over my shoulder while she opened the refrigerator.\n\n\"I was thinking Marin County. Found a great place there!\" She had obviously been doing research.\n\n\"I don't know. Maybe,\" I said under my breath, flipping to a new channel to vacate my mind for a few seconds.\n\nI considered my situation: no job, home in boxes, husband in the drunk slammer, and little money. I had spent three nights alone at the cute house in the country and was sure I was going to get cut up into small pieces by some Republican on a horse. It was dark and quiet out there. Nobody would hear my screams. An actual clown lived across the street. She seemed friendly, but still, she was a clown, and sometimes she walked down to her mailbox in her clown suit.\n\nPerhaps this is what happens when you choose a new rental in between coke binges.\n\nAt the thought, I told my mother, \"It _is_ already feeling a little impossible.\"\n\n\"Let's check out that program,\" she said.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nA week later I moved into a house I found on Craigslist that was forty-five minutes away in Petaluma, California. It was occupied by two sober, friendly men. One was about twenty-five and had recently kicked heroin for the fifth time. This time, he was doing it through Suboxone. The other was \"old\" in age and sobriety\u2014forty years old and one year sober. He was an alcoholic.\n\nI brought my red embroidered blanket and a new Buddha statue to my new room and enrolled in the most highly esteemed outpatient rehab in Marin County, which is one of the wealthiest counties in northern California. My family and I were under the impression that if you paid more, you received better sobriety, so my parents and grandparents pooled thousands of more dollars in cash and credit to help me, again.\n\nIn addition to the outpatient program, I signed up for a dialectical behavioral therapy group that involved weekly meetings with a group plus individual therapy. I got a psychiatrist, worked out, and stopped eating sugar. I took up running, kick-boxing, yoga, and meditation, began shopping only at the co-op and Whole Foods, and hired a personal spiritual advisor\/holistic health practitioner. I woke every day at seven a.m. to meditate, shower, eat bee pollen, and head to the rehab, where I sat in group listening to forlorn white addicts express how dejected they felt. One of them lived on his yacht off Tiburon. Another owned the winery that made my favorite cabernet. Millionaires. They were actual millionaires.\n\nI thought of Alice and how she couldn't even stay for the whole month, and how drugs were the great leveler until it came to outcomes. To treatment. To the world opening itself to help. Nobody cared if Alice lived or died. Nobody would even notice if she were gone. I wished she could have come with me.\n\nI met with a therapist at the rehab\u2014in addition to the dialectical therapist and psychiatrist\u2014who was staunchly devoted to Jungian psychology. We began a long and meandering exploration of my unconscious and deepest longing, the needs I had but didn't know I had, but had better figure out how to satisfy, and soon.\n\nAfter our sessions I felt emotionally heavier and remarkably more confused, especially when the topic landed on my mother. Apparently, somewhere deep down I had always yearned for a clearer, healthier relationship with her, but never got it. She gave me nothing to \"bump up against\" because she was nebulous and blurred herself, and that was why I had no \"self.\" When I left the Jungian's office, I felt a bit like a fraud and a liar, as if I were saying things that weren't quite true, because sure, all those problems with my mom were real, and we had endured dark times when I was a child, and I found myself entwined and obsessed with fixing her marriage, finances, and heart, but her love for me was warrior-like\u2014brave and firm and wild\u2014and she was my unequivocal best friend. Talking about her like that felt wrong, and I couldn't make the therapist understand that we were _dysfunctional_ and _perfect_. I couldn't make the therapist understand that I was heartbroken and infuriated by her, but she was the only human I feared I would die without. I didn't understand why we couldn't be batshit crazy and woven through each other in the crispest, purest, and sanest love.\n\nIn the Jungian's office I learned about dissociative behavior and \"sober blackouts\" and practiced deep belly breathing. After group, I would go to the gym and kickboxing class. In the evening, I would attend my dialectical behavior group, or go to my psychiatrist, or sit at home and read Thich Nhat Hanh and Jon Kabat-Zinn.\n\nI was living, breathing, thinking, and eating recovery. I got stronger. I lost weight. My mind grew clearer while my family delighted in my \"progress.\" I had a whole army of activities, mental health workers, family, and friends encircling me, blocking me from the siren song of alcohol. I bought a lottery ticket one day at a gas station and won eighty dollars, which I took as a sign of God's pride in me. Yes, the God I didn't believe existed.\n\nWhen I was sober almost sixty days, at the peak of my wellness, Mac invited me to \"family weekend\" at his rehab. _Of course!_ I thought.\n\nI booked a flight using a high-interest-rate credit card I had somehow been approved for and set out on my journey to Southern California. But while sitting in a restaurant in the San Francisco airport, waiting for my flight, the thought occurred to me that I was afraid of flying. In fact, I hated flying. At some point, while darting around Europe in airplanes, I'd realized that each flight I boarded increased my chances of dying. _The more I fly, the more likely I am to be on a plane that malfunctions midair and spirals desperately into the ocean amid screams of mothers and children._\n\nAt the airport in San Francisco, the thought that followed this recollection was, _You know what would make me feel better? A glass of wine_.\n\nI failed to remember the Xanax in my purse, and without another thought, without a whispered word from my conscience, therapist, God, friend, or enemy, I rose and floated to the bar across the concourse, stood for a few moments waiting for the bartender, and when he placed his hand on the bar and nodded to me, I smiled and asked, \"May I have a glass of chardonnay, please?\"\n\nThe next thing I knew I was driving a rental car with a handle of Captain Morgan on the passenger seat.\n\nI had sipped two glasses of wine before my flight and switched to cocktails on the plane. I then picked up my rental car and drove immediately to Safeway for booze, but in my hotel, I had one drink and realized what I had done. By then it was midnight, and I had to get rid of that bottle. I grabbed the rum, took the elevator downstairs and looked around the lobby for somebody who looked like they needed a handle of Captain Morgan. Nobody was there except the front desk clerk, but he was perfect. He looked about twenty\u2014a surfer type with long sun-bleached hair. I walked up to the counter and set the bottle down in front of him.\n\n\"Do you want this?\" I asked, without introduction.\n\n\"What?\" He asked, confused.\n\n\"This. The rum.\" I smiled, realizing my behavior was a little odd. But he was so young. _Of course he drinks_ , I thought. _This is Newport Beach. Everyone drinks in LA._\n\n\"Um...\" He looked around nervously.\n\n\"Do ya not drink?\" I asked. \"Because if you don't drink, I seriously misjudged you. Maybe more of a weed guy. I could see that.\" I laughed the laugh of the sweet spot of drunkenness.\n\n\"Yeah, I totally drink. Alright! Thanks!\" He grabbed the bottle quickly and smiled.\n\nFor some reason, I added, \"I don't fucking want it.\" This made him laugh again, and he thanked me again, and I could see his after-work plans had instantly improved.\n\n\"Noooo problem,\" I said, leaning against the counter for a moment, gearing up for the walk back to the elevator.\n\nBack in my room, I fell asleep immediately.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nThe next day, while walking down to the beach, I told Mac about the rum.\n\n\"It was a terrible mistake. But you know? I'm glad it happened. It taught me the power of alcohol. I mean, I really get it now.\"\n\nI was prepared to grovel, but he listened to the whole story and said, \"Well, you learned from it. Sounds like it had to happen.\" He put his arm around me. He and I believed my declarations of sorrow and a new start.\n\nWhen I returned to Petaluma, I told my sobriety army about the relapse, and all of them suggested I go to one of those ridiculous meetings in basements for low-bottom drunks and other nondescript failures. At the first sign of my weakness, both roommates launched into passionate diatribes regarding _the only way they could stay sober_. I told them I thought it was a cult religion, but as I was saying it, I knew it was a lie. I had family members who got sober at those meetings. They were neither cult members nor religious, but I had _opinions_.\n\nI _knew things_.\n\nBut they were right. I had gotten drunk again. I drank again in spite of all the money, work, focus, therapy, and talking I had done specifically to avoid drinking again. All that talking, examining, deconstructing of emotions. It all failed me when I needed it. I couldn't even explain how or why I drank that night. It just _happened_ , and it frightened me. I agreed to try something new.\n\nThe next day, I drove a few times around a gravel parking lot trying to delay the moment when I had to walk into what looked like an abandoned church hall with homeless people and fifty coffee-can ashtrays around the perimeter. Finally, I parked and meandered inside, choosing a seat in the back of the room, behind a mass of what felt like twenty thousand people considerably too happy to be sober. They were clean and well-dressed, laughing and eating cake. They surrounded the ones who looked like small wet dogs with matted coats, and I hoped to God I didn't look so sick they thought I needed love, too. I avoided eye contact and sipped my coffee out of a Styrofoam cup, thinking, _Now I really have hit the bottom of the fucking barrel._\n\nWhen the meeting started, somebody started talking up front about how they now didn't have to drink against their will, and I rolled my eyes. _How does one drink against their will? Is somebody holding a gun to your head?_ _Idiot._ It did not occur to me that I had done exactly that in the airport a mere week earlier. There were lists of twelve rules on the wall. Apparently my coat was also matted because immediately after the meeting a woman pounced on me before I could escape. She was relentless with her offers of help as my \"sponsor,\" so I mumbled okay to get rid of her, but later realized when telling my mother about her that a sponsor could be my new move. My new bulletproof plan.\n\n_It's fine, Mom, because now I have a sponsor._\n\nThe woman and I began drinking a lot of coffee together, and we talked and talked and talked. She gave me a large blue book and took me to a Native American event in a teepee\u2014or, more accurately, an appropriated event by a bunch of white woo-woo types\u2014where we all took our clothes off, got smudged by sage, chanted, and sweated together. It was supposed to be spiritual, but I mostly found it interesting that people who were menstruating weren't allowed in. Because none of the people were actually Native American, nobody could tell me why.\n\nOnce again, I had no idea what the hell anybody was saying in the teepee or in those meetings. I sat foggy and bored, watching the drunks around me, growing irritated when they talked too much, waiting for my turn to explain how it's done, shunning suspected tweakers as well as anyone with serious grammar deficiencies, and departing before they launched into their weird prayer circle. My understanding of the program was that you sit and drink coffee until something happens that makes you sober.\n\nIt also had something to do with God.\n\nAt home, I read the big blue book my sponsor gave me and highlighted the parts that resonated with me. I read it like a novel in college. I read it like I was going to write a paper on it. More information. More ideas that were going to kick in _any minute now_. Ideas to keep me sober, to stand between that drink and me. The meeting people had slogans: \"Remember your last drunk,\" and \"Think it through.\" I agreed to believe them. I did everything I could to fill my brain with a million defenses against the moment I'd once again realize I'm afraid to fly, or think, _It's been so long since I took a drink, surely_ one _would be fine. Just one._\n\nAfter the relapse, I increased my exercise and therapy even more. Rocket and Ava came to visit me on my birthday. They brought me gifts and asked when I was coming home. I realized it was time. I must get back with my children.\n\n\"I am so grateful for that relapse,\" I told the meeting on my last day in Petaluma, \"I learned my lesson. I am terrified of alcohol now.\"\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nSix months later, I narrowly avoided inpatient psychiatric care.\n\nI had been on a ten-day bender, drinking whiskey in the apartment I had rented to \"find myself\" before getting the kids back, with my plants all dead on the back patio; Morgan, the little dog I had acquired as my companion, and the laundry in a giant damp heap at the foot of the bed; and me on the couch, in the habitat meticulously constructed to avoid that exact moment.\n\nA few weeks prior, I had found it necessary to make a trip to my mother's house at nine a.m. to steal change out of Ava's Hello Kitty piggy bank so I could buy some whiskey to come down off the crack I had been smoking all night. After that, my mother found it necessary to take away my key to her house.\n\nThe next day, I walked into work late. I had found a little job at a chain tutoring center in my town, and they told me I was excellent, definitely managerial material. But my boss didn't say a word when he saw me that morning. As soon as I stepped over the threshold, he looked at me, shook his head \"no,\" and pointed to the door behind me. I guess I had called in sick one too many times.\n\nI was then locked out of work and out of my mother's house. I hadn't seen my children in a month. I didn't try to call anymore. When Grandma Bonny called, I avoided her. When Grandma Joan called, I avoided her too.\n\nMeanwhile, Mac was a beaming light of sobriety, living back at the dome and apprenticing as an ironworker. Without me, he found a new career. My father was still sober and spending more and more time with my children. Everybody seemed to be getting better except me.\n\nI had met a new friend at a shadowy party of misfits who still lived like they were twenty even though they were all in their thirties. She drank like I drank, and we passed hours in my apartment guzzling Maker's Mark whiskey (when we could afford the good stuff) and listening to old country music. I wondered how I had ever survived without whiskey. In the past, I thought it tasted like stale fire. With her, though, at that time, it tasted like truth.\n\nMy days became Waylon, Johnny, and Hank. I thought I had finally found my people. _I am an outlaw. That's what it is._ Since I had no job or family, the drinking turned from night to all day and all night, without end.\n\nOne day, Mac knocked on the front door while I sat on the couch, immobile, pretending I wasn't there. He could hear the music. He could see my car. He pounded on the door, growing angrier with every smack of his fist against the wood. Eventually he left, roaring as he walked down the stairs.\n\nThe next day, I told my outlaw girlfriend that he broke the door down and came at me physically. This was an outright lie, but I wanted some sympathy. I wanted people to understand I was the victim here.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nSitting across from the hospital psychiatrist, I tried to explain that it was just Morgan and me in the apartment, and due to the drinking situation, I couldn't manage to get him outside anymore to pee and poop. The apartment manager, I explained, was overreacting.\n\n\"Plus, I covered it with paper towels, doctor, so I didn't have to step in it.\" I didn't tell him I had lived that way for weeks, covering every stain and hopping around them like a child trying to avoid the cracks on a sidewalk.\n\nI thought this would clear it all up for him, but he said, \"Nobody sane would live that way.\"\n\nThis startled me. _I am not insane_ , I thought _. I was just drinking! It was a lot of drinking._\n\nI got off with a month of intensive outpatient treatment, so each day I drove to Sacramento to sit in the corner of yet another group therapy room with my hood up, promising not to drink and trying hard to schedule psych appointments that conflicted with art therapy. I hated art.\n\nThis place was not like the rehabs of a year before. This place was for the poorest people, the crazies on the street, the ones chattering to themselves in Central Park.\n\nBut the psychiatrist was not done with me.\n\n\"You know, Janelle, you went from living a good life to fired and in a mental healthcare facility in eight weeks. Why did you start drinking again?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I thought it would be different this time.\"\n\n\"What led you to that conclusion?\" I looked down, and I watched his hand move across the yellow legal pad in an open manila folder. _Who knew what kind of lies he was telling about me._\n\nI thought about the way I had started drinking after that stretch of sobriety between the sober living house and my new apartment. I thought about living with my mother, and deciding with her that I shouldn't yet return to Mac and the kids, and how I went to meetings every week and exercised, and how my job at the law firm said I could take a few more months off to \"get well,\" so I got a job at the tutoring center. I thought about the night I picked up a six-month token from the cult meetings, and stood in front of them declaring the miracle of sobriety, and how they all cheered for me. I thought of my sober friends asking me to ice cream after the meeting, and me saying no, and how I fully intended to drive home, but by the time I got to the freeway, I remembered that alcohol was never my problem. It was _cocaine_ that turned me into a blithering idiot. I recalled the words of my friends in the meetings, \"If you aren't sure you're an alcoholic, go try some controlled drinking.\" And I knew what I needed to do. I needed to try some controlled drinking.\n\n_How do I explain all that to you, normal doctor guy?_\n\nI couldn't, so I said, \"I thought because it was so bad before, I would drink differently this time. I wanted to prove I wasn't an alcoholic.\" It was the most honest answer I had ever given a doctor. I yearned for help this time. I was so tired.\n\nHe didn't respond to my answer, but instead asked, \"Are you med-compliant?\" which is code for \"Do you take what's prescribed?\"\n\n\"Yes, I am.\" I said, resigned. _This fucking guy doesn't care._\n\nHe scribbled more lies on his page and looked right at me, stating, \"You were living in a house full of dog feces and urine.\" He seemed to desire an explanation, again.\n\n\"I know. It was raining a lot. I told you. I couldn't get outside.\"\n\n\"Why are you cutting your arms again, Janelle?\"\n\n\"Because I like watching the blood come up,\" I said, pausing before saying, \"It feels _manageable_.\"\n\n\"Are you still drinking, Janelle?\" He was simply moving through his checklist of questions. He didn't respond directly to a single one of my answers. I wondered why I bothered with these doctors.\n\n\"No. Yes. Well, I didn't today.\" And that was true, although last night's alcohol was probably drifting out of my pores.\n\nHe snapped the file shut, leaned forward, and asked loudly, \"Are you always this difficult?\"\n\nI sat stunned and terrified. I knew I was in bad shape, so I had promised myself to tell the doctor the absolute truth. I did so. _And now he thinks I'm crazier than ever. He hates me because he thinks I'm messing with him, and yet, I am being honest. I am trying to get help._\n\n_Is my truth more horrible than my lies?_\n\nHis reaction confused me, and I began wondering if I was telling the truth at all.\n\n_Maybe I thought I was being honest, but I was actually lying? Maybe I am truly insane?_ The truth was melding with the lies, and I couldn't tell him what was happening in my mind because _I just told him_ _pure truth_ _and he's asking why I'm being so difficult_.\n\nHe prescribed more and different pills.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nOn my way home from the loony bin that night, I bought a pint of Ancient Age whiskey and a pack of Pall Malls, just like Alice used to smoke. I paid for them with the twenty dollars my mother had given me. The next morning, I started thinking of my mother the second my eyes opened. I saw her face and smile and felt her hug as she handed me the twenty dollars I had said I needed for groceries. I thought of my children. _My mom, she was always so kind._ I promised myself I would visit them that day.\n\nWhen I opened her door, Rocket, who was two, ran to me as fast as he could, and I went down on my knees again to hug and kiss and hold him. He grabbed my face and declared, \"Mama, home!\"\n\nI couldn't even respond. I couldn't tell him I would stay. I could not tell my boy when I'd be back again. I didn't even bother.\n\nAva was six. She kept a box by her bed of trinkets and notes I had written her, from rehab and elsewhere. When she missed me, she read them, and maybe cried. Mac told me about the box to get me to sober up and come home.\n\nInstead, I drew pictures during art therapy and sent them to her, pictures of rainbows and houses and suns, the same stupid drawings I'd made as a kid when all the other kids drew more interesting things. Those birds that were just two curved lines connecting in the middle. The house with the flowers along the outside and a tree in the corner and a big yellow sun with lines of orange.\n\n_I fucking hate art_ , I thought. _But I'm glad I can send her pictures of the home I can't make._\n\nDuring breaks at the outpatient center we stood outside in total silence, smoking. The victim Olympics were over in that place, the pecking order gone, the hierarchy of sickness no longer fun. Nobody cared anymore. The souls around there were too lost, too poor to posture, too tired to fight. We showed up unwashed. We showed up stained, dosed on legal drugs, to tell them what they needed to hear. When we talked, it was only to compare release dates.\n\nEvery day I watched with agitated jealousy the people who got out. The staff there had no personal stories of salvation, no hopeful anecdotes or phrases. In fact, I was convinced they preferred us dead or in jail. They recited canned platitudes and worn-out \"inspirations,\" checked little boxes, and fed us out of Styrofoam trays on a pushcart. I refused to eat anything except Snickers from the vending machine. I never took my hood off.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nOn the day I graduated Lightweight Loony Bin, I headed straight to my outlaw friend's trailer to celebrate.\n\nSix days later, I took a shit in a bag and put it in my trunk. The toilet in her trailer was broken and I needed to go to the bathroom, so I placed the bag in the toilet and went. Then I found myself in possession of a bag of shit, but telling people around me I was carrying such a thing was out of the question, although perhaps they would not have found it so odd. Absolutely stranger things had happened in that trailer park\u2014for example, the man who wore masking tape on his head, or the man who stood in his parking spot directing nonexistent traffic and protesting capitalism. Still, the situation struck me as rather difficult to explain, so I concealed the bag in a larger bag, and then hid it in my trunk.\n\nI then got _distracted_ and left it there for probably two days, which is two days longer than anyone should have feces in her trunk.\n\nI could have walked four minutes down to the gas station to relieve myself, or the fast food joint right next to the gas station, or I could have even shit in the dirt. I could have thrown the bag away in the dumpster twenty feet from the trailer. Just about any plan was better than the one I came up with, but after six days of what I called \"maintenance whiskey\"\u2014which is when you're drinking around the clock simply to kill the shakes\u2014things get weird.\n\nEvery idea was a three a.m. idea, and nobody was left to question them.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nMy days became maintenance whiskey and trips between my apartment and the outlaw's trailer. At her place, hippies and Hank III fans with questionable dental hygiene occasionally showed up with drugs I couldn't afford, and I would marvel at their generosity. They would show up with soma and ecstasy, and I would take all that was offered. If I had recently refilled my Xanax and Ambien, I'd take that too. Somebody would come by with Percocet or cocaine, and I'd take that as well.\n\nI drank every day to kill the shakes. I did drugs when they came around but I had no money or energy left to find them. I was on a pure Ancient Age and Pall Mall maintenance plan.\n\nYet no matter what I consumed, I got no relief. I found no calm. I was driven by a compulsion beyond my mind, heart, love of my kids, or life itself. I held on each day to a vague memory of the peace alcohol once brought, of the way it blanketed my throat and belly with warm relief, my whole heart, actually, the way it connected me to others and my life and future. The way it took me straight to serenity, to comfort in my mind, in the universe. In those meetings they told me, \"One day, alcohol will stop working for you.\" I scribbled those words in the front of the big book they gave me, thinking, _My God, that cannot possibly be true._ In that trailer, I learned it was true. I learned that one day, I would grow physically drunk\u2014stumbling, vomiting, slurring my words\u2014but my mind would remain clean, stripped, and still starving. The relief alcohol once brought would never return. Like a rat on a wheel, I would frantically chase a drifting memory.\n\nOn the morning I woke up in my apartment with not a single dollar or drop of booze, I took a swig of vanilla extract from my kitchen cupboard and shuddered, thinking, _At least it isn't face toner_. While I was sleeping, my mother had dropped off on my porch a package of sliced turkey breast and loaf of bread, with a note attached that read, \"I love you, Janelle!\" With a smiley face. I couldn't eat the food. The smiley face broke my fucking heart. I detoxed and shivered until I got my unemployment check, then went back to the trailer.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nFour days later, my eyes rolled back in my head after I took a pull of Ancient Age. I was back on that maintenance plan. Someone put me in my beige Ford Taurus, a gift from Grandma Bonny, who, at that moment, was dying of dementia and old age without my attention, two counties away. They drove me to the emergency room and dropped me off, leaving me with my keys and car in the lot, finding their own way home so I could leave when they released me.\n\nI fell asleep on the hospital bed, and when I woke, disoriented and restless, I looked around at the patients next to me, at the people surrounding them, and I noticed my only companion was a new bracelet around my wrist. I tried to rip the oxygen tubes out of my nose, but a nurse materialized and leaned down right in my face, slowly articulating in one long, compassionate snarl, _\"Do you want to live?\"_\n\nI nodded. \"Then focus on your breathing,\" she said with equal severity. \"Because your brain is not getting enough oxygen.\" She was about fifty years old and quite apparently fed up with my kind. Her tone was bulletproof. It didn't even occur to me to disobey her. I nodded and lay back and focused on deep breaths and the people bustling around me. I was in a spot in the hospital where they didn't even close the curtains. I looked down and noticed I had no shoes, and my skirt was ripped.\n\nEventually the doctor arrived and announced he was sending me back to the loony bin because I had so many substances in my body it was \"obvious you were trying to commit suicide.\"\n\n\"Oh no, doctor, I'm not trying to kill myself,\" I explained. \"I do this every day.\"\n\nHe gazed at me in silence. I thought he was going to say something, but he only looked at me with resigned disgust and signed my release papers. He handed them to me and walked out. On my way to the exit, the nurse approached me in the hallway and said, \"You know, girl, you're gonna die.\" I nodded and kept walking, as did she. It wasn't news to me.\n\nIn the parking lot, I looked down at the bracelet and wondered when I had become a person without companions in an emergency room. I had a mother, father, husband, and children, but they had no idea where I was and had long since stopped expecting such information. I called my mother yet again.\n\n\"I almost overdosed. This has to be the end.\"\n\nI meant it no more or less than every other time I meant it.\n\nMy family rallied and booked me into St. Helena, one of the oldest and most revered treatment centers in California. My mother and her friends from church cleaned up the horrifying mess of my apartment and wrote me encouraging notes in a little red book of thoughts and prayers. My mother gave me the little book on her first visit, telling me how when she was cleaning my apartment she had found some little shoes and a shirt I had bought at the thrift store for Rocket, carefully folded on my counter, and when she saw them she had dropped her head into her arms and wept, because she knew in that moment how hard I was trying, and how I was dying.\n\nIn the new rehab, I didn't care how I compared to you, and I didn't care if you were sicker than me or not, and I didn't care what you did in the 1980s. _Just leave me the_ _fuck alone._ The doctors there explained that I was in \"late stage alcoholism\" and my liver was not looking good. _Ah, whatever. Where can I have a cigarette?_ It was a nonsmoking facility, so I had to walk up a hill behind the hospital and hide in the bushes to smoke as often as I could. I hung out with a dude who drank hand sanitizer once in jail. At our first AA meeting in the town of St. Helena, I considered making a break for the Chevron across the street, thinking I could hitchhike home, before recalling yet another glitch in my plan: I had been evicted and thus had no home. I figured the outlaw's trailer was most likely still standing. _I'd always be welcome there._ Like Alice, I had no real hope of recovery.\n\nBut on the second weekend, my mother brought Ava and Rocket to visit me, and Ava handed me a piece of paper with a poem she had written. It read:\n\n_March 8, 2008_\n\n_The skies are so blue_\n\n_The sun is shining._\n\n_I want to see you._\n\n_I miss you so much_\n\n_I really do_\n\n_Why do you ever want to leave me_\n\n_ever in these days?_\n\n_We do not have to be in this world._\n\n_We can be flying on unicorns every day._\n\n_It seems so difficult every single day._\n\n_Why do you have to be gone?_\n\n_I love you so much._\n\n_It seems I haven't seen you for three years._\n\n_I'm so happy_\n\n_I don't want to leave you ever._\n\nI read it and knew there was no choice but to stay. My attitude transformed with the words \"We do not have to be in this world.\" My baby was willing to go anywhere, anywhere to be with me. How could I not listen? How could I not go with her? My heart ached for that place, too.\n\nMy mind circled my children's faces every morning when I awoke, and each day in group, and when we sat in the cafeteria pushing food around our plastic trays. I wrote my children letters and completed every soul-searching therapy assignment. I attended the mindfulness meditations, wrote in my journal, and the whole rehab knew I was going to make it. If rehabs gave a \"most likely to succeed\" award, I would have won it. I left healthy and energized, with my counselor's words echoing in my brain: \"I've been here a long time, Janelle, and I know who's going to make it. _You_ are going to make it.\"\n\nMac picked me up on my last day. Each night in rehab, I had stood in the hallway leaning against a wall, discussing with him on a pay phone my great turnaround\u2014fighting, crying, planning\u2014until we agreed to reunite our family at his parents' ranch. He and his friends finished moving my belongings out of the sick apartment and into a storage unit, and on the evening Mac and I drove to his family's home, where he was living and we had lived many years before, I realized I was as happy and clean and full of love as the day we brought our first baby home.\n\nSix days after that night, six days after the night my children squealed and laughed and jumped into my arms because we were finally together again, a family, I told Mac I needed to go get some bread.\n\nI returned to the trailer where I nearly overdosed. It was my twenty-ninth birthday.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nNine months later, in December of 2008, Mac let me know he was finished. With me, with the marriage. I knew it was true. While he spoke, I drove north on Highway 5 on my way home from the Anza Borrego desert. I had gone south with a friend in a three a.m. idea, but I drank all my money and expended all my gas. I considered pawning my laptop, but instead called Mac. He deposited fifty dollars in my account, just enough for gas to get home. On my way, I called to thank him.\n\nI tried everything, but he was done. I groveled. I cried and begged, but the more I scrambled, the more calmly he spoke. \"Janelle, I'm done waiting for you.\" I wished he would at least rage. There's room for negotiation in anger. But there's nothing in neutrality. There's no game in surrender.\n\nI had lost him.\n\nHe had not taken a drink since March of 2007. When we would have lunch together, I'd suggest we order Coronas, and he'd say \"No, thanks. One is too many and a thousand never enough.\" He had now found sobriety in those rooms for drunks I knew were full of lies.\n\n_Too bad I'm not like them_ , I'd think.\n\nBack in Woodland, I weaseled into my mother's house through lies and manipulation, convincing her I was sober. She posted a list of house rules on the refrigerator as if I were seventeen years old. Curfew, medicine compliance, abstinence from alcohol. I wasn't doing drugs any more, and my outlaw friend was forced to return to _her_ parents. They too thought she was going to die. From my mother's house, I managed to pull it together just enough to return to my job at the law firm.\n\nNo longer drinking daily, I clenched my fists through three dry days, then drank again. I'd drink for two or three or four days straight, then, after a night of withdrawal, I'd maybe make it to work. Then I would swear it off. Then three more sober days would pass, and it would all start over again. I emerged from each binge in confused, gray hopelessness, but soon I didn't care anymore.\n\nI couldn't get relief. I couldn't help but try.\n\nMy neighbor, a young man whose kindness seemed limitless, offered me a shot of Dilaudid one day. I watched him flick the tip of the needle. \"Why do you do that?\"\n\n\"To remove air bubbles. If one gets in your vein, it will kill you.\" He laughed, as if that were funny.\n\nHere was the suicide rock star vibe I used to admire from afar. _How tough. How cool._ I didn't feel tough. I didn't feel cool. He tied my arm and pulled it and plunged the syringe. Red-orange light coursed through me. I dropped onto the couch and didn't move for three hours. I understood the appeal immediately, but I didn't want to die.\n\nI did it only three more times.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nI saw my children for a few moments two or three days a week, but only at my mother's house. I didn't take them places. I didn't make them meals. I didn't stick around.\n\n_I have reasons to go, kids. I'm sorry. I have reasons I can't be there. The alcohol has stopped working. I have to keep trying._\n\nI never bought the replacement silk streamer. Ava never asked. She still had the box by her bed. I missed her graduation from primary school. My mother sent me photos, and I showed them to the people I was with. \"Look at my little girl!\" I beamed.\n\nIn the throes of the morning, I heard Rocket's voice again.\n\n\"Mama, home.\"\n\nBut I knew I couldn't stay.\n**11**\n\n# **I Found God in a Leaf Blower, and I Fucking Hate Leaf Blowers**\n\nNothing happened on March 5, 2009, that had not happened a thousand times before. I woke at nine or ten or eleven a.m. in a bed in my mother's house, where I was still living, under a big window with no screen and blinds that didn't shut all the way because I had broken them. Sometimes I needed to crawl in through the window because I smelled like alcohol and was lying.\n\nThe sun beat me through the blinds that wouldn't shut, relentless against my pounding head. I was supposed to be at work, but I had called in sick again. They were probably going to let me go soon. I could feel I was riding the last few feet of their tolerance. My mother drove Ava and Rocket to school that morning. Mac, my mother, father, grandparents, and in-laws were working. Everybody was working. Everybody was away in the world, living their day.\n\nI sweated and shook, closed and opened my eyes in the fog and pain behind them. It was nothing. One more time. One more day. _Here we go, old friend._\n\nI rolled over and looked at the pile of books on the bedside table\u2014literature, some self-help stuff. An AA book. A glass half full of water. A journal I hadn't written in for years. I rolled over and stared at those books and felt a burn in my eyes and brain as something sunk into the realm of knowing. I closed my eyes, flipped onto my back, then to the other side, and back again\u2014enraged, desperate, and agitated, moving for the sake of passing the time, to shake the frenetic feeling from my blood. I stared at the pile of books again, and when I saw them this time, for some reason, I saw the end of my life.\n\nI saw it roll out in front of me like a carpet might unroll, the years unfolding one at a time down a street or giant hallway, and I saw the end of it. I saw it with my whole body and felt it with every shred of vision I had in that condition.\n\nI would die a hopeless, useless alcoholic, and there was nothing I could do about it.\n\nThat was the part that killed me right there: I had no defense. I was out of ideas. I had no strategy, and I had no person or thing left to blame. I was dying. Or dead. My children and family were gone because they should be. My family had disintegrated, my life was in ruins, because I had no idea how to _live it_. I couldn't take one more step sober, and I couldn't take one more step drunk. I accepted that end. I accepted it in my bones.\n\nI always had a next move. As soon as _this one thing_ happened I would be happy, and my life would work, and I would stop drinking. As soon as _this one thing_ happened, I would manage my drinking. But I had exhausted every plan, every move, every belief. Every therapist, every geographic rearrangement, every theory, every book, every rehab, every medication. I tried love and unlove and job and no job, rock-n-roll and hiding out, desk jobs and grad school and no school. I tried babies and friends and no babies and no friends. I tried living alone and living with others. I tried talking through it and living lies in silence. I tried churches and swearing with oaths and getting naked with women in teepees. I tried cutting it out of me with blades. I tried begging the gods. I tried retreats. I tried gurus. I tried pills.\n\nAnd it all failed.\n\nI failed.\n\nI drank. That was my future. No matter what, I would always drink again.\n\nLeveled under that window, I wanted nothing back. I knew I had no footing to demand a return of the people or life I loved.\n\nI suppose the bottle killed me that day\u2014the fighter, the one who kicks and screams and rails against powerlessness. It killed the one who hated the tweakers, who wanted to be better than others, who whined and cried\u2014postured and fought\u2014about what she \"deserved.\" Those Nikes. A more intellectually challenging job. Respect. It killed the one who resented my father for being gone those years, and it killed the one who strategized, polished things up, set it up _one more time_. Above all, it killed my self-pity.\n\nI saw in that moment I had already received everything I \"deserved,\" everything I had built, brick by brick, one day at a time.\n\nI would always drink again, and alcohol was my God.\n\nThe truth descended like a veil of black around me, pushed out in every direction of my mind and the room. I heard lawnmowers outside, people tending to their yards, leaf blowers\u2014those fucking things\u2014people driving by. I heard a dog yap here and there, somebody's pet that was cared for, fed, walked. People on their way to work, maybe visiting a friend, an errand, a quick stop home for lunch. I heard the world right outside that window. I heard it happening, moving, bustling, alive, and for the first time in my life I wanted more than anything to be a part of that world. I wanted to wake up and know where I would be that evening. I wanted to pick my children up from school. I wanted to take my trash out, answer mail, get up and make coffee, go to work, and have it all mean something. I wanted to find some satisfaction in these tasks, these tiny stupid life things we do.\n\nI wanted to be a wife. Mother. Employee. Friend. I didn't want my kids back, my family, my husband. I didn't want anything but to live one single day free. I wanted freedom.\n\nI wanted freedom.\n\nThe bottle killed me that day. I found God in a leaf blower, got up, and walked into the sound.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nI never would have thought to look there, in total defeat. I never would have thought giving up would bring me to life, that surrender would be my hope. It's almost funny. All those rehabs were about bolstering me, telling me I was capable and smart and worth more. It was always about arming myself and fighting, _beating this alcoholism._ We talked about my childhood and what I deserved and didn't get and how that wounded and broke me.\n\n_Well, that's nice, but it still doesn't give me a solution, does it? I'm still not showing up to my kid's birthday celebrations, and I'm still somehow unable to silence the voices that insist, \"Go ahead. Take a drink. It's going to be different this time.\" I still can't seem to make myself change no matter what I throw at it or how hard I want it. I always go back to the booze, and the drugs, and the same nonsense of my entire life. I know my problem inside out and backwards and all the catchphrases, and Jung and I are best friends and DBT and CBT and all the rest. I get it all, I know it all\u2014I am no fool._ _But you're trying to fix a broken brain with the broken brain, and if that isn't insanity then I don't know what is._\n\nWhen I died at the bottom of that bottle I abandoned the fight. I stopped caring what my brain said, realized my life was what it was because _I was running it._ My ego, my thoughts, my plans, and my \"needs.\" I spent years trying to manage it all, trying to control and fix things. If I thought it, it was true. Even though the results of that reliance were disastrous, it never occurred to me I could ignore it, that I could rely on something else, something outside of me, something that perhaps wanted better for me than shitting in bags and loneliness.\n\nOf course I did not figure these things out on my own. From that bed, I went to the only place I knew would accept me, the only place that might understand, the place I had gone for two years without ever staying sober, the place I'd go on cold nights after a bottle of whiskey, where I would bang on the table and tell them they were full of shit, the place where the people put a hand on my shoulder and said, \"Keep coming back, Janelle.\"\n\nI was taught these things by a washed-up ex-gutter drunk who had spent a good portion of his life shooting cocaine in a refrigerator box. He was in his late forties, with a wife and two children. He had blond hair and glasses and shimmering blue eyes. I met him while I was smoking out in front of the alcoholics' meeting hall. He watched me tell my story of woe to a poor sot next to me, but when he got up, he handed me a piece of paper and said, \"You need help? Call me tomorrow.\" And I did.\n\nI was taught this by the group of drunks I had been hanging out with for years but could never hear or see because I wasn't like them yet. I wasn't leveled yet. My ideas were better than theirs. Until that day I was rearranged, ran out of ideas, and lost faith in my ability to make new ones. I showed up broken, fumbling for words, and they didn't care. They offered me a new perception.\n\n_Universe, take it. Take it all. God, whatever. I don't know about God. I don't know if he or she or it is up there looking at me or sent me that desperation and surrender. I don't know a single thing about any of that, but I know when I died, when I stepped out of the way and my bones knew I was utterly powerless, help started flooding in like the man from Sebastopol who happened upon us on the beach on an island in the Caribbean, took us home, and didn't murder us._\n\nI got some help from that washed-up gutter drunk because somebody helped him. He didn't tell me warm and beautiful things. He said I was a dead woman. He said, \"We're all in various stages of 'my case is different.'\" He said I was just another drunk.\n\nHe told me, \"Janelle, in your case, if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it's probably a fire hydrant.\" His words taught me I had an unreliable brain, and it would always lead me to another drink. For the first time, I realized my perceptions were wrong, and if I wanted to live, I had to get a new set of eyes. I called him Good News Jack, because he was full of news that sounded mean and awful except it was setting me free, and I knew it. It sounded like this: \"If your ideas worked so well, what the fuck are you doing here?\"\n\nIt sounded like this, too: \"We aren't looking for another idea, another mental construct, more mind candy. We're looking for a rebuilding, access to a power that can save your sorry ass.\"\n\nAnd I believed him, because I had nothing else. I decided I'd give his suggestions a try because I had exhausted all other options, and I figured at least this way there was _potential_ for change.\n\nWhen I told Good News Jack I had a bit of a shady past with God, he said, \"Janelle, if you're sittin' there and your ass is on fire, and I walk up with a fire hose, offering to put it out, are you going to tell me, 'Hold up. No thanks. I don't believe in fire hoses?' No, motherfucker, of course you're not. You're going to say 'Yes, please' and hope it works.\"\n\nI said \"Yes, please\" and hoped it worked. I did not think it would. Why would I? Nothing ever worked. I fully expected to drink again. I even told that room of ex-drunks: \"Look, I'm going to do everything your book says so that when it fails, I can drink again with a clear conscience.\"\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nGood News Jack told me that people trying to live on their own and failing desperately is an ancient process, and some of them are lucky enough to fail so badly they die while breathing, and surrender brings them to God, or life, which is one and the same. I'm not talking about Jesus or baptism or any other ritual thing. I'm talking about really, truthfully not being able to live, and somehow having the ability to recognize it, admit it, and try something new. I'm talking about a rebirth that happens from the bottom up, not as a great new belief, but as a complete rearrangement from a flattening, when everything you thought you knew to be true, that you thought you knew about yourself, turns out to be wrong. A decimation. Leveled, and rebuilt. With new eyes. New ground. New power.\n\nThey say many of the mystics had that experience. I was not a mystic. St. Francis was, and he was something of a drunken loser. He too found himself miserable. He wrote that when you \"die unto self you awaken to eternal life.\" Not heaven. Fuck heaven. Fuck the afterlife. I had enough of that as a kid in church wondering if the Big Guy could ever overlook last night. Eternal life, as in literally the element of life that is eternal. The power. The energy. The pulse holding the stars. The pull of the planets. The universe beyond human comprehension. The thing that makes me alive beyond breath.\n\nMaybe we are just masses of meaningless flesh and blood, but it sure as hell doesn't feel that way when I really feel deep into my gut, or look at the ocean or a redwood in Mendocino County, or smell the breath of my baby. Those damn stars glaring down at me. All the clich\u00e9s. Tell me we know how it works. Tell me science explains it all. Tell me we haven't just chosen the God of Reason over the God of Mystery and that we're stronger and braver and more intellectually sound because we don't have \"faith\" like those pathetic believers. We're stronger, I know. But that faith simply has a different polish.\n\nAnd anyway I didn't have faith in any damn thing other than that I was not God, and my brain was not reliable for a whole lot beyond making a cup of coffee or doing a math equation or planning my day or a trip or solving problems of the intellect.\n\nBut my problems have never been of the intellect. Mine were of the heart and bones.\n\nMy brain can't bring peace. It can't bring life. For that, I had to let go and hover over the reef, traveling into the black\u2014a nothing, a tiny nothing paddling and kicking across the expanse of blue, taking deep breaths and heading for the shore, all I know of safety, buoyed by ancient waters pulled forever by a cratered moon.\n\n# **Part Three**\n**12**\n\n# [**There Are Three Types of  \nMothers in the World\u2014I Am None of Them**](TOC.xhtml)\n\nAlcoholism killed me three weeks before my thirtieth birthday. Rocket was three and Ava was seven, and I had no idea how to drive either of them to school. They attended private schools in Davis, my old college town, the one I used to frequent with my rhinestone Playboy bunny diaper bag. I neither chose nor paid for those schools and had visited them only a handful of times. Perhaps this should have embarrassed me, but two months before that I was drinking bottom-shelf half pints and smoking Pall Malls alone in a beige Ford Taurus (the very same Taurus I now drove to pick up my adorable kids at their adorable schools). I knew embarrassing, and _this was not it_.\n\nThe front doors of their schools were kept locked, and I always wondered if it was to keep the kids in or the riffraff out. Except there was no riffraff. This was Davis. There were merely \"nice\" people in sustainably sourced shoes. On further thought, I realized I was the riffraff.\n\nWe had to use a code to enter the blue-trimmed, glass-walled fortress, but I didn't know it the first time I tried to get in. I stood at the door of Ava's school yanking and observing the button box until the receptionist took pity on me and opened the door, deciding, I suppose, to let the riffraff in. \"Hi! Thank you,\" I said. \"I'm Ava's mother.\"\n\n\"Oh! Hello! Heard so much about you!\" She smiled. I smiled too, thinking about the layers of potential meaning in her sentence.\n\n\"Yes. It's nice to be here,\" I said.\n\n\"Very nice to meet you,\" the principal said, peeking her head from around the corner. As she shook my hand, I thought for a moment she was gaining a visual on the dirtbag absentee mother. _Fine with me. Take a look._\n\nI had never signed the attendance forms on the front desk. I didn't know where to park, or where their classrooms were, or what the hell \"car line\" was. I didn't know about cubbies and folders. I had never met their teachers.\n\nAnd there were other parents _everywhere_ , specimens in capris and cargo shorts who had been navigating Scholastic order forms for a long time. Moms and dads who had never missed a parent-teacher conference, let alone a kindergarten graduation, and certainly not because the bottle rendered them useless. But I didn't feel shame, even when the best of them strolled past me. I was too busy enjoying the scenery, a thousand things I'd never seen before.\n\nUntil then, I had spent my entire adult life drunk, in the aftermath of drunk, in the pursuit of drunk, in the avoidance of drunk, or in the precarious hell of in-between drunk. In this condition, life is not \"dealt with\" or \"worked through\" or \"handled,\" even during periods of \"sobriety.\" There is no sober. There is occasional physical detoxification, but there is no mental function of the un-addicted. Or there is, but it's on the primal instinctual level\u2014as in, eat, pee, shit, work, bathe.\n\nBasically, I was alcohol's bitch.\n\nThis makes for a rather exciting life if one manages to not die and stay sober. The world around me was cast suddenly in Technicolor, and for a moment, the dull grays turned into vivid light.\n\nI was a child those first few months of sobriety. I was a child skipping through the halls at recess, doing cannonballs into a swimming pool, or crawling into bed on Christmas Eve. I was a kid in fucking Disneyland.\n\nMac and I saw each other often, but I wasn't toiling for our reunification. Instead, I was chasing sobriety like a desperate lover. I knew I had no ground for demands on Mac anyway, though I yearned for our family. I remember watching him with our babies in those early weeks of sobriety\u2014the way he hoisted Rocket onto his shoulders, and brushed Ava's hair\u2014 _this is my family_ , I'd think. And it was so fucking beautiful. The way he held their hands and tied their shoes and sat with them at night on the couch for as long as they wanted. I was watching a father with his kids. How pure it felt after the life I had been living. How warm, like coming home, like crawling into your own bed after two weeks in motel rooms. I wanted in with my whole heart, but it was not for me to decide.\n\nMac held me at a safe distance, dropping by sometimes, meeting me for coffee. He came by my mother's house on my birthday after I got sober. He sat at the other end of her dining table, observing me quietly. He had picked me up a couple of Grateful Dead patches from a record store in Monterey. \"I thought you could sew them onto your hoodie,\" he said. He didn't stay for cake, and I felt a little slighted.\n\nWhen I asked him about it, he said, \"I don't know if I want anything to do with you, Janelle.\" I understood that. I wasn't sure I wanted anything to do with myself.\n\nTwo months later, Mac agreed to take the kids with me to Half Moon Bay, a heavenly coastal town near San Francisco where the cypress trees and dunes turn life into the soft roar of merciless waves. When we were almost to Highway 1, I mentioned I couldn't see well through the dirty windshield. Mac suggested with brilliant nonchalance that I \"use the washer fluid.\" When I curled my lip at him to say, \"God, that's rich,\" he informed me he had added fluid to my car when we stopped for gas. \"Holy shit!\" I said, forgetting entirely this was a typical adult activity.\n\nI clicked it on, and it worked. I clicked it on, and it _worked_! I turned the dial and water came out, and the wipers moved, sweeping the bug guts and dust right out of my way.\n\n\"Hey kids! It's _raining_!\" I yelled. I thought I was damn funny, and so did they, and I remember our delight. I remember feeling capable and alive and real. I had a car with working parts. I had a family. I had a body and air to breathe and I was free to drive to the beach and make stupid jokes and my kids would laugh, because I'm their mother and they think I'm wonderful and funny and nobody cares.\n\n_Nobody sees me. I am unseen. I'm just one among all of you. I can use a lawnmower on a Saturday morning. I can punch the numbers in the fancy school door. I can show up for parent-teacher conferences\u2014but more importantly, I can miss them sometimes and still look you in the eye, because I really did forget. I was not taking lines of cocaine off the hallway mirror and remembering the meeting in the quicksand of the morning._\n\nI knew when he told me about the washer fluid that he was going to try, that he was still willing to help me, to show up for us again. He had told me once, \"Janelle, I will always help you again,\" though I thought perhaps that promise had expired. That we, I suppose, had expired.\n\nWe never formally reunited. That was not our way. After we met for the first time, we were _together_. When were apart, it was only in body. And when he said, \"I don't know why, but I really believe you're different this time,\" I knew we had never left the domain of our love. Although it was twisted up and weird and unspeakable\u2014built on bad decisions and slightly better ones\u2014it was ours.\n\nAnd for people like us, who have shivered in the emptiness of stone-cold addiction, the warmth of a family bed need not be discussed. Its existence is enough. One simply crawls in.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nGood News Jack and I met three or four times a week either in his backyard or in the tiny office at his house, where I would sit facing him alongside the family computer and an abandoned treadmill. He would wedge a chair under the doorknob while his five-year-old daughter body-slammed it trying to get in, and I tried to understand the strange things he'd say, like: \"If nothing changes, nothing changes,\" and that I was \"wrong until further notice.\"\n\nUnder normal circumstances, I would have told him to go fuck himself, but I was fresh out of comebacks. So I took actions I may or may not have agreed with, and often barely understood, because Jack stood in front of me a free man, and I knew he drank like I drank and for the same reasons. I would have followed him anywhere to gain what he had.\n\nAnd yet, we seemed to speak little of alcohol, and he only mentioned the \"tools\" I learned in rehab to cackle about how they \"never work for chronic alkies like us.\" He had no interest in \"phone lists\" (which, for the uninitiated, are lists of phone numbers of sober friends we are supposed to call when we're about to relapse. The idea is that we never leave home without the list, and just when we're about to catapult ourselves into sheer disaster, we call somebody to talk us out of it. My problem was I never believed I was about to catapult myself into sheer disaster. I believed I was going to _prove I could drink like a lady this time_ , whatever the hell that meant. While I did not see a need to trouble my rehab friends with my own innocuous drinking, I did occasionally wonder if I should give them a jingle to help them learn how to drink better).\n\nGood News Jack wouldn't even feign interest in my \"relapse triggers\" or complex emotional pain rooted in the tenuous attachments of my inner child. He did, however, grow giddy at the prospect of dissecting at an atomic level the manifestations of my self-centeredness. When I'd protest, he'd say, \"Do you really want your life to change, or do you want to remain an asshole with better consequences?\" The most shocking part was I found myself admitting I wanted to remain an asshole, and in fact had never heard myself articulated so succinctly.\n\nSaying it out loud felt like cold water on a hot day, some longed-for honesty in a parched mouth. And when I admitted such things, his face would beam, and he'd shout, \"Yes! Janelle! That is the honesty you need to stay sober. No more self-delusion. No more bullshit. You're a selfish fuck!\" He'd roar with laughter, as if being a selfish fuck was the happiest thought he'd ever entertained.\n\n\"That's what's killing you, you know? All of us\u2014we're all whistling past the graveyard, sayin', 'Well it ain't gonna happen to me.'\" He took a drag of his Marlboro Red while I visualized myself in all those rehabs\u2014the throw blanket, the Nikes, the promises to my children\u2014whistling how I was \"fine,\" pretending, posturing, but truly believing my own lies. _I was_ _in_ _the graveyard setting up a Buddha statue and judging tweakers._\n\n\"So what do we do?\" I was on the edge of my damn seat.\n\n\"Recognize that you, _you_ are the problem. You! You're the problem! You've always been the fucking problem! Isn't that wonderful?\"\n\n\"I have never heard anything more wonderful, Jack,\" I said flatly, rolling my eyes.\n\n\"Because there is power there, you fool. Power. That's what you need, what you've always needed, right? You aren't a victim! You try to arrange your life and control everyone to fix your inner self. It never works. You try harder. People hate you more. All the while you're looking at the damn problem!\" He laughed again.\n\nWhen he spoke words like this, it sounded like a symphony, as if every word was a note falling one by one into a song so painfully beautiful I would sometimes sit silently across from him with tears falling down my face. I couldn't explain it\u2014what his words meant, how they pulled the truth from me, or how they cracked open the catacombs of my soul. They seemed to send bright light into my most hideous corners of shame and deceit. He was right. It felt like hope.\n\n\"You never said what we do,\" I said.\n\n\"Get the fuck out of yourself, Janelle. That's what we do.\"\n\nIn therapy, it had always been about me\u2014my childhood, my parents, my thoughts, my goals. But when I told Jack my perception of things, he'd say, \"You know, Janelle, you could just jump off the crazy train rather than riding it all the way to the bitter end.\" And then he would say that thing about the ducks and fire hydrant and tell me _again_ to think of others, which was another shoddy plan as far as I was concerned.\n\nOne day, when the gleeful dust of new sobriety had settled, I was trying to make Ava and Rocket sandwiches but was somehow failing. I stood in my mother's kitchen behind a cutting board, staring at bread and turkey, feeling like I might explode from restlessness. I told the kids I'd be right back and went outside to call Good News Jack.\n\n\"I just feel like shit, Jack. I do not feel 'good' at all.\" I was angry and accusatory, as if his sobriety plan had already let me down.\n\nWithout hesitation, he answered, \"I never promised you'd feel good. I promised you'd never have to drink again.\" I thought about that, about not feeling good and simply dealing with it, about diminishing the importance of \"feelings\"\u2014as in, sometimes you feel like trash, and you carry on without fixing it. He was a well of revolutionary information.\n\n\"What the hell are you doing right now anyway?\" he asked.\n\n\"I was supposed to make the kids lunch, but I freaked out.\"\n\n\"Go fucking make them lunch and stop thinking about yourself.\" Then he hung up on me. He had a way that really made me feel loved.\n\nOver time, I realized Jack had given me a job: be in the world, try to be of service to others, and clean up the damage of my past. When I hung out there, I lived in the sunshine. I lived in the knowing that I had been rearranged, and the booze obsession had left me, and I was free to go about the world, to live like any other semi-functioning whacko on the planet.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\n\"So, did your daughter get into G.A.T.E.?\" she asked, stopping me in the hallway as I headed to Ava's second grade classroom.\n\nI had recently learned that standard behavior around Ava's school was to move from the fancy private school to a fancy public school when the child reached third grade, to take advantage of \"Gifted and Talented Education,\" which was where all the superior kids were headed. The woman standing before me was their captain. She had adopted _her_ children from another country, which also made her captain of the white liberals. She was around fifty, with black, gray-streaked hair, and owned an impressive array of Tevas. She had dark brown eyes and a brow that threatened to destroy me if I said something out of line. Sadly for me, I rarely knew where that line was.\n\n\"No, she didn't,\" I said, shrugging.\n\nShe jolted, tilting slightly forward and raising her eyebrows in shock, as if I had just told her my dog was bleeding to death in my car. After the initial blow wore off, her face registered thinly veiled disgust, but it wasn't until the pity settled into her eyes that I felt her derision, and thought with a stab that maybe my daughter wasn't as smart as I thought she was. I recalled the day my mother took her to the exam, and how I didn't go with her, and I wondered if I should have. I considered having her retake it, and then remembered I didn't care.\n\n_My kid is fine. I am fine. She's smart, and I'm sort of smart. For whatever reason, she didn't pass the test._ I looked up and shrugged again.\n\n\"Oh, well. That's too bad,\" the lady stammered, straightening her North Face vest.\n\n\"Is it too bad?\" I answered, smiling, before I turned and walked away.\n\nI signed my daughter out, chatted with the receptionist, held my girl's hand on our way to the car to make sure she was safe, and all these actions felt like tiny miracles. I gave a death glare to the woman when I saw her in the parking lot, because I was sober, not Jesus.\n\nOn my way home, I realized with a sort of stunned despondency that the only purpose of that exchange was for Captain Gifted to determine if I was as respectable a mother as she was. I had temporarily forgotten adults acted like that, although I should have recognized it immediately as the \"healthy person\" version of \"Who's the sickest in the room?\"\n\nAfter that day, I began to notice that mothers were an extremely strange bunch, and for my own amusement, I began categorizing them based on money, parenting choices, and politics. Captain Gifted was Type I: The Put-Together Enlightened Mother Who Is Definitely Better Than Me. This type of mother is a living spreadsheet. She's read all essential theories of parenting, her spice cabinet is alphabetized, and her bottom sheets are folded in the linen closet. She probably has a PhD and drives a Prius. She definitely composts and wears a lot of fleece purchased from REI. She looks at motherhood as a complex responsibility to be calculated and controlled to achieve optimum outcomes. If I were _as proficient as she is_ , my outcomes would also shine like beacons of hope in a dark forest. She will remind me of this frequently, but not directly, through earnest and heartfelt \"suggestions,\" which she will view as charitable and I will view as a direct assault on all that is good in the world.\n\nThen there is Type II: The Why Is Everybody Making a Big Deal Out of This Mother, who stays at home with her two (possibly three) children and has any situation handled in her skinny jeans, strategically undone hair, and never-chipped pedicures. She met her husband while living abroad and posts a lot of photos of herself drinking red wine on a patio. She says things like \"I make my own cashew butter\" and \"I never stop eating,\" which is confusing, because I wasn't as skinny as her during the skinny days I reflect upon with great yearning. One imagines this is made possible by her deeply spiritual attachment to yoga combined with a diet of kale smoothies drunk out of mason jars and vegan gluten-free zucchini bread\u2014which she brings to our playdate at the park, where we sit on a handmade vintage quilt while she coos gentle directions to her children in one of the Romance languages.\n\nAnd then there is Type III: The Children Are Everything, Harried Busy-Bee Mother. Under no circumstances may I drop an F-bomb in this one's presence. She's on every PTA, preschool, and church board of directors, and not to be helpful. She's in it to win. _You think this preschool runs itself?_ she seems to ask. _Lady, they're just crafts_ , I think. \"Organize the pipe cleaners, bitches!\" she screams, but only with her grim eyes. She will spend a solid hour discussing whether the teacher's gift card should come from Target or Nordstrom or Starbucks. At minute two, I will want to stand up and scream, \"NOBODY FUCKING CARES,\" but I cannot, because she's always smiling. The smiling makes me wonder if she locks puppies in closets or sniffs Krazy Glue in the evenings. Then I feel bad again for thinking these things because she's so goddamn \"nice.\"\n\nAlright, there are more than three. There's the Super Political Wounded Mother, who's been gaslighted since birth and complains constantly but can't change on account of internalized misogyny. She barely makes it through the day because _life is harder for her than the rest of us_. Her degree in gender studies compels her to suggest at every meeting that we \"unpack our privilege,\" but later she will instruct people of color on Facebook how they can fight oppression more pleasantly. Her children are very deep. The entire planet wants to pass her a note reading: \"Hey lady, stop talking. Or at least move to Portland.\"\n\nIncidentally, I am grateful I was not yet on social media when I was drinking.\n\nThere's also the Aloof Badass Mother, who doesn't give a damn about any of this nonsense because she's drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon and getting tattooed and _pretty much never showing up to anything because it's all too mainstream._ She and her partner are about to sell their house to backpack around Thailand. She has a Tumblr and a vintage typewriter. She is polyamorous and attends Burning Man in feathers, atop a unicorn bicycle.\n\nAnd, of course, there's the Earth Crystal Sage Mama, who manages to incorporate the words \"womb,\" \"goddess,\" or \"menstrual blood\" into damn near every conversation and once told me that cutting the umbilical cord is a form of \"violence.\" She has a shamanic weaving teacher, smells like Dead shows and garlic, and truly believes there is an ancestral warrior leading her life on a daily basis. Her kid is named Lotus Reef and never wears shoes but can absolutely kill it in Hula-Hooping.\n\nWhether or not these categories existed in reality, what I saw was that I fit _nowhere_. I lived in a house with linoleum floors and spent my afternoons with an ex-cocaine addict so I could remain among the living. I had trouble keeping the floor of my car visible at all, let alone composting kitchen scraps. I couldn't read the group emails from the parent associations because nobody understood the \"reply all\" function and I got bored by email number nine in the string of nine thousand.\n\nBut when I made jokes about the email thread, the other mothers looked at me like I was a dead bird on the porch, and then a week later I'd realize I missed an event because in email number 347, _the event was clearly outlined_ , but I didn't read it because it was past email number nine.\n\nI didn't fit in with the \"read the books and learn and do it right\" mothers because I read things, implemented them in a fury of excitement and staunch devotion, then forgot about them entirely three days later. I'd look at an abandoned chore chart as it leaned sadly against the wall and think, _If only_. Then I'd yell at my kids to do some chores because \"I can't live this way anymore!\"\n\n_Maybe we should start another chore chart_ , I'd think.\n\nOf course I didn't fit with the Etsy hipsters either, because I wore Target maternity jeans six months after I had the baby. I knew I was wearing the \"mom jeans\" we're all taught to avoid like Red #2 dye and simple carbs, but _I never got around to buying other pants._\n\nBut even when I tried to fit in with other mothers, my mouth would ruin it behind my back. One little ill-timed expletive and the whole thing would go to hell. We'd do fine at the sandbox until I dropped a \"fuck,\" thinking it added to the moment, then feeling the wrath of a woman who believed nobody should swear on hallowed kid ground.\n\n_Oh, they couldn't hear me_ , I'd think, and mumble \"Fuck\" again, only this time in my head, because _I am in trouble now and I made it weird._ _Do I attempt to salvage this relationship? Nah. Move on. It was based on lies anyway._\n\nMotherly small talk was complicated because we were not actually talking about the thing we were talking about. We were both supposed to know this and stick to the rules, but I've been bad at that since the sixth grade, when my teacher duct-taped my mouth shut because I wouldn't stop talking.\n\nIt didn't even occur to me to censor the audible version of my thoughts _at all_ until I had a certain epiphany at age sixteen, when I realized girls were getting the boys because they _act differently around them_ and _you, Janelle, you're still admitting you prefer the Allman Brothers over Nirvana and it's 1996_.\n\nI tended to say the thing that was true as opposed to the more palatable alternative, and this really concerned people, particularly when it involved raising America.\n\n(Mothers don't admit that. Especially at the park.)\n\n\"What exactly do we have here?\" they seemed to ask. \"Do we eat it? Kick it? Counsel it?\"\n\nProbably.\n\nI knew the game. I knew we were supposed to talk-not-talk about whose partner was the best and wealthiest, whose preschooler was the smartest, and whose baby was the most advanced, but I couldn't play. I tried a few hundred times, but eventually I focused on getting it over with by saying something like \"Yeah, my son is three and barely talks,\" or, \"My daughter refers to her vagina as a 'wiener shooter.'\"\n\n_You win._\n\n_Your kid is smarter. The end. And yes, you have more money and, yes, more education, and your baby, I know! Your baby crawled at three months and talked at six months and slept through the night at twelve minutes\u2014what a miracle! Must be superior genetics._\n\n_Now can we just hang out? I'm bored._\n\n_Can we talk about the way these kids give and suck life by the minute, day by day, and how sometimes you're sure you've ruined your life through the reproductive process, but five minutes later you're in tears as you pack the newborn clothes into the giveaway box? The way the years mock you with their passing, lull you into the safety and surety and vague comfort of knowing your children will always be small, until you realize it will soon be over? Done. Your time is done. Sorry. You should have paid closer attention. Should have held on tighter. Try not to fuck it up with the others._\n\n_But you already are. You're always already fucking it up. Can we talk about that?_\n\n_Let's not talk about how we all became better versions of ourselves the day we became parents, and, please, would you stop pretending you did? Because your holier-than-thou shit makes me worry you watch dinosaur porn after the kids go to bed. Your steadfast focus on seasonal cupcakes and organic kombucha concerns me. Look, I've got some too. I know all about gut flora. But please. Is that all there is?_\n\n_You didn't become some G-rated version of yourself and you know it._\n\n_But let's not talk about that either. Let's make a couple of jokes, chill out, and make fun of \"man colds\" or \"wife colds\"\u2014do those exist?\u2014and how hard it is to get kids to do chores when they're bickering and awful and you think, \"I'd rather do it myself than listen to this!\" No, but seriously, husband, you're fine. Why are you on the couch whining? Call your mom. Maybe she cares. I've had a cold for nine weeks, asshole._\n\n_Let's talk about that. Let's talk about sleeping babies and newborn breath and how I once wanted to kill myself after I had my baby because it seemed the only or best solution to the pain._\n\n_Maybe we won't talk about that at the park. Let's talk about something else._\n\n_Let's talk about coffee. You can talk about wine. I don't drink wine because I drank all the wine and alcohol has a tendency to turn me into a homeless person, but we can talk about it anyway because I understand. We don't need to pretend._\n\n_Let's talk about how we haven't seen the floor of our cars in months, and how it smells oddly, always, of apples (but where are the actual apples?), and how the sound of nonstop kid chattering makes my head spin, but I still lie down at night wishing I had listened because they won't be chattering forever._\n\n_Let's talk about my son, the quiet one, who squeaks and yells and screams and runs, all the time. I get so frustrated with him for the stomping and incessant movement and it's so hard to listen to him talk sometimes. He can't think of the word because he's dyslexic. I know he is. His father and grandfather are dyslexic. What kind of shit human gets impatient with a boy with dyslexia? What kind?_\n\n_Let's talk about that. Let's talk about the fact that I am that mother. I am already that mother. I was the worst one, too. I let my children go one morning, and my boy, he_ _was only sixteen months old. Don't you think he wondered where his mother went? Yeah, I hate me too, lady. I hate me too for the things I did, and when these memories come, I throw my head back and forth like a motherfucking lunatic trying to shake them out of my brain. I think perhaps I'd rather die than live with that shame._\n\n_Maybe we won't talk about all that. That's a little heavy._\n\n_Let's talk about how sometimes, by the end of the day, I understand\u2014just a little\u2014how parents snap and hit their kids. I haven't hit my kids. I would not. But sometimes when combined with lack of sleep, and my husband working six days a week, and the times I drove intoxicated with my child in the car and poisoned breastfeeding, nearly overdosed in a trailer, and my sagging belly and gray roots, self-hatred, and joy that I'm free (from alcoholism, today), I wonder if I may break, just fucking break, so I come here to the park, and I sit next to you because you're a mother like me, right? And we can talk about it. We can talk and talk and talk._\n\n_\"Is she sleeping through the night yet?\" you ask._\n\n_No._\n\n_\"Oh, where is she?\"_\n\n_In my bed, with me._\n\n_\"Oh, you co-sleep?\"_\n\n_I guess._\n\n_\"My baby slept through the night at two months because I did sleep training. Why haven't you sleep trained?\"_\n\n_Oh yeah. Okay. Talk to me about that, I guess. If that's all there is._\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nIn August 2010, when I was seventeen months sober, our third baby was born, in a water birth at home, as the morning sun splintered across the faces of Mac, my mother, children, and midwives. They were circling me as our ten-pound, dimpled baby Georgia with a cleft chin and bald head opened her eyes against my chest, and I watched her body flood pink with our blood, from the center to her fingertips. Just like Rocketship.\n\nAt night, I would hold her in the crook of my arm and see only love, and I'd wonder how it could get like this. It was just me nursing her in the gray dim of a little nursery I decorated with Ava and my mother when I was pregnant, in the house Mac and I bought together, _where all our children live, and we are a family_.\n\nHow wholesome life had become, not in that church way, not in the way that made me feel unworthy, but in the meatiest, grittiest way.\n\nNot beauty in the clouds. Beauty on the ground. Beauty in my hands.\n\nSix months to one year to one year and a half sober. _I should be in a gutter somewhere, but I'm here._ With the thought, while I rocked, I'd turn my head up to the ceiling and close my eyes as the warmth of the day rushed over me.\n\n_I am none of those other mothers_ , I'd think. _I am all of them._\n\nI realized we are all a bunch of fakers. We've got too much past to remember, too much on the line to forget. We become some mother. We show up. We work and drive and love. It all feels like a tiny miracle. It all feels so boring we could puke. For some of us, that becomes enough, and we don't have to dance anymore.\n\n_Maybe I don't care quite so much about being better than you. Sometimes I want to be better than you. But in the end, I have nothing left to prove: to you or myself. I have no polish to fix what I am. I am a woman who lost her children, and I am the woman now_ _standing here in this hallway bright-eyed and motherly while you size me up. You don't even know what it means for me to have this stupid fucking G.A.T.E. interlude with you._\n\n_Sure, I hate you, but I love that I get to hate you. I love that I get to be just another mother pissed off because a woman in Teva sandals condescended to her._\n\n_Because look at these wiper blades. All you do is turn this dial and swoosh\u2014problem solved! Do you not see how funny that is?_\n\n_Don't you think that's cool?_\n\n_No? Alright. Guess it's just me._\n\n_And that's fine, because I'm just happy to be here._\n**13**\n\n# [**Failure That Isn't Funny:  \nSober Edition**](TOC.xhtml)\n\nIs that your boy up there?\" I recognized the tone in the woman's voice as that of the inordinately concerned. Though she was smiling, I could sense I had offended her, and would soon discover how.\n\n\"Yes,\" I answered, joining the game of fake civility.\n\n\"Oh, okay! Well\u2014I just have to say! It makes me nervous! Seeing him up there!\" she said, pulling her shoulders up and making a face like, \"I just can't help myself! I love all the children!\" She seemed to punctuate every pause with unwarranted jubilation.\n\nI spun through the mental Rolodex of the situation's features to determine which one of us was more irrational: _He is standing on top of kid-level monkey bars, over a sand pit. If he fell, he would fall into sand, notably soft, and if he fell and managed through some miracle to hurt himself, it would be a broken or sprained ankle or wrist at the very worst._ There wasn't even a damn rock around.\n\n_Sometimes kids need to climb_ , I thought. _Sometimes I need to let them climb so I can sit on a bench and play on my cell phone, pretending I don't have children_. Of course I didn't say that. She was quite obviously not the type of person who enjoys that level of honesty. Instead, I tried: \"Well, I figure if he can get up there, he can get down!\"\n\nI smiled and shrugged my shoulders as if to say: \"Kids will be kids!\" I was attempting to connect with her, to be two mothers at the park, although at that point I would have settled with two humans sharing a planet. I thought my soaring charm might bring out the best in her.\n\nInstead she looked at me as if I had just pulled out a meth pipe and hit it.\n\n\"Do you have _insurance_?\" __ she bellowed.\n\n\"What?\" I asked, thinking, _For sure she's going to kill me tonight while I sleep._\n\n\"Health insurance. Do you have health insurance for when he falls and hurts himself? KIDS GET HURT, YOU KNOW.\" She said the last part as if she were leading a rally in the protection of all the children of the world who could possibly get hurt.\n\nI lifted my eyebrows and mumbled, \"Yep. I do,\" turned around and sat down, where I proceeded to think of all the piercingly witty things I should have said. \"Actually no, I prefer to duct-tape my kids' injuries at home in the garage using a light dose of heroin to kill the pain.\" Ultimately I decided I should have just gone with, \"Do you ever wonder why nobody likes you?\" And then I should have stared at her. For a long time, until she grew so uncomfortable she cracked.\n\nI glared at her from behind my sunglasses while my rage turned into an ill-defined shame. I watched Rocket play while the stranger's words repeated in my mind\u2014\"kids get hurt, you know\"\u2014and seeing Rocket stand up in the air sent my mind spinning back to a summer trip I took with my stepmother and friends to Lake Tahoe when Ava was eighteen months old.\n\nOn the way home, we had stopped at a restaurant with a full bar along the Truckee River. It was one of those funky Northern California motel\/restaurant\/bar places right on the river\u2014an all-in-one establishment where you could eat, get drunk, sleep, and buy a small carved black bear that says \"I left my heart in Tahoe.\" The patio and open-air bar were next to the restaurant, and above it was the motel, with stairs leading from the bar patio to the rooms. We had lunch in the clean high-altitude sun during one of those days that feels endless and so beautiful you could die right there without a single regret.\n\nWe had cocktails on the patio and it was all quite pleasant until somebody started pointing and yelling, \"Oh my God,\" and then the whole restaurant was gasping and pointing, and I looked up to where they were pointing and saw my baby girl standing on the roof of the motel\u2014a flat roof that extended from the motel, over the restaurant, to the roaring, maniacal river. From where she stood, wearing a little red gingham apron dress with a white blouse underneath, her favorite scuffed red leather Mary Janes and white lace socks\u2014from where she stood gazing cheerfully at the people below, she was a few feet from death. If she took five or six steps to her right, there was no railing or edge or prayer that would stop her from tumbling down into the white water slipping and flipping over giant granite rocks.\n\nI remember the blur of running up the stairs, three at a time, and stopping at the top, at the gaps between the wooden rails she had crawled through. She was in the middle of the roof, outside my reach\u2014five feet from me and five feet from the edge. What I knew was that she could not run.\n\nIf I yelled or crawled onto the roof, she might bolt, startled, or thinking we were playing a game of \"catch me,\" as we had done so many times before. I wanted to scream, to beg for help, but I couldn't frighten her\u2014and yet, if I spoke softly, she might ignore me.\n\nThe terror pushed through me from my core\u2014not in thought, not in sequence or data, but as a fiery heat in the center of me, rushing out into my arms and feet. My voice rose steady and calm, with all the power I had behind it: \"Ava. Walk to me now.\" I smiled desperately to pull her to me. _Oh child, my dearest baby, please God come here._\n\nShe walked immediately to me. As soon as she was within my reach I grabbed her, pulled her through the railing, and held her to me as my eyes burned. I rushed down the stairs and out the side door so nobody would see my face.\n\nBack in the car, I didn't speak of it. If someone would have tried, I would have flatly refused to address it. But I knew I had almost lost my whole life, right there, and my child had nearly lost hers, and it was my fault. Again. I was drinking. I was not paying attention. I was chatting with strangers in the buzz of the day and sunlight.\n\nRecalling that moment, of her little body hovering in the sun above an angry river, and me in my flip-flops, tan and half drunk, pulling her to me in burning desperation, I squeezed my eyes shut and flinched, noticeably. I knew I must have looked freakish sitting on a park bench, shaking my head with my eyes shut. But it was involuntary.\n\nI drew a deep, quick breath at the crack of the image against my heart. When those memories came, they started like knives in my mind, and then sat like boulders on my chest. Like a thousand pounds of granite grief. It seemed they would crush me, so I called Good News Jack, my only source of new ideas.\n\n\"How do I live with the memories of what I've done to my kids, Jack? The images. How do I fucking live with the images?\" I told him how twenty times a day they jumped in and out of my mind to thrash and stab and mutilate, and I told him how at night they moved in and set up camp. And how with them came a tidal wave of shame, of agonizing regret, of holy time lost, to never be regained, sweet innocence doused in kerosene\u2014ignored, unrecognized, and by my very own hand. _How fucking could I._ That was the part I could not face. That I, I was that person. And I didn't see, but then I did, and then I could not look away.\n\n\"We call those nightmare memories. All sober alcoholics have them. Lot of people drink again over them.\" He spoke calmly, and I imagined he was out on his front porch, smoking a cigarette and watching his kids ride their bikes.\n\n\"I can't live knowing what I did,\" I said. \"I can't.\"\n\n\"I know you can't. That's why we're not relying on you anymore. Remember what I said? If God only gave you things you could handle, what the fuck would you need God for? You can't handle anything. Look at yourself.\" His words were irritatingly factual.\n\n\"Why are you always so full of good news?\"\n\n\"Janelle, the way you will survive is by using your experience to help other alcoholic mothers who did the same shit to their kids. _That's your job now._ We don't care what YOU think about your past. If you really feel bad, stick around and repair it, with your children and the world.\"\n\n\"But I'm a terrible mother.\"\n\n\"Of course you're a terrible mother,\" and he cackled in a way that reminded me what a long and insane road he too had walked.\n\n\"But you aren't gonna get any better by talking to me,\" and then he hung up.\n\nI replayed Jack's words as I kicked a sheet of sand over the concrete, watching my foot slide around, making little mounds and knocking them over again. From that moment forward, every time one of those memories arose, I clung with all my strength to the idea that I might help another alcoholic someday with what otherwise seemed entirely meaningless destruction.\n\nThis was my version of \"positive self-talk.\" It didn't erase the self-loathing. It didn't melt the regret. It didn't soften the blow of revulsion, the terror I felt at the mere idea of what could have happened or who could have been hurt, but it brought a microscopic surrender, another tiny letting go of my need to understand, control, and find relief\u2014it gave me just enough to trust that someday, something will make those years worth living.\n\nJack's voice ran through my mind a hundred times a day. \"We don't hang out in morbid self-reflection. It's self-pity with a better polish. Remember the duck and the fire hydrant? Fuck your beliefs. Focus on what's in front of you.\"\n\nSo I looked up at Rocket and watched as he balanced with his arms stretched out. He was concentrating on his feet and teetering on the corner of the monkey bars, and I wanted to tell him, \"Be careful, son,\" but I didn't, for fear it would distract him, knock him off course. Plus, I knew he was alright, so I smiled, and nodded at that lady too, because my son was safe, and she would never know what that means.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nOne hour after my serene epiphany in the park and deep gratitude for my sobriety, I walked into my house with a screaming baby on my hip, two bickering children, and approximately nine bags of unknown origin hanging from my body. I set it all down in the entryway, shut the door, and read a text from Mac letting me know he was stuck in traffic and wouldn't be home for another hour, at which time I remembered there was some sort of tee-ball nonsense that night.\n\n_Of course he's not here_ , I thought, feeling the weight of our offspring, a vague loneliness, and resentment as I walked into the kitchen and saw a day's worth of dishes strewn across the counters and toys throughout the living room.\n\n_Good God._\n\nMy actual face ached from exhaustion. My cheekbones throbbed and my eyes stung. The dog scratched at the back door. Georgia was hungry and had just pooped. Ava and Rocket had ignored me again, and I was alone in the maelstrom of kids at dinnertime. As I looked around at the laundry on the couch, the smear of jam on the floor, and the pile of Mac's tools on the kitchen table, I felt that old familiar rush, the frantic sense of being out of control\u2014and that if I didn't fix it, it would all collapse.\n\nThe next thing I knew, I was yelling in my children's faces, \"What is wrong with you? Why can't anyone HELP ME?!\"\n\nI saw red, as if a veil had fallen over me, casting the whole room in shades of fury. As I screamed, my mind's eye hovered in the corner of the room, staring down at the woman who was so mad she was spitting. \"Stop, Janelle, this is wrong.\" The voice nudged, poked me in the ribs from a place that knew better, and I knew the voice was right, but I could not stop. The more I yelled, the more I wanted to yell, as if the words weren't doing a damn thing, so I grew madder and louder, and the words seemed to get closer to exhausting the anger in me, but they never quite worked.\n\nThey did nothing but explode in quick, useless bursts.\n\nStill, I thought I was going to get through to them, that my anger would change something. I thought I'd get some power and convince them to improve. I stormed around the house in a tantrum, barking orders. In glances, I noticed my children avoiding my eyes. I noticed their silence.\n\nBut I was _committed_. I was _angry_.\n\nOr I simply could not find my way back.\n\nThe moment Mac stepped across the threshold in his five-year-old canvas beige overalls, patched with denim blue squares at the knees, all three children were squealing in delight and hanging from his arms in unchecked celebration of their _real_ parent. I watched as they rejoiced in his arrival, while, I imagined, lamenting mine. _Well what do you expect, Janelle? You're such a goddamn yeller. But that motherfucker, he's never here. If he were here like me, he'd yell too._ But I knew our children would never see that. I felt wildly unappreciated and unseen, as if I were doing the grunt work while he stole all the glory.\n\n_Now I suppose he's going to want to shower, as opposed to taking over parenting so I can lie on my bed with the bedroom door shut._\n\nSure enough, off he went to the shower after giving me a kiss and eating something infuriatingly healthy, like an apple or raw almonds. While I turned the taco meat in the pan for dinner, I wondered why raw almonds were about the last food I'd reach for after a long day, and determined that if I incorporated more Mac-style food choices into my diet, I too would stand lean and muscular before the bathroom mirror.\n\n\"Hey, Janelle! Come here!\" He appeared to be hollering from the shower, and the playfulness in his voice gave me a rush of desire and dread, because damn he's attractive but also, _No way in hell am I having shower sex right now._\n\n\"What's up?\" I asked, leaning against the bathroom door, thinking there was nothing I wanted more in that moment than for _one more person to need something from me._\n\n\"So,\" he declared, \"I bought some go-kart frames from Phil.\"\n\n\"You did what now?\"\n\nAssuming I didn't understand the actual sentence as opposed to the content, he repeated himself, explaining that he had spent $600 on metal frames, which he and Phil would equip with lawnmower engines, and then the kids would ride them around in circles on dirt tracks. For fun, apparently.\n\nPhil was a man who lived down the street and looked like a garden gnome. He was hands-down my least favorite garden gnome because he evidently had _very little going on_ , and would invite Mac over every few days to stand in his garage and stare at things while discussing, I now knew, lawnmower ride-along toys.\n\n\"You fucking did _what_?\" I understood the words coming out of his mouth, but I could not comprehend his decision to voluntarily add \"build go-karts\" to the never-ending task list of our lives.\n\nI uttered confused bursts of total derision, then walked out of the bathroom, because he had turned off the shower and I couldn't bear the sight of his face.\n\nI questioned how bare metal frames that might someday turn into \"karts\" (with a \"k\")\u2014which, by the way, would never happen, because we could hardly manage to pick up the dog shit from the backyard, let alone complete arbitrary entertainment projects\u2014became his area of focus while I contemplated my recent re-enrollment in graduate school, work, nursing a baby, driving two kids around the county a few times a day, bills, the house, the growing clarity of Rocket's dyslexia, the outgrown clothes in the kids' dressers, the dog's training, and the emotional and psychological well-being of our almost-tween daughter.\n\nI dropped onto our bed and closed my eyes, leaving the ground beef simmering on the stove unattended, thinking, _Maybe, just maybe, if all goes well, the fucking house will burn down._\n\nI was two years sober, and while Mac and I worked to build a home, a chasm carved itself between us, growing more massive as my head cleared, as I got to know him, and myself, as sober humans. Life was opening for me in a thousand directions just as my marriage contracted into thankless redundancy.\n\nI had barely known Mac without the dizzying balm of evening cocktails, and I certainly had never tried raising a family in such aridity. _What did it matter if we were horrible together before?_ _I was drunk anyway._\n\nBut now, sober, I felt the rift completely. The way his interests and sense of humor were not necessarily mine, the way his ambition and concerns were in conflict with mine, and the way he spent money, money I assumed he had stashed away. The way we made love, the way he glared at me on Saturday mornings when I suggested we do chores, as if I were a nagging mother.\n\nI felt a deep and terrifying loneliness in our marriage, a descending awareness that I was becoming a servant to my family and nothing else, and I would spend the next twenty years in that condition.\n\nI often thought of our \"wedding\" on the courthouse grass on that cold, gray day. I thought of the wedding dress picture I had clipped from a magazine when I was eight years old, and I thought of my friends' marriages, the way their husbands surely discussed monetary decisions with them and acted like grown-ups, investing in stocks and buying property and getting medical degrees. I assumed they made all kinds of choices together and were honest and clear with one another, and the thought made me think back to Mac talking behind my back to his mother and sisters (they were, for a time, understandably not elated about my existence), and the times he lied to me by omission\u2014 _You know, if I just don't tell her, she can't accuse me of lying._\n\nI felt a panic come over me, of distance, of not-real love, of un-love, even, of _lies_ , of being left alone, of getting sober for what? This? I thought of the marriage that began on that dreary day\u2014we were just kids\u2014had there ever been real love? _Nah, we simply had a kid together and got stuck._ We didn't begin correctly. We wouldn't finish correctly. I mentally sorted through the freedom he had\u2014to drive to work alone each day, to sleep while the baby cries, to not think about the things I thought about, to simply _not be the mother_.\n\nWithin moments, he morphed into a stranger.\n\n_Is this what marriage is? I want nothing of this._\n\nI roared again, this time at Mac, and more unchecked than before, because he was an adult. He stood silently, leaning against a doorframe, still wrapped in his bath towel, for my thoughts had progressed from go-kart to divorce before he even had time to get dressed.\n\n\"Do you think it's _your_ money and _my_ money?\" I shouted.\n\n\"No.\" His head was still slightly down.\n\n\"Well, obviously you do, since you think it's fine to spend that kind of money on useless fucking metal! I would never do that!\"\n\nHe shifted his weight against the doorway, looking at me from under a furrowed brow. I knew the look. He was waiting it out.\n\n\"Do you have any idea how much I do every day while you are at work, Mac?\" I reported in long form the play-by-play of each of my days, my voice growing hoarse from the yelling, my body intoxicated with rage. When I erupted at Mac, it only ended when he or I physically left the house, or a stranger came over, forcing me to behave on account of my pride. Occasionally Mac roared back. But mostly, he waited.\n\nMy rage would ebb, and I would apologize, again.\n\nMy family would just look at me.\n\n_You know, Janelle, you could just jump off the crazy train before riding it all the way to the bitter end._\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nThat night, when the house was gray and quiet and my body untouched, my day became a nightmare memory: _Who are you, Janelle, thinking you can raise kids? Who are you, thinking you can be a mother and wife in a decent marriage?_ I saw the woman's face while she yelled, the woman pathetically trying not to destroy it all again, and I cringed. _Here I am again, hurting people. Here I am again, unable to control myself. Here I am again, the tiny psycho chasing her brother around with a kitchen knife._\n\nI thought of my mother's words, \"You treat me like dirt.\"\n\nShe was correct. _She is correct._\n\nLying there, I recalled daydreaming at school about how my mother was going to pay for Christmas, or the heating, or visualizing the violence I wanted to inflict on the bullies who were mean to my brother on the bus. He was huge, but so gentle. I was tiny, but insane.\n\nIn junior high we had a smoke-spewing minivan with wood siding. I'd ask my mother to drop me off down the road to save me from embarrassment\u2014and the other kids from pollution inhalation. She always obliged, and it helped until after school, when the other kids' parents would show up, and I'd be sitting on a wall in front of the school as the sun went down and the principal left, concerned about me.\n\n\"It's okay!\" I'd say cheerfully. \"My mom is coming. She'll be here any minute.\" It was a partial lie. I knew she'd come. I didn't know if it would be any minute.\n\nAs the evening grew cooler, I no longer feared she was dead. I feared I might kill her myself. When she finally pulled up, I'd shriek at her for leaving me like that.\n\nShe'd tell me all the things she had done that day, and with a lilting sadness she'd say, \"I'm doing the best I can,\" but this would throw me into full fury because now I felt guilty and _what kind of thing is that to say?_\n\n\"You treat me like dirt,\" was what she'd say after I yelled, which seemed true, but also, unfair. It seemed unfair to pick up your child late, then say \"I try the best I can,\" as if that were some sort of excuse, and then say I was mean to _her_. I wished she knew how I sat in school daydreaming about her.\n\nShe was always _trying_ , but never _changing_ , and at some point one gets sick of the \"trying\" and wants the \"doing,\" and also: _Why are we feeling sorry for you? You are the mother._\n\nAnd so I raged, because I was tired.\n\nI was worn out by all the talking, the worries, the desire to trust, to know when my people were going to show up, so I transformed into a ball of red, to get some power. To get some control. To get some peace.\n\n\"Tell Margaret to go home,\" she'd say, and I'd hate her to my bones.\n\nLater, though, in bed, I'd open my journal and write detailed updates of her marriage, and how much I loved her, and how much I wished she could hear me, and I'd wonder if she'd remembered to lock all our doors so we'd all be safe.\n\n_Maybe I was born without a moral compass. Maybe I'm sober, and I'm still without a moral compass._\n\nAn image I'd seen on social media by the editor of one of those eternally peaceful parenting magazines popped into my mind. It said: \"Your words become the voices in your children's heads.\" My God.\n\nThe thought _they would be better off without me_ skipped across my mind, and then, _I should drink again just to relieve my children of me._\n\nAs soon as the thought came, I knew it was not true. I knew it was the sweet whisper of alcoholism, the disease getting tougher every day, and wilier as it waited for the moment I agreed to believe it again.\n\nThe next day, when I told Jack about my yelling, he said, \"You're a bully. You're a bully and you're trying to control everyone. You have power over those kids and you abuse it.\" _A bully, huh?_ Once again, I wanted to suggest he walk away from me at a fast pace for a very long time, but I was still desperate, perhaps more so, because I knew alcohol didn't work, and would never work again. To drink was to die, but there would be no relief before the passing. I could die of alcoholism or learn to live sober.\n\n_Why is this fuckin' guy always right?_ The bully charge was true, though nobody had ever urged the sick reality up to the surface of my brain: that I felt I owned my kids, that I could treat them how I damn well pleased. In fact, I possibly felt that way about the rest of the world as well.\n\n\"Well, Jack, what do I do about it?\" I was actually spellbound at this point.\n\n\"Pray for help. Figure out why you love anger.\" So I tried what he said, meditating and praying in the morning, but mostly, I returned to therapy.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\n\"I'm sober and still raging,\" I said, sitting on the wicker chair next to the window and a sprawling ficus tree. The therapist paused and asked, \"What do you mean, 'raging'?\"\n\n\"Anger. Raging in anger. I feel borderline again, only without the other fifteen symptoms, which I guess makes me no longer borderline. Is that possible? Can people become un-borderline? Maybe within the borders?\" I was speaking like a fool because I was nervous, and it was hard to explain that my rage was like a rotten old friend I couldn't imagine my life without, or a sibling I bickered with constantly but missed as soon as she was gone.\n\n\"What are you getting from your anger?\" the therapist asked, and I thought, _Holy mother of God, they're all in cahoots with one another._\n\n\"You know that's the same thing the ex-refrigerator-box dweller asked me?\" She looked confused, so I explained he was a friend, a sort of crank spiritual guide.\n\n\"When did you start raging?\" She had her pen at the ready.\n\nI contemplated not going down the whole road of my past with her, but I did. I told the truth. The alternative was too exhausting. I had lied and polished the truth for too long. Jack used to tell me I spent my life \"polishing the same old turd and selling it like it was new.\" I didn't want to tell better-polished lies. I wanted turd truth.\n\nBut I knew that once I started she would look at me with eyes that said, \"Wow, you really made it!\" and I'd feel like a fraud again, because she was praising my stunning turnaround, and I knew I looked so \"fine,\" like a good and loving mother. When I shared my ideas about parenting, she'd say, \"Yes, that's right!\" because I talk well, and she would be impressed with my devotion to family, especially after \"such a past!\" _But_ _what would she think if she saw our house when nobody was there but us?_\n\n_What would she think if she heard the things I say?_\n\n_I am a fraud. I will be found out._\n\nWe had purchased a house. I re-enrolled in the English master's program I had quit. I shared pictures of my family on Facebook, and friends rejoiced at our little family\u2014how far we had come. We should be so proud. We are goddamn miracles.\n\n_But what if they knew?_ I wondered, fully and finally, if I would ever change. If I would ever be worthy of the glittering life around me.\n\nI should not have been surprised to find my inner life unmanageable. Good News Jack always said, \"Alcohol was never your problem, it was your solution.\n\n\"If alcohol were the problem,\" he'd say, \"rehab would be churning out winners. And yet, people like us always drink again. Every relapse starts with a sober brain. So where's your problem? In sobriety.\" It was tough to argue with logic like that, but still I maintained a small, buried belief that once alcohol was gone, I would become the most benign version of myself. Perhaps some sort of B-level saint.\n\nBut after getting sober, I realized I was still an asshole.\n\nIn softer moments, when feeling generous, Jack would tell me, \"You are a human, Janelle. What's fucking with you is that you're human.\"\n\nThis seemed insufficient. This seemed profoundly oversimplified. So, that's it? We harm people because we're human? Do other mothers do this? If so, why aren't they talking about it? And why, if this is how it is, if we are flawed and broken and somehow unsuccessful at snapping ourselves out of it even when kids are involved, why do we write things like, \"You become the voice in your children's heads\"? Do they bestow this responsibility on the heads of fathers? Why is it my job to become my kid's inner voice? Because the kid came out of my vagina? Those seem unrelated.\n\n\"You are only human,\" he said, and yet it feels infinitely not enough. _If this is human, if this is my best shot at life, I am not enough. Do I make peace with that now? I am not failing in cute ways. I am failing in big, big ways._\n\nBut then I would think of the inhumanity of my former life, of the morning I woke up and realized I could not exist among humankind, of the day I couldn't use a restroom properly, of the day I woke up alone in a hospital bed, and the day I spoke in the cracked dialects of the wholly insane, and then I'd think, _I am only human_ , and that is precisely the miracle.\n**14**\n\n# **The Childhood I Could No Longer Blame**\n\nWhen I was a kid and circumstances turned questionable, my mother would take us to the beach. We would walk in the front door, and she would announce, \"Change your clothes, kids. I have to get to the ocean!\" We'd pack sweatshirts and a Smokey Joe barbeque into the back of our white Ford Taurus station wagon and head to Morro Bay or Pismo Beach. My mother would cook hot dogs in the warm blanket fog while my brother boogie-boarded and I hid in little caves and forts under the cypress trees, talking to myself in imagined worlds. I'd roll up my pant legs and flip the clean sand around my toes, chasing waves and tumbling down dunes as the sun fell into the roaring blue.\n\nOn our way home, with salt still clinging to the ringlets around my face and my pants wet and itchy, my mother and I would analyze whatever worry had nudged her to the beach. Usually it was a lack of funds, or another disappointment involving my stepfather, Keith.\n\nWhen things got really bad, we'd head out on a road trip somewhere without any particular money or plan, sometimes traveling all the way to British Columbia. On these trips, in the late afternoon when it became apparent we needed to sleep somewhere, my brother and I would start looking for camping spots on a huge Rand McNally map we kept wadded up under the front seat.\n\nOne summer afternoon when I was ten, my brother and I walked in the door after playing outside to find our mother stacking food and towels and sleeping bags in the living room. \"What's going on, Mom?\" I asked.\n\nShe grinned. \"We're going to Yosemite!\"\n\nWe jumped up and down. _Wheeee! A random adventure!_ It was summer, so the plan to \"leave today\" made more sense than her usual announcements on school nights that we were going to \"see the redwoods\" or \"hang out at the stock car races in Laguna Seca.\" If I protested, she'd say, \"You'll learn way more camping than you ever will at school.\" This, of course, was unequivocally true.\n\nBut my jumping ceased when I remembered my mother was in charge.\n\n\"Do we have a campsite reservation, Mom?\" I raised my eyebrows as she folded a giant tarp she referred to as \"the blue deal.\" She wore stonewashed tapered jeans and a purple T-shirt that said Yosemite on it, which was quite possibly the impetus for the entire trip. Perhaps she had seen it that morning, sitting in the drawer, and thought, _I had better get to Bridal Veil Falls._\n\n\"Of course not,\" she answered slyly. \"How could I? I just decided to go! We'll find something.\"\n\n\"What do you mean, 'We'll find something'? We will not. It's summer. It's been booked for three years.\" I was ten, but I knew these things because I was a tiny Republican who _loved rules._\n\n\"Go pack!\" She was grabbing pillows from around the house and stacking them by the front door.\n\n\"What about money, Mom? Do we have any?\" I hadn't budged from my platform of inquiry. There were _questions that needed answering, people._\n\n\"We have enough. I sold some new advertising.\" She yelled to my brother to get ready. I wanted to yell, \"Let's slow down and assess the particulars of the situation!\"\n\n\"What about the electricity bill?\" I dropped one hip and put a hand out, as if to say, _Did ya think of that one, Mother?_\n\n\"It just came. We're fine, Janelle. We are fine.\"\n\n\"How much money do we have exactly?\" I wanted data. Numbers. I wanted to know if we were spending the last of it.\n\nOur money came and went so quickly. A tax return arrived and we were flush. The heater broke and we were broke. But when the money was gone, my mother's spirit went with it. We went to the beach and she drove along, defeated, and I thought for sure we'd never be flush again. I wanted to save us both from that moment.\n\n\"Janelle, go pack!\" She was laughing, and I couldn't fight it anymore. The sound of her excitement\u2014the tune of carefree\u2014was sweet mountain air. I breathed it in and I was with her. _Let's go, Mom. Let's go adventuring._\n\nI walked to my room thinking of waterfalls and Ansel Adams, glaciers and granite and bears. I packed, and we piled into our wagon and drove.\n\nAn hour later, I was sent into a Carl's Jr. to gather some mayonnaise packets (we had forgotten the mayonnaise) so we could stop in the parking lot of a liquor store to eat lunch.\n\nI was sitting on the back of our car and swinging my legs under the hatchback, while my mother made tuna sandwiches and apparently spotted a homeless woman sitting in front of the liquor store.\n\n\"Janelle, go give that lady a sandwich,\" my mother said, extending a sandwich my way.\n\n\"What? No.\" I widened my eyes and pulled my body back from the sandwich, repelled by its very association with her idea. \"Absolutely not.\"\n\n\"Give her some chips, too,\" she said, packing Doritos into a baggie.\n\n\"No. Why, Mom?\" I was already desperate.\n\n\"Because maybe she's hungry.\" I flinched in restrained rage at my mother's incessant weirdness. _Where does she come up with these ideas? Why can't we just fade back into our Ford like normal people? I already stole mayo packets from Carl's Jr. Is that not enough for one day?_\n\nI whined, \"No way,\" as if that had ever worked once with my mother, but I soon gave up the battle I knew I'd lose, grabbed the food, and walked across the infinite lot, cursing my mother under my breath in Mormon-approved swear words. I approached the woman and sheepishly held out the food as she squinted at me through sun-cracked skin and watery eyes. She accepted it silently as I smiled and mumbled, \"Hi. Here. Okay, bye. Thanks.\" I walked immediately away.\n\nCrouched in the sunshine under a pile of evidently unnecessary clothing, she had not looked at me like I was Jesus, as I had assumed she would, but rather as if I were a cow invading her afternoon\u2014and not even a cute cow. Still, I was impressed with myself\u2014 _quite a Good Samaritan, you'll notice_ \u2014and saw my mother watching me with equal pride in her eyes as I strolled back to the car. When I was about halfway across the parking lot, the lady chucked the tuna sandwich at me, skimming the side of my head and distributing tuna and mayonnaise across my scalp. I dared not look back at her, but the shock spun through my legs as I ran to my mother, my eyes locked with hers, burning in humiliation, screaming, _What the frick were you thinking, Mom?_\n\n\"Why did you make me do that?\" I was furious with the betrayal.\n\n\"I had no idea she'd throw it at you, honey,\" she said calmly as she pulled the tuna out of my hair with paper towels.\n\n\"This is not the first time this has happened! Remember when we picked up that hitchhiker and she pulled a knife on you? What about that?\" We now had evidence of two crazy homeless people in our lives, which I figured was plenty of data to swear off homeless people forever.\n\n\"She was mentally ill, Janelle.\"\n\nMy eyes widened. \"Then why was she in our car?\"\n\n\"She needed a ride,\" she said, packing the remains of our lunch in the ice chest.\n\n\"Mom! That is not an answer!\"\n\n\"Well I didn't know she was mentally ill. You can't tell by looking at somebody, you know? We always end up alright.\" She laughed again.\n\n\"Oh, you mean like when our car broke down in Las Vegas and we survived for two days playing nickel slot machines and sneaking into buffets?\" _Plus,_ I thought, _you can kind of tell by looking at somebody, Mother._\n\n\"Keith should have sent us some money to pay for the car. That was a terrible thing he did, leaving us like that.\" My mother shook her head in disbelief as she reflected on Keith's bad choices.\n\n\"Mom, we went to Vegas to see the Hoover Dam with two hundred dollars and a nearly broken car. That is not how people do things!\"\n\n\"This is a great car! And I got us a VIP tour of the dam, didn't I? Remember that? We met that security guy just when they were closing. That was the opportunity of a lifetime.\" She was growing tired of my inability to recognize educational opportunities.\n\n\"We also got kicked out of a buffet by a different security guy.\" I hated that moment. I had to leave half a Las Vegas casino buffet shrimp plate.\n\n\"And yet, here we are!\" She threw her hands up. \"Still okay!\"\n\n\"And now we're going to Yosemite in June without a reservation. There will not be a spot, Mom. I do not want to go without a spot.\" I was afraid again.\n\n\"We'll get a spot.\"\n\n\"But how do you _know_?\"\n\nShe leaned toward me. \"You have to think good thoughts. You just have to _know_ you're going to get a spot. Just believe it. Assume there is no other option. It's how I always get great parking spots right in the front. I drive right to the front knowing I'll get a spot, and I always do.\"\n\n\"You do not _always_. That is a lie.\"\n\n\"Well, I usually do.\" That was true.\n\nMy mother's life plan was: \"We'll figure it out.\" And the method to carry out the plan was: \"Think positively.\"\n\nI hated that philosophy. I would think positively when I was looking at my damn campsite reservation. Why couldn't we call ahead? Why couldn't my mother _believe_ the \"No Vacancy\" signs when we were on the prowl for a motel room? She invariably stopped the car to check anyway. \"Oh, they always have extra rooms. They just put that sign out to deter people.\" Occasionally, she'd walk triumphantly out of the motel office with a key in her hand, announcing, \"I even got us a free upgrade!\"\n\nHer eyes would say, \"See, Janelle? I told you.\" And I would smile, because she really did pull some shit off.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nBack in \"Mudhole,\" which is the translation of Atascadero, our town in Central California, we pulled into the driveway of Keith's house, and I felt the weight of our lives return.\n\nBy the time we walked into the living room, my mother had already disappeared. Not in body\u2014she was right there\u2014but the woman I knew, the one who suggested I break into the ranger station to pilfer a reservation form, was gone. She was busy watching her husband now, with eager eyes, anticipating his needs, dangling from every barely perceptible shift in his mood, shuffling around to repair and preserve his desires. I sighed and went into my room to unpack and try to finish that Steinbeck chapter about the turtle.\n\nWe had been in Atascadero since I was seven, moving there after a dreamy stint in Calistoga, an adorable little town full of wine and wildflowers. We lived in a trailer park across the street from a hot springs pool. My brother, mother, and I had moved there after my parents divorced. My brother and I swam so often my hair turned white from the sun and green from the minerals. We rinsed it in lemon juice. It turned whiter and greener.\n\nWe had moved to Calistoga from Clearlake, where my father grew up, and where my whole family lived when it was together. The wine country town was only twenty-six miles from Clearlake, but it felt like a new country. Clearlake was in Lake County, an impoverished, rural swath of land boasting the highest number of multigenerational welfare recipients of any county in the state (according to family lore), a raging meth problem, and a lake named \"Clearlake\" even though it was often rimmed by a twenty-foot wall of algae one could avoid only by boat or dock. Grandma Bonny lived in Lower Lake. Grandma Joan and Grandpa Bob lived in Lakeport. And scattered between them were my aunts, uncles, and cousins.\n\nBut my mother needed a new life, and Keith, a high school friend of my father's, offered to lease her some office space. So we sold the motor home and drove a few hours south in the Ford wagon to Atascadero, every mile carrying us farther away from the unclear lake. When we arrived, we rented a tiny pink house with red shag carpet as a temporary pad until my mother's new business took off.\n\nHer plan was to start a tourist magazine, and around the dinner table she would talk of her vision, the well-connected person she met, the special information she had that nobody else had\u2014a unique opportunity, no other travel magazines, all very promising! For eighteen years, she helped my grandparents and father (and aunts and uncle) publish the weekly newspaper in Clearlake, which Grandma Bonny owned, so she knew weeklies. This would be a monthly, and it would be hugely successful because there was nothing like it, even though we were in the _world-renowned, tourist-packed Central California coast_.\n\nI loved imagining with her all the ways we would spend the money, the house we would live in, the places we'd visit, the way our problems would pass into nothing. We would get a big house. We would buy a new van. At seven and eight and nine and ten, I believed these schemes and plans and dreams. With all my heart, actually. _This one is going to work._\n\n_So let's go, Mom. Let's go to Mudhole and do amazing things._\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nIn the bathroom of the pink house is where I first remember clinging to my mother's legs and begging her not to leave. I slid on the floor, gripping her calf pathetically, pleading with her to stay\u2014bartering, discussing details I thought might be up for negotiation\u2014staring at the brown cabinets and gold handles at my eye level while she sprayed her 1986 perm with Aquanet and assured me she was \"only going out for a couple of hours.\"\n\nThis, I knew, was a lie, because she was going to die. So I'd deeply inhale the scent of her Jergens lotion and hairspray, thinking, _This is it. This is the last time I'll smell my mother._\n\nMy brother, immune to the horrors of the world, would play Tetris on Nintendo and then go to bed as if our mother were _not_ going to die, while I kept watch on the couch, rocking back and forth and crying at the _M*A*S*H_ theme song (my mother's favorite) and waiting for the phone to ring. It would be the police and they would say, \"Super sorry, but your mother veered into a telephone pole.\" I would imagine my screams upon hearing the news, my flailing on the floor, visualizing the body viewing and every word I'd say at her funeral. I saw myself crying out like they do in the movies, and my couch-crying would turn into numb shaking as I thought of the heartfelt things I'd say behind the funeral podium.\n\nI lived and relived my mother's death until I was so desperate I'd resort to prayer. I'd get on my knees and bargain with the God I had just recently met in church: _If_ _you bring her home, Heavenly Father, I will never scream again_.\n\nSince there was no way that was going to work, I would begin making new housing plans. I'd remember it was just my brother, mother, and me, and _since she's dead now_ , _would I live at my father's house_? We did not know him well enough for that. I loved him, but saw him so infrequently I still behaved around him. Nobody can endure such conditions long term.\n\nWould I stay with my sleeping brother? Probably not, since he was only two and a half years older than me and obviously had no idea how to handle danger. _Perhaps I will be sent to live with that woman who helps my mother at her magazine_ \u2014 _the one whose daughter had a kid at fifteen and who attempted to superglue her teeth back in?_ She babysat for us a few times. Her pit bull tried to eat us and we smelled like cigarettes for nine days. _I'd rather be homeless._\n\nEventually, as I sat immobile on the couch, too afraid to move, waiting for my mother or the police, my terror shape-shifted into a formless mass that usurped the body of my mother. I forgot about her specific dying, or it was overtaken by a crushing terror of something to come, or something to be removed, which I could not identify. It felt like waiting and powerlessness.\n\nBut in one glorious moment, I'd hear the garage door go up, or a rustle on the porch, and it would be her. I could not believe my good fortune. I'd hug her and she'd let me curl against her in \"the big bed.\" She always let me in, and the warmth was always as perfect as I knew it could be. As long as she was with me, I was alright.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nIt turned out Keith had more than office space to offer my mother, and when I was eight, my brother, mother, and I joined Keith and his two teenaged sons on a cruise to Mexico. Keith and my mother married on the mainland in a ceremony none of us children witnessed. When we returned, we moved into his house, and I suddenly had two stepbrothers. The older one was a warm and handsome young man with a gorgeous girlfriend. The younger was a short, reserved, rat-faced human who scurried about looking like he was about to gnaw your face off. As far as I could tell, he was not to be trusted, but as luck would have it, he was the one who would babysit my brother and me in the red-shag-carpet house.\n\nOne night in that house, some older neighborhood boys came over and convinced me to spread the lips of my vagina while I sat on a couch, so they could all see. I did it, which was the horror that never left me.\n\nI had shaken my head in protest. I had mumbled _no_. But something about them all gathered around the couch, something about them urging me on, something about them _demanding_ \u2014I found myself pulling down my own underwear.\n\nLater, I wondered why I didn't simply walk away, lock myself in my room, staunchly refuse with a big, strong voice. I wondered why I participated in my own degradation, my own humiliation, without a soul touching me. I didn't know why I did it, not understanding at that young age how children are manipulated. I wrote about it in my diary, a blue one with pink pages and a white unicorn and red stars on the cover. I referred to my vagina as my \"private parts,\" because I was young and mostly Mormon and that's what we called it.\n\nWhen I told my mother about that and other unfortunate, related occurrences, she sent me to a therapist who explained, after my mother left the room, that what had happened wasn't abuse because \"it wasn't done violently.\" That was it. No problem here. I never saw her again, and I never told my mother what she said.\n\nAfter that, I filed away in my gut the notion that I was _illegitimately_ tainted and evil and dirty. I thought something was wrong with me not only because it happened, but because I was _upset_ it happened. And then everybody moved on from it but me, and each week we went to church, where they talked about the sanctity of marriage and the woman's body and how it's a temple.\n\nDo not fuck with the temple. Mine had already been fucked with, but we couldn't mention it, so I held a dark weird secret in my temple like a forgotten rotting room.\n\nI resolved I was simply garbage.\n\nMy new room in Keith's house was a loft overlooking a big living room. Between the loft bars, when I was supposed to be sleeping, I spied on my stepbrothers watching porn on fuzzy, stolen channels. I hated being in the loft, where there was no door or wall on one side. I felt exposed in the open air, like I did that night on the couch. I'd remember the way the boys laughed and gazed.\n\nBut I couldn't crawl into my mother's bed, because she had a husband now.\n\nSo instead I closed the curtain to my loft room, stood in front of a little mirror next to boxes of Keith's old taxes, looked myself in the eyes, and said, out loud, \"Janelle, you don't need anyone and nothing will ever break you.\"\n\nI stood there in pajamas, next to a purple unicorn comforter, staring into a mirror with little ballet shoe stickers all over it, turning myself into a fortress.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nI spent three months in the loft until we moved out again. During this particular separation, Keith was suddenly baptized Mormon, which I explained was a clever ruse to win my mother's affection. He kept smoking cigarettes and drinking while not actually attending church, which I gathered as evidence of the ruse theory, but my mother only agreed when she was feeling scorned.\n\nKeith's most infuriating feature was that he was categorically delightful to me, and I fell into an immense and uncomplicated love for the man. He was my dear friend, and I suspected there had never been a stepfather who loved a stepdaughter as much as he loved me. We had a hundred traditions just between us, songs that were ours and ours alone\u2014so many that I was never afraid of my mother and him separating. We had nothing to do with her.\n\nShe was too good for him anyway. My mother was gorgeous, with soft waves of brown and blonde hair and green-blue eyes with yellow in the centers. It's impossible to tell the color of her eyes. Ava and I have the same ones. Green? Hazel? Blue? They change according to what we're wearing, or the sky, or something inside of us perhaps.\n\nWhen she put her lipstick on, she stuck her bottom lip out too far, and I laughed and teased her, because it looked like she was sweeping pink paint on the inside of her mouth. I never understood how it didn't smear across her teeth. She explained she had to turn her lip like that because her lips were \"so flat.\" To make me laugh harder, she exaggerated sticking her lip out, and I did it, too, as soon as I'd see the lipstick come out of her purse. The whole lipstick process seemed ridiculous to me, but her mother had taught her never to go outside without lipstick on. Grandma Joan never left the house without her \"face\" on, and she was strikingly beautiful even into her seventies and eighties. She had a square jaw and huge, bright green eyes. When we would go out in public, people would mistake her for my mother's sister. The family always said it was because she was half Filipino.\n\nMy mother had beauty, but she didn't have her mother's marriage, her incredible lineage of love. It must have hung over my mother's marriages like a vast and impossible utopia. With an example that solid, perhaps the only option is to blow up your own life.\n\nWe moved into Keith's house three times over the seven years we lived in Atascadero. Once we moved all the way to Round Rock, Texas, then back again seven months later, back to the same damn junior high I had tearfully abandoned mere months before, with the same horrific children, only in more solidified cliques.\n\nI could pack my room in twenty minutes flat.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nAt the end of my eighth-grade year, when my mother decided she was unquestionably finished with Keith, we moved back to Northern California, right next to where we began, in the city where my father, stepmother, and brother lived. My brother had gone to live with our father a few months before. I believe he was tired of moving.\n\nMy mother behaved exactly as she had every other time we left: unequivocally committed to the impossibility of ever returning. By this time, at fourteen, I was not even distantly convinced, because if a Californian can move all the way to _Texas_ and still not find escape, there is nowhere far enough.\n\nThat first year of high school, I ran for class president and somehow won, which I always figured was because the kids didn't know me well enough to hate me yet, but nobody cared about class president. What they cared about was the father-daughter dinner dance, the fanciest event of the year, particularly for us freshmen, who certainly weren't going to prom and probably not homecoming either.\n\nMy actual father lived five minutes from my mother and me, and Keith lived six hours away, but I invited Keith because I missed him, and I knew him better than my father. I knew he would come. He did, and we danced, and by the end of the night I was reassured that no distance or divorce could fracture us.\n\nThree months later, I sat in a witness box in front of a courtroom describing through teary eyes in my most passionate and earnest voice the history of Keith in my family. I understood Keith was denying the legitimacy of his marriage to my mother, claiming it was done in Mexico in a fraud ceremony. My job, according to my mother's attorney, was to prove that Keith and my mother \"acted married.\" Or, more specifically, that he acted \"like my father.\" The situation struck me as odd, and I didn't understand _why_ the debate was occurring, but I wanted to help my mother, so I listened carefully to the attorney's direction and sat ready to convince a judge.\n\nKeith was sitting in a tweed suit coat at a table with his attorney, right across from me. I hadn't seen him since the dance. He looked weary.\n\nI told the courtroom how we went to Magic Mountain in Valencia and to Harris Ranch on Highway 5, to Yosemite and the beach and out for hamburgers in San Luis Obispo. I told how he took me along on work trips around the county and how we listened to Rod Stewart as we wove through the fog and down Highway 1 along the coast. That was our song: \"Forever Young.\" I told how he went to my Campfire Girl events when I was in second grade, and how he heard me read my winning D.A.R.E. essay in sixth grade, and took me to ice cream at Thrifty (where I would order mint chip and chocolate malted crunch). When I finished, I knew there could be no doubt of our love anywhere in that courtroom.\n\nKeith's lawyer took a few steps toward me at the stand and asked, \"Where is your actual father?\"\n\nI started, wiped tears from my eyes, and said, \"Oh, he lives here in Santa Rosa.\"\n\nThe attorney raised his voice, grinned a little, filled his mouth with trash, and sneered: \"So your _real dad_ is not DEAD?\" He chuckled after he said it. He laughed at me.\n\nI flinched, and broke the attorney's gaze to look into the eyes of the man I thought was my closest adult friend, who loved me and watched me now and many years before, and I thought I saw tears in his eyes.\n\nDid I? I don't think I did. Maybe I did.\n\nIt didn't matter if there were tears or not, because no matter what, I was the one sitting up there like a fool, trying to convince a court he loved me. I shuddered at the humiliation as he sat silently looking at me with the same eyes I had watched for years, eyes I thought looked right back at me and adored what they saw. I had been sold a lie, and I knew it right then, on stage, in front of battling parents and stepparents and strangers, at fifteen years old. I flinched for the first time at the pain of rejection that's unbearable in its finality.\n\nWe had nothing. Not a single thing.\n\nCase closed.\n\nIllegitimate. A fraud marriage. A scam love.\n\nHe won, and I never saw him again.\n\nI went home and looked at a Norfolk pine Keith had given me when I was nine or ten, a plant he brought home to me from Yosemite, and that I tried to keep alive, water just right, position perfectly next to the sunlight. It never thrived, but I moved it all over with me, through every move, to Texas and back, and then to our apartment in Northern California. That day after court, I moved the plant onto the patio, though I kept watering it occasionally for reasons I'll never fully understand.\n\nA year later, when I tried smoking weed for the first time, the pine wilted on the porch. By the time I had moved on to acid, it was nearly dead in the rain. On drunken evenings in that room when my mother was out of town, it was a few sticks and some dirt, a tiny sprig of green here and there out of dumb luck.\n\nBy the time I showed up on my father's doorstep at seventeen years old, announcing myself with the words, \"I only have two years left and I want to get to know you. Will you turn me away?\" I swear that pine was dead. It appeared completely dead. I even _thought_ it was dead but moved it anyway, because by that point I simply _brought the damn Norfolk pine with me when I moved._\n\nMy father and stepmother did not turn me away, so I took over my brother's old room\u2014he had left for his mission for the Mormon church\u2014and set out to get to know my father. If he didn't want me, fine, but I wanted to know. I wanted lived experience. Case closed.\n\nI'm not sure what my father did when I was seventeen and eighteen while I drove around and went to work as a lifeguard and waitress and sometimes went to school. I'm not sure what he did while I left the house to drink and do cocaine or mushrooms and hang with my new boyfriend who I was sure would become my husband. I'm not sure what he did with that pine while I got angry and raged at my mother and past, at the broken-down minivan and the church, or while I planted my roots as an alcoholic, wrote furiously in my journal, and had sex for the first time.\n\nI don't know what he did, but suddenly I looked at that fucking pine tree and it was brilliant green and giant and bursting. There was no brown left.\n\nIt had grown so huge I couldn't recognize it.\n\nDad and I named it \"Norfy,\" because it was so alive and part of the family it needed a name. It lived in the living room by the back door, where I guess the lighting was just right.\n\nKeith died when I was nineteen. I didn't attend the funeral because I wasn't invited. I heard he died in a chair at his desk, slumped over, below the loft where I used to sleep. Sometimes I wonder where he's buried. If I went, I don't know what I'd say, but it would probably be something like, \"You are such a fucking piece of shit. Burn in hell. Also though, how the hell are you, man?\"\n\nBy then Norfy had grown so big we had to take it to my father's office where he and Grandma Bonny and my aunts ran their newspaper, where the ceiling was higher and the walls didn't confine the sprawling green branches. It seemed like something out of a book, some magical creature that refused to stop growing.\n\nWe didn't trim it. We just moved it where it could grow without reason, for as long as it wanted, and eventually it was so huge we couldn't move it at all. For years when I visited, I'd look at that plant and remember when it was a few dead sticks, and how my real father brought it back to life.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\n\"I married another asshole.\" My mother said it with hopelessness, an almost furious fear. \"I married another asshole.\" I looked at her shape-shifting eyes.\n\nI was a freshman in college when she said it. She was speaking of her third husband, Albert, a man she had met at the little art gallery she owned in Bodega Bay when I was in high school\u2014her second or third, or perhaps tenth, promising entrepreneurial endeavor.\n\nHe was an eccentric man who smoked more weed than I'd ever seen anybody smoke in my life, but my mother seemed happy and stable living in his enormous home in the Berkeley Hills. He had money through inheritance, hadn't worked in years, and owned a mind-boggling collection of rock-and-roll concert posters from the 1960s\u2014Stanley Mouse and Rick Griffin, all the gurus\u2014piles of them from when he worked for Bill Graham at the Fillmore. Albert was a fascinating, generous creature, but unfathomably weird. During conversations, he would flip his mouth around and randomly quote poets while gesticulating wildly, then he'd be on the ground straightening the fringe on his Turkish rugs while smoking a joint. This concerned me, but it wasn't my business. I was in college, and my mother was not alone.\n\nI had hated thinking of her alone in her house in Bodega Bay before she met Albert. Past Bodega Bay, actually, miles outside of town. It was just her in a little two-bedroom house on a coastal hillside.\n\nPerhaps we're supposed to outgrow such things, but during my entire first year of college, I would lie in my dorm room nearly every night wondering if my mother had locked the window over her bed. She was always hot and repeatedly failed to shut and lock that damn window. I would imagine a man crawling in and hurting her. I would hear her cries and convince myself she was trying to tell me through my thoughts that she was in danger, because we were _that_ deeply connected, mother and daughter, and I would look at the clock\u2014one a.m., two a.m., three a.m.\u2014and wonder if she'd answer my call. I'd pray again. Within a short time, I would be sure she was dead. By the morning, I would have forgotten, and the next time I heard her voice I would laugh at my ridiculousness and remind myself never to do that weird shit again.\n\nI was visiting her and Albert at their vacation rental in Mendocino. My mother and I had just come inside after soaking in a hot tub beneath Mendocino's magnificent fog. I sat down on a bed and feared asking her how married life was going, but I asked anyway because I feared not knowing more.\n\nShe was standing in front of a closet, drying her hair with a towel. She wrapped it around her head and turned toward me. \"I married another asshole, Janelle.\" That was how she answered.\n\nIt was the way she said my name. It was the way she said my name as if she were pleading, as if she were reaching out, as if she were looking to me to help her or fix it or even just be the ear to listen and care. I felt my stomach turn in a feeling that was like air in its familiarity.\n\nI was a kid again, driving in our station wagon or minivan while she told me how she suffered, and I told her he would never change, and I felt her pain in my body until I no longer questioned if it was mine.\n\n\"I married another asshole.\"\n\nI wanted to punch her in the face, hold her in my arms\u2014scream, weep, and run. I wanted to wrap her in protection I didn't have. I wanted to leave and never see her again. I wanted to hold her in arms too weak to support anything. _She never listens. Why can't she see? These stories. Her pain. I'll kill him. Another man not nice to her._\n\nBut I watched her marry him. I was in the damn wedding, wearing purple chiffon and smiling. I watched how weird he was and she married him anyway. I suspected she didn't want to be alone.\n\nI hated her for doing it again.\n\nI hated myself more for my inability to change it.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nDriving home from Mendocino the next morning, I rolled the windows down as I passed beneath the redwoods and through the meadows from Fort Bragg to Willits. I opened the sunroof to see the tops of the trees and turned the heater up. The air warmed as I drove farther inland, and as I had a smoke, or five, and listened to the Dead sing of the four winds blowing you safely home, I heard her words again. I heard her call my name, the lilt and appeal and plea, and I saw my blonde head, eight or nine years old and lying in a bed, or sitting in a chair, devastated. _She never listens, but she promises, and I'm sure she'll be okay this time. God, please just let her be okay_.\n\nBut she was not, again.\n\nI screamed and couldn't stop screaming. I screamed as loud and hard as my voice would let me. I screamed the scream of a kid who wanted her mother to not suffer anymore. It was the scream of defeat. It was the scream of surrender and a fight abandoned. The scream of finish.\n\nI heard the noise coming out of me and it was strange, but I didn't stop. I let my face contort, and my eyes squint, and I just drove and screamed and hated her. No, I hated powerlessness. It felt the same as it had all my life.\n\nI screamed until I thought my voice would die, but maybe it was already dead. Had been for years. Old air passing through the Mendocino redwoods and Camel Light smoke drifting to the sweet tune of Jerry. There was never a word for her to hear. Never a word worth speaking. I knew it in the freedom of shade and sunlight as I rolled on.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nTwo years later, I woke to Albert's voice one summer morning as he stood in the doorway of the room in their home where I was staying for the summer before heading to Spain. \"You need to go get your mother. She took the gun down to the beach, and she said she's going to kill herself.\"\n\nWithout a word I rolled out of bed and walked barefoot down the trail to the sand on the Mendocino coastline, and without a thought my feet trod methodically, numbly, my heart beating blood of rage and clarity into my green-blue eyes that look like hers. When I saw her standing by the water with a .45 in her hand, I walked straight up to her and looked in those eyes that held oceans for me and said, \"Just fucking do it, Mom, if you're going to do it. DO IT,\" I yelled, and I meant it, unable to face one more attempt to keep her safe or sound.\n\nI turned and walked away, and I held my breath waiting for the boom I knew would shatter both our lives, but I could not scream.\n\nIt had all been said.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nThe blast never came, but many years later I still felt the metal in her hands. I used to tell Jack about it, and that therapist I saw about my raging, about how it felt to walk in slow motion away from her, each step a long drag through terror. _What would I have done if she had pulled the trigger?_ The therapist led me in circles through and in and around it all, to deconstruct and analyze my pain, to heal the young woman who snapped that day, but I always seemed to end up where I had begun. Jack spoke words I had never heard before.\n\n\"Your mother, you know, was doing the best she could with what she had at the time.\" He took a deep drag of his Marlboro and looked at me from behind his glasses, his bright blue eyes terminally serious.\n\n\"But what she did was _wrong_ , Jack.\"\n\n\"Alright. But do you want to be right or do you want to be free?\"\n\nHe had a way of unraveling in a single sentence knots I had spent my entire life tying. With every replaying of that scene, every therapeutic conversation about it, every Jungian analysis, I wove a thread back through the center. _I was wronged. She failed me._ And maybe that was true. Jack wasn't arguing otherwise, but something about the way he said those words in that moment transformed my mother into a human. I never saw _her_ before Jack spoke those words.\n\nHow many years had I spent blaming my failure on my parents? Blaming my brokenness on theirs? Were their sins even about me? Were they ever mine to hold? Everybody wants to blame alcoholics like me on \"broken childhoods and bad parenting,\" but Jack said, \"There's no power there, Janelle. There's no power in being angry over the past. You weren't responsible for what happened, but you're responsible for what you do with it now.\"\n\n_My parents were broke-down humans just like me._ My mother wanted to not mess up her kids the way her parents messed her up, and she wanted to grow into a better version of herself, too, thinking _surely love will be enough_. She wanted to shove twenty or thirty years of life and disorder into a reliable and shapely parental version of herself, to not be the woman on the beach with a .45, or the loser on the balcony.\n\nI didn't want it to be true either\u2014that what we bring to this newborn is nothing beyond the years of mistakes we've got stacked in our souls, and that what we'll teach is not much more than the lessons we've learned through years of things we probably should have already known, and even love isn't enough to polish us up into something more presentable. Even love isn't enough to make us good enough for the tiny creature in the fuzzy pink bear suit, sleeping on the chest of a mama who's read all the books, nurses with devotion, checks her breathing five times an hour, and asks only once, a bit too seriously, if beer is allowed in birthing centers.\n\n_They were doing the best they could with what they had at the time. And so was I._ _We are the goddamn same._\n\nThat was when I knew. You can build a life on rosemary carrots. You can head out without a plan. You can remember an outline, and it may be enough to bring the most hideous, wilted pine into glittering life.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nWe didn't find our own campsite that night in Yosemite. We circled all the campgrounds, and as I had predicted, each site was reserved. We ended up in the overflow area, where, much to my horror, you walk in, choose a spot, and share it with strangers.\n\nThe men at our site were mountain climbers from Germany, and that night around the campfire, I watched firelight swirl around their faces while they described nailing their cots into the granite face of Half Dome and sleeping perpendicular to it, suspended, hovering in the cosmos.\n\n\"But what if you roll over?\" I asked, aghast.\n\n\"Well, you don't!\" They guffawed, and I thought, _Well, that sounds like a plan my mother would come up with._ They prepared their food like that, too, floating over death, peeing and pooping into cans, and as I sat there, I realized I was meeting the most insane and gorgeous human beings I had ever seen in my life.\n\n\"Kid, do have any idea what the stars look like from the face of Half Dome?\" The taller hiker looked right at me when he said it, but I couldn't speak, so I handed him another hot dog. He did not throw it at my head.\n\nThey explained that after some hiking the next day, they planned on hitchhiking up the coast of California and Oregon. I looked at my mother and smiled, thinking, _God, I hope we pick them up someday._\n\nTwenty years later, sitting next to Jack after telling him my childhood story, I realized I had never stopped looking for the hitchhikers who climbed the face of Half Dome. Even though there was no chance of happening upon them, I believed they were out there, if I kept searching. Even when I could barely open my eyes, I knew they were out there, and I wanted to meet them. I wanted to find them again\u2014beautiful humanity met by happy accident, to show me what the world looks like beneath the Yosemite stars, from the face of a granite rock I could never scale myself.\n\nMy mother kept me looking. Her wild brokenness somehow forced me to remember humanity is mine, and I will find it, even if there is no plan, no reason to believe, and all the signs say \"occupied.\"\n**15**\n\n# **What the Hell Is \"Soul Work\"?**\n\nIf I thought I would be gentler after getting sober, I _really_ thought I would round the bend into sainthood after _overcoming my childhood issues._ I thought the intermittent, insidious boredom and confusion of my inner life would disappear like hangovers. I thought the parts of my personality that repelled and repulsed would fade like chain-smoked cigarettes. I thought meaning would beckon at every turn.\n\nAnd yet, I still raged, fell into caverns of malaise\u2014a sense of godless vacuity\u2014that seemed to live in my blood. Even when it was all \"perfect.\" Even alongside all that fucking gratitude. It almost made it worse. _Here I am sober\u2014a new lease on life!\u2014and I just spent twenty minutes staring at a wall wondering if this is_ really _all there is._\n\nI wanted to discuss Edward Said and do a Marxist reading of nineteenth-century American literature. I wanted to deconstruct dime novels and other \"lowbrow\" cultural products to study emergent art as resistance. I wanted to set my cubicle on fire. I wanted to get out of my house to hear myself think. I wanted a PhD. I wanted to write. I wanted to read Zizek and Gramsci and Butler and wonder what the hell they were talking about.\n\nI wanted one to three more children. I wanted newborn breath. I wanted midwives to take care of me with their weathered hands. I wanted the moment the baby is placed on my chest. I wanted my milk trickling out of pink petal mouths. I wanted baby thighs and toddler mispronunciations.\n\nWhile I wanted, I changed diapers and got myself dressed and the kids dressed, and cleaned and studied and drove and drove and drove. Everywhere and nowhere. I woke and did it again. We were down to nickels before every payday, and Mac worked two hours away in San Francisco as an ironworker. My life became five days a week of career work and two days a week of all the housework I didn't do because of the career work. In between, I went to grad school.\n\nI went to grad school and felt embarrassed by my home life, wrestling always with some peculiar shame. _If I were a real intellectual I'd stop housing babies in my womb_. I went to mom groups and felt embarrassed by my career. _If I were a real mother I wouldn't drop my baby at daycare every day._\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nOn one particularly dark day, when I must have been channeling my mother's optimism, I admitted to some other mothers how my life felt monotonous and seemed to make me dumber by the day, and how I was having _a bit_ of trouble finding meaning in the endless beats of working motherhood. One of the mothers suggested I read the latest feel-good story involving an existentially lost white woman \"finding\" herself. \"Changed my life!\" the mother said, and all the women cooed in agreement, glancing at me as we stood around the play structure waiting for our children to get out of class.\n\nI smiled vaguely, thinking, _How? How the fuck did it change your life?_\n\n\"Oh, it's amazing,\" she continued. \"She loses everything and cannot find herself\u2014you know, _who she is as a woman_ \u2014so she starts traveling. Total spiritual quest. Can you imagine her bravery?\"\n\n\"She was probably paid a fat book advance to do that,\" I said, regretting it immediately and thinking, _This is why nobody likes you, Janelle._\n\n\"Well, still. It's really _inspiring_ , and it sounds like you need some inspiration!\" Her tone reminded me of my uncle patting me on the head at Christmas while saying, \"You're doing great, kid!\"\n\nIt was a familiar feeling\u2014standing in a group of women wondering what the hell was wrong with me. I have always been plagued by the suspicion that I am defective because I don't like things I am supposed to like, that everyone else seems to like, that I would probably like were I a better American. For example: joyful white women telling me how to improve myself.\n\nIf I had been ready to face full banishment, I would have told the women around me how I really feel about the self-help soul-journeying brigade. I would have explained my full-blown disdain on a visceral level. But then they would have asked me why, and I would have struggled to articulate what, exactly, is so revolting about put-together, well-meaning women armed with expressions like \"soul work.\"\n\nAll I can think when I hear that is, _What the hell is \"soul work\"?_\n\nThese women are adorable, and they say adorable heartfelt things, but when I listen to them, my face contorts in pain. Still, after the world is done acclaiming the latest disaster-to-inspiration miracle story, I give it a listen or read, to join the party, or at least discover what everybody is so enamored with. But after experiencing it, I usually think:\n\n_What is this shit?_\n\n_How do people like this?_\n\n_What is wrong with humanity?_\n\n_I hate everything._\n\n_I shall move to a yurt on a New Mexican hillside. No. One of those off-grid houses in the Mojave made out of tires. Wait. The Mojave? Fuck deserts._\n\n_Where's my James Baldwin?_\n\n_Okay, but maybe there's something wrong with you, Janelle. DO YOU HAVE NO SOUL?_\n\n_Maybe. But we have to turn this crap off._\n\nOh, their stories of recovery after divorce, after drug addiction, after hitting that arctic ontological bottom.\n\n_That's my story, too!_\n\nExcept it isn't. Because they say they were hopelessly lost in addiction but got sober the day they gazed at those sweet newborn toes. They say they beat their addiction by hiking through pine trees on ancestral trails. They overcame their soul-sucking cubicle death job by joining an ashram. They say they were hopeless addicts but still earned PhDs.\n\nI shit in a bag and kept it. Nobody's talking about shitting in bags on _Oprah_. I was at the bottom too\u2014 _I feel ya there, ladies!_ \u2014but I didn't get a PhD. I got Ancient Age whiskey, laid off, and seven years between the day I enrolled in a two-year MA program and the day I held the actual degree.\n\nAnd then, most disturbing of all, I got sober and realized I was still an asshole. I got sober and realized I still hurt people. _I even resolved my childhood issues, and I'm still fucking bored._\n\n_Wake up. Hurry. Kiss kids. Step on Legos. Regret life. Say goodbye. Coffee. Car. Cubicle. Censor mouth. Suppress true self. Get paid. Watch it all go to mortgage and pressboard Ikea furniture and student loans. Come home. Yell. Clean. Fight. Laugh. Cuddle. Read inspirational soul travels. Throw book. Sleep. Do it again._\n\nThey say \"find your passion\" and \"find the treasure within.\" And I loved that idea when I got sober, but mostly I hated the way when I lay down, my belly rested on the bed like a bag full of water because I couldn't stop eating sugar.\n\nEven if everything they said was true, and I was simply a walking bad attitude, their polished words ultimately _felt_ like lies. They felt like a well-choreographed dance around the truth. It made me uneasy because it was almost believable, all that gentle talk. It almost felt real. But my bullshit detectors blared whenever I read their words, and they wouldn't shut off until I got back to words that grapple in the center, where the ambiguity lies\u2014where a lack of answers _is_ the endpoint.\n\nI wondered why we couldn't be real with ourselves: \"We are going to die someday. We are going to rot in a coffin with motherfucking maggots. Isn't it insane that we waste our time staring at smartphones and working at desk jobs we hate while accumulating shit we can't take with us? Isn't it ridiculous that we've created this material fortress of meaning in our lives when we're all just mindless mechanics working for a giant capitalist daddy?\"\n\n_Now leave me alone while I check my newsfeed._\n\nAnd yet, the years mocked me with their passing. Sometimes I would imagine myself on my deathbed, looking back on my life, and I would feel\u2014I mean _really feel_ \u2014that this life is all we get. These years, one shot, ninety years if we're lucky. And I'd grow so terrified of _just not doing anything_ that I would grow almost frantic.\n\nAnd yes, standing among those women, I was searching for meaning, even when nobody was looking\u2014for connection, purpose, color\u2014some taste of recklessness in a neighborhood of neutral tones. I've always been looking for Barcelona. _Perhaps I should eat, pray, and love it into existence?_\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nWhen I was three months sober, I sat in a conference room waiting for my first performance review since I'd cleaned up my act. I had shown up every day for ninety full days, clear-headed and ready to work, engaged in my job and no longer saying \"cunt\" at random. I had no doubt my bosses would offer nothing but praise for my dazzling performance.\n\nInstead, they drew line by line the full picture of my mediocrity. I do not remember their specific concerns, but there were many. I only remember how we were sitting at the table and how it felt. They spoke clearly, professionally, and correctly.\n\nI was decidedly standard. Even sober.\n\nThe shock drove tears from my eyes, and I did not try to stop them. They were pouring, and no amount of tough-broad bravado would have saved me. The horror was not failing to earn a glowing review. It was that I had been so sure of myself. These same bosses had once laid me off for talking to myself incoherently in a hallway. _I had come so fucking far._\n\nI thought they looked at me with pity. I could have sworn it was pity. It probably was. How could they not? When the review was over, I walked straight to the top floor of the parking garage to hide and smoke a cigarette and call Good News Jack. I told him all of it. I wasn't angry. I was devastated.\n\n\"I just feel pathetic, Jack. I was sitting there like a motherfucking loser, and I just feel pathetic.\"\n\nAgainst all evidence of my time working with him, I still expected words of encouragement, words like, \"Oh you're not pathetic. Look at all you've done, Janelle! You're a shining star!\"\n\nBut after a pause, he asked, \"Wouldn't it be great if you could be okay with being pathetic?\"\n\nHis question entered my consciousness one word at a time in neon lights. I stared at the cars around me, all lined up, the sun hitting them from the side, casting deep four-o'clock shadows. I took a drag of my smoke.\n\n_Well I'll be damned_ , I thought. _The problem is not that I'm pathetic_ , _the problem is_ I think I shouldn't be pathetic _. What if I am? What if I let that be?_\n\nI smiled. _I'm pathetic._ I got sober and managed to have the worst performance review I'd ever had. _What now, Janelle?_\n\n\"Ah, shit, Jack.\" I couldn't think of more to say. I hung up, and pathetic settled into my bones. It ran to my skin and brain and toes. Through my whole heart.\n\n_What now?_ I looked around again.\n\n_I'm still here_.\n\nI dropped my cigarette onto the concrete and crushed it before picking it up and throwing it away (because _I don't litter_ ). Then I walked back into the building.\n\nBack in my cubicle, I remembered what Jack had told me in my earliest days of sobriety: \"If you're sitting in the living room but want to be in the kitchen, the first thing you have to do is realize you're in the fucking living room.\" _Oh God,_ I thought. _Good News Jack is speaking in metaphor again._ I nodded, following the concept thus far.\n\n\"Otherwise,\" he said, \"you'll never know to get up and walk into the kitchen.\"\n\nI stared at him with my mouth open. _We can't get someplace new until we're honest about where we are._\n\nI had spent so much time gazing at the kitchen, longing for the kitchen, crafting visions of what it would be like to be in the kitchen, that I never took the time to look down, right there, at my ass on the couch. I was so busy yearning for Spanish cobblestone, I missed the concrete beneath my own damn feet.\n\nNot a single thing changed about my life after that day. I was still a butler and reluctant homemaker and administrative assistant craving _one iota of critical thinking_. And I still often hated it. I simply stopped fighting that I hated it. It felt like a pause, a deep breath, a long inhale of the facts. _Okay_ , I thought. _So this is my life._\n\n_I'm the motherfucking butler. What now?_\n\nAnd I got back to work. Because from there, there's nothing left to do.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nMaybe if I had listened to the inspiration brigade\u2014maybe if I were a different person with a different past and a more positive, reasonable outlook\u2014writing would have been gentle, a sweet release, instead of a roaring beast that snatched me for hours after the kids went to bed, and took me away on Saturday afternoons, and locked me in my bedroom after telling my children, \"If you knock on my door and you aren't bleeding, I will ruin you.\"\n\nMaybe I would have continued folding the laundry and placing it in drawers rather than depositing baskets of unfolded clean clothes in front of each kid's dresser. Surely I would have written fewer expletives had I been swimming laps every day instead of fortifying myself with 70 percent cacao bars, coffee, and sarcasm.\n\nBut I didn't, and I'm not somebody else, and I didn't start writing to change lives or make money or even \"fulfill\" myself. I started writing because nobody was writing the life I was living. Nobody was saying a damn word about what I saw each day. _And yet, I exist. Don't I?_ Nearly two years later, I was _still_ looking around at the \"categories\" of mothers and realizing I fit nowhere. Meanwhile, the world told me to \"explore creative endeavors like a hummingbird.\"\n\nI would look around at the disorder of my life, the chaos and ambiguity\u2014emptiness and servitude alongside exquisite beauty\u2014and I'd think, _Somebody else must feel this way too._ Because I knew I was grateful. I knew I was so happy to be here I sometimes felt the hand of God himself had spread across my broken shoulders. And yet, _maybe I hate motherhood._\n\n\"Why can't both exist, Mac? Why can't it be _this good_ and _this bad?_\n\n\"I don't know, Janelle. Why don't you stop reading that crap?\" he'd say.\n\nI'd continue blathering on about whatever \"sleep training\" article I had read, or yet another \"women should cover up when they nurse\" manifesto. I'd read _one more_ handy guide about how to \"balance\" your forty-hour workweek, spice up your sex life, speak in gentle tones to our butterfly babies, and lose twenty pounds\u2014 _in a month!_ Everybody seemed to agree on a few basic tenets of motherhood\u2014that it was precious and sacred, and that saying otherwise was Satanic.\n\nI'd squint and curse under my breath and read more books and magazines and blogs. I'd read Twitter and Facebook and Instagram. The more I read, the more alienated I felt until I simply had to know: _Is the rest of the mothering world crazy, or am I?_\n\nThe thought _fuck these people_ drove me to the keyboard. One of us was definitely lying. Words flooded my brain while I showered or drove. I'd miss the exit on my way to work and not realize it for a full five minutes. My kids' voices became white noise behind the deafening cadence of sentences I had not yet written. When I couldn't stand the beating any more, I sat down one day in my cubicle, signed up for a free blog, named it \"Renegade Mothering,\" and wrote eight hundred words in fifteen minutes. The last of them said this:\n\nWhat about those of us who love our children as much as the well-adjusted knowledgeable stable enlightened types but just can't seem to get it right? What about those of us who just aren't cut out for this shit but are doing it anyway?\n\nI am proof that not every woman enters motherhood in some gentle, planned, ribbon-and-ruffles way. Not every woman likes this crap. Not every woman fits neatly into the mold created and reinforced by irrelevant books like \"What to Expect...\"\n\nI usually look around the child-rearing world and see a bunch of crap I don't need, hear a bunch of advice I can't use\u2014encounter a bunch of people I only partially understand. I go home and I see a thrashed house with kids everywhere and overgrown lawns, dirty cloth diapers and books I want to read but don't and toys and dishes and sometimes I demand that my kids just sit down be quiet and watch Netflix because I can't stand one more moment of noise or movement. And if one more person says \"Mama\" I am going to take a bat to the windows.\n\nAnd a few hours later I walk into her room after she's gone to sleep and I see my firstborn baby, nine years old. I stroke her frizzy unkempt hair and listen to her soft snores. I touch her cheek and my eyes burn in palpable adoration. I feel it surge up my body from my toes into my fingers\u2014thick, fierce infinite expanding mama love. And I beg the universe in that moment to give her everything she will ever need and please God keep her safe and how is it that I am so lucky to have this child, right here. The one who robbed me of my great ass and flat belly and turned me into the mother I wasn't ready to become.\n\nI lie down exhausted and think of all the ways I could be a better mom. Of the days I've missed through my own selfishness. Of the years racing by, teasing me with the illusion that this will never end, that they'll always be little. And I wish I didn't yell so much.\n\nAnd so it goes on like this. Back and forth. All the time. Here's to the trip.\n\nSomeday I shall write my own book called: \"What to Expect When You're [a Jackass and] Expecting.\" Until then, I'll write this blog.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nIt was a small, silly act. A dumb nudge in a great void. _A \"mommy blog?\" Bah!_\n\n\"Nobody will read you, Janelle. Nobody cares,\" my brain told me.\n\n\"That's okay,\" I answered back. \"I'm okay with being pathetic.\"\n\nI had forty readers, and twenty of them were my cousins. After I wrote a post\u2014usually when I was supposed to be working\u2014I would wait seven minutes and call my mother. \"Did you read it?\" I'd ask.\n\n\"Yes!\" she'd say, and tell me she was crying or that I was \"hilarious.\" And I'd think, _Nice._ _My mom thinks I'm funny_. Then I'd go back to my soulless work.\n\nWhen I got home, I'd ask Mac if he had read it, and he'd say, \"You're such a good writer, Janelle.\" I didn't believe him, but kept writing anyway because I'd remember the duck and the fire hydrant.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nTwo years later, three years sober, I sat in my advising professor's office and told her I had changed my mind about pursuing a PhD, so we need not continue drafting our article together. \"Because, you see, Professor, I've had a few posts get kind of big\u2014and I know it's stupid\u2014blogging? How pathetic, right? But I have to try. I have to see if I can write.\"\n\n\"Janelle,\" she said. \"For God's sake, do that. We will always be here.\"\n\nAnd when I finished graduate school armed with a credential \"proving\" I could write, I asked Bea at the law firm to expand my responsibilities beyond pushing paper around for a dull, misogynistic new guy who demonstrated what truly unfortunate bosses act like. (I would never, ever complain about Brian and his color coding again.)\n\nShe answered, \"We continue to look for opportunities to use your talents and skills in the firm.\"\n\nI smiled, thanked her, and walked out of her office knowing the next time we spoke, I would be handing her my resignation. It had been nine years, an excellent run. I wasn't resentful. I was indebted. They had kept me around through the roughest years of my life, helped me fail, helped me get sober. But I didn't belong there anymore.\n\nPossibly, I never had.\n\nWhen I quit, it merely felt correct. It felt _true._ I did not have a plan in mind beyond \"get some gig at a junior college teaching composition and keep writing,\" nor did I have money if my plan fell through, but I knew in my guts it was time to go. I knew it was time to take a step toward the kitchen. My ten-year-old self would have been appalled at my lack of planning.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nAnd one day, a few years later, I found myself writing, and teaching some college classes, but with four children now. My days had not changed. They were frantic and they were uninspired\u2014monotonous and heavy and rather butler-like\u2014kid chatter and nursing and back pain and the mess. My God, the mess. Laundry and dishes and parent-teacher conferences and _I still didn't read past email number nine._\n\n_They erase me_ , I'd think, until night, after they went to bed, and I'd sit down at the computer and write some words to some strangers, some other mothers. To say something that was mine. I defended that time. I blocked everyone who tried to enter it. _You can have everything, kids, but you can't have this._\n\nAt work, I served my employer. At home, my kids. But there, on that page, I served nobody. I was in the kitchen, but not that of my grandmothers, or even my mother, but mine\u2014my own place, if only for a few hours a week. When I got there, people asked, \"My God, how brave of you to just get up and do it! I wish I could. How did you do it?\" But I didn't know how to respond, because the only thing I did was get really tired of myself, look down, and take a few steps. Then I was in the kitchen, kinda eyein' the bedroom, thinking, _It will all be amazing if I could only get there._\n\nIt's okay, though. I see now it keeps me moving.\n\nI didn't overcome my fear. My fear lives always like a low hum in the back of my mind. I simply lost faith in it. _Okay, fear, hi._ Maybe the man under the bed is still there. Maybe I should check the closets. But if all that searching and scrambling for safety results in nothing but the same old fear, what's the point of wasting my time? What's the point of remaining silent? _The maggots are going to come either way._\n\nI had nothing to prove when I sat down to write that first post. Nothing left to defend. What was the Internet going to say to me? \"You are a bad mother?\" _Oh! You think? I had no idea._\n\nThere was nothing the world could throw at me I hadn't already caught, no place they could illuminate in the recesses of my being that would surprise me. I had walked them all, visited each one with my whole body and bones and blood. Two inches from my eyes I studied each line, every letter my baby sent me to come home, and every time I didn't, and everything I missed, and every tear my mama shed, and every rush of hope when I seemed to _really be coming around this time._\n\nI guess I found my soul work, but I found it at the bottom, right there with the kid who chased with knives, the woman on her unmade bed, stepping on Legos, washing jam off the linoleum. I found it in the mess I was running from, in the life I deemed lacking, in the fingers never blessed enough.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nI suppose some of us don't have the luxury of neatly wrapped truth, of affirmations that rest on our tongues like peppermints. Some of us need to be doused in gasoline and set aflame, until the truth consumes us, and we have no choice but to recreate ourselves. A collision, as Baldwin says, when one must choose to live or die.\n\nI didn't want to feel better. I wanted to live.\n\nI didn't want the pain gone. I wanted it to mean something.\n\nWhen I found my voice, I didn't find answers\u2014I found a purpose for every moment I had lived. I found power in every blackened room in my mind, every fear, every sad parent, every futile word and nightmare memory.\n\nBecause it led me to you, to the place where we are the same, to the place where words draw a line from my bones to yours, and you look at me and say, \"I know,\" and I look back at you, thinking, _Well I'll be damned. I guess we've been here together all along._\n**16**\n\n# **In the Blood of Our Mothers**\n\nMy Grandma Bonny was a writer, too, though I barely noticed when she was alive. From age fourteen to eighteen, I pulled away from my church, father, and mother, but stayed near Grandma Bonny, and I was never sure why. Nobody in my family was interesting or smart enough for my teenaged standards, and she wasn't either, really, but I was drawn to her anyway. I admired her intellect, her power. She was deeply flawed, too\u2014a little cold, a little prone to rage, a little irrational when it came to, say, healthcare for her five children. That was the Mary Baker Eddy in her.\n\nBy the time I was in high school, and she was in her seventies, she had been a widow for ten years but continued living as she always had, rising early each morning and putting on a pantsuit, a brooch, and heading to \"the shop,\" where she would write at a big wooden desk in the back of the office behind a nameplate from the 1960s that said _Bonny Jean Hanchett: Editor._\n\nShe always, for as long as I can remember, drove a Ford Taurus, along with nearly my entire family, because my father's cousin worked at the local Ford dealership. Every two or three years, she'd get a new Taurus, and every Wednesday she'd pick me up from school. I loved the smell of her car. The air that came out of the vents was musty and clean, just the same as when she'd drive me around Clearlake and to her church when I was a little girl. It smelled like Grandma Bonny.\n\nShe would wear her pantsuit even in the dead of summer, with her smooth white hair in a bob, and she'd accessorize with gold and diamond rings. Her nails were always neatly manicured, sometimes polished a sensible pink. While we drove to her town of Cloverdale, which was about thirty minutes from my high school, I would ask her astute questions like \"Why is there no 'white club' at school if there's a Mexican club?\" (I had a long way to go before learning of my ignorance.) But I don't remember her answers, because I was more interested in my own voice prattling on about so-and-so at school and how he was teaching a faulty curriculum.\n\nShe'd often turn on political talk radio while I stared out the window and counted trees. Even if I tried to listen, I couldn't follow for more than a few seconds because the radio hosts sounded drab and monotone, discussing topics that didn't matter to me at all, like California legislation or international diplomacy.\n\nOccasionally, she'd yell back at the radio, which I took as a desire to engage me. So I would ask a question, but again didn't absorb her answers, because I knew nothing of international politics\u2014or politics at all. But she talked as if I should know, so I didn't ask. I pretended to understand so she would think I was an informed and intellectually advanced teenager.\n\nIn hindsight I realize she did not expect me to know about these things. She was simply refusing to talk down to me. She talked down to nobody, except any waiter who made a mistake on our order. _God help you then, kid._\n\nWhen we'd arrive at \"the shop,\" I'd drop my Jansport backpack at one of the empty desks and kill time by spinning around in an empty office chair. My aunts would come over to say hello and ask me how my mother was and how school was going, usually with X-acto knives in their hands, but my grandmother went immediately to her desk, and I knew not to disturb her. _She would ruin me._\n\nWhen I was a little girl in the shop, I would draw pictures or play school, make books out of paper and ad scraps, and write notes to my father. Twenty years later, when my father and aunts sold the newspaper, the notes were still hanging on the wall, although they belonged in the trash. They had faded into little wisps of orange or purple or red. Norfy, though, the massive pine, still occupied the entire front office with its sci-fi branches.\n\nWhen she finished her work, Grandma Bonny and I would head back to her house, and she would make me a dinner that somehow always incorporated mayonnaise or the microwave. While she cooked, I would walk around and look at all the Madame Alexander dolls, Beatrix Potter figurines, plates with kittens, and books I had examined since I was a toddler. I wondered why she lived in a mobile home. She could afford more, but after my grandfather died, and she sold the newspaper they had run for thirty years in Clearlake and bought this one, she insisted on living in a mobile home in the little retirement park. I loved how everything had a place in it, though. I loved how I had a place, with her, in all that history.\n\nWhen I was old enough to drive myself to her house on Wednesdays, I would walk in and she'd be reading _Democracy in America_ or Proust or Dickens, or embroidering while hollering at politicians on TV. I'd scour the freezer for ice cream without a layer of crystals, and instead find Bon Bons. I'd eat the whole package while she made me a chicken sandwich with canned chicken, mayonnaise, and walnuts.\n\nI've never seen anybody eat chicken sandwiches like that since, but that's still what I make when I want to remember.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nIf it was October or November she would tell me it was time to start wrapping gifts for Christmas, and that she was going to pay me for my work. I would say, \"You don't have to pay me, Grandma.\"\n\nShe'd shake her hand at me and say, \"No, you're good at it, and I hate wrapping, so you'll earn it.\"\n\nI knew she was telling me the truth.\n\nI'd begin by laying out the paper choices. I needed plenty of options to balance the landscape under the tree. Then I would set out the tape, making sure it was in an upright metal dispenser, so I could rip the tape pieces off with one hand. Next, I would set out the scissors, tags, and a pen. Just one pen. A ballpoint that wouldn't smear on the labels. Finally, I would stack the gift bags and boxes and tissue paper.\n\nAfter it was all set up, we would move into the guest room and open the bottom drawer of the dresser, which would be stuffed with tiny gifts she had been buying all year. She would remember who almost every single one was for. All year, every year, she bought gifts for her five children and six grandchildren and two great-grandchildren and all the family members who weren't _actually_ family members but really, at that point, _were_ \u2014plus everybody's boyfriends or girlfriends or spouses.\n\nShe bought the tiny porcelain tea set for Aunt June in London because Aunt June loves England, and she bought the horse figurine for Aunt Caroline because she loves horses. Some gifts were catchall gifts. These she would often hold up in the air, resting one finger on the side of her mouth in the classic thinking pose, contemplating who would be the perfect recipient. She looked so tender and affectionate in those moments. She might put the gift back, or she might make a decision. Sometimes I found the gift in the drawer long after Christmas had passed. _Guess she never decided on that one_ , I'd think.\n\nAfter I gathered my stack of gifts from the drawers and closets, I would begin wrapping. I loved the boxes the most because I could wrap the corners tight and clean, and easily center the bow. When I was done, they felt perfect. I'd wrap for hours while she'd listen to talk radio, occasionally walking by in her long robe that zipped up the front, patting my back.\n\n\"I don't know what I'd do without you!\" she'd say. The finished products were spectacular.\n\nI felt I made Christmas with her. I felt it was us doing it together. I wrapped for her when I was nine, ten, eleven, and twelve. I kept showing up when I was thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, and eighteen. _Grandma Bonny needs me. I am the one who wraps the gifts._ I was thorough. We had a system.\n\nMy first year of college, in 1997, I made sure to come back at Christmas to wrap with my grandmother, but after that, I didn't come again. My stepmother took over the wrapping.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nWhen Ava came in 2001, I had grown impatient with Grandma Bonny's phone calls, because she spoke slowly and quietly, and there was rarely time to listen to old women talk about the British Parliament. I saw her at Christmas, and every year at the Cloverdale Citrus Fair, and I never failed to stop at the shop when we drove out to Mendocino, because it was right on the way. But I had grown busy.\n\nMy father told me in 2008, the last year of my drinking, not to come visit her, even though it was the last year of her life. If I were in my right mind, I would have gone immediately anyway. I would have sat by her side and touched her if she would let me, and I would have studied her eyes to remember. He said not to come because of her dementia, because she wouldn't remember me, but I wonder if it was because of the state I was in, and maybe they didn't want her to see me like that. I was the sickest I had ever been.\n\nWe were both, I suppose, the sickest we had ever been.\n\nSo I cannot remember the last time I saw her, what we talked about, or how. I have one vision of her standing in the doorway of her last home, the bigger home she told me \"the children\" had convinced her to buy after the mobile home. She was wearing a pink fleece robe, and she was waving to me as I drove away. She seemed to wave an extra long time, and I noticed.\n\n\"One of these times will be the last time I see her,\" I said to Mac.\n\nBut I don't think that was the time. That day, we kissed and hugged in the doorway and I said goodbye, but I don't think that was _the_ goodbye.\n\nIn the end, there was no goodbye, and I was still a loser when she died.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nShe once told me while I sat across from her on the couch that she wore red velvet to her wedding in 1943. She said, \"They weren't going to turn me into some blushing bride!\" When she said \"blushing bride\" she put her hands up under her chin, wagged her fingers up and down, and flitted her lashes to make me laugh. That was not the last time we talked, but it was the conversation I have chosen as the last, because it was my favorite, and I can't bear to think of what our actual last conversation would have been. If I could see her with the mind I have now, I would tell her how much fun I had with her, and how I always felt a strange, superhuman connection to her, because we are similar women, skeptical and \"offending\" and \"just too much,\" with tiny rage problems and loads of children, but an inability to accept them as the full definition of our selves. I would thank her for reading me Beatrix Potter and letting me eat three Danish pastries with butter on top and showing me how intellectual mothers can be and that some of us will simply never fit.\n\n\"You know? We just don't, Grandma,\" That's what I would say.\n\nI would record her talking about her life, so I could hold it and hear it and learn it, because there were a thousand stories beyond the ones she told me and I forgot, and a thousand more she never told me, about growing up behind the stage, becoming the first woman editor of the University of Washington's newspaper, about World War II and a veteran husband who sometimes woke up sweating from nightmares, about the time she crawled onto the couch and refused to move, and nursed herself back to sanity by doing paint-by-numbers her friend had brought her. About the day Uncle John died of alcoholism, and she said simply, \"A parent should never outlive her children,\" and it was the only time I saw her drink a glass of wine.\n\n_Oh, I want to hear about writing, Grandma, about people who hated you, about journalism and female editors in the 1950s, the Mafia men you fought with about the resort on your lake_ \u2014the algae lake with the rough water that lulled me to sleep on those hot-cold sunburned evenings, the one I drove by and remembered, and wondered when it was that we last spoke, and if she wondered the same as she drifted on, or if the dementia took that away, and I had become nothing but a speck of curled ribbon in the recesses of a fading mind.\n\nPart of me wished that were true. Part of me wept at the thought.\n\nOn the day my father called to tell me she had died, I was sitting in a bar that smelled like urine and bottom-shelf bourbon. I notified the man sitting next to me of the passing of my grandmother, and he felt very sad for me. Surely he would have bought me a round had he a few extra bucks. I remember feeling almost nothing, and wanting to, but I had passed the moment when feelings came the way they should and I lived like a real human on a real earth.\n\nSix months later, I left myself in a bed, maybe the way Bonny Jean left herself in hers.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nWhen I was a month sober, my bedroom door opened suddenly in the middle of the night while I was in a dead sleep. I startled and sat up in bed in time to see the door open, rest for a second or two, and then shut again. My dog jumped out of his bed and barked at the door.\n\nI thought it was my mother, the only other person in the house, but I needed to make sure, so I said her name and opened the door. But I saw only an empty hallway. I walked across the hall to her bedroom, and from the doorway I saw her sleeping and heard her snoring.\n\nAs I sat on the edge of my bed considering what had just happened, I was overwhelmed with a feeling that Bonny Jean had visited me. Out of nowhere, a feeling of her presence overtook me, as if she were standing right there, and I could smell the scent of her car, see her wrinkled hands as they clasped in delight at my wrapping or in rage at the audacity of Fox News.\n\nIt was as if she had opened the door and looked in, saw me sleeping there, and moved on. As if she had opened the door, looked in, and said, \"Oh, finally, you're okay.\"\n\nPerhaps that is the last time we met; though we didn't say goodbye, we were both in our right minds, and that's saying something, I guess.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nSeven years later, when my maternal grandfather, Bob, was dying in October 2016, I was there, because I knew what it meant to miss a grandparent's final days. When I walked into his hospital room, I leaned over the foot of the bed, and he grabbed my hands and said, \"It's time.\" And I said, \"Yes, it is,\" and made my bravest face for him, because I saw fear in his eyes. He wanted to die at home, but Grandma Joan wasn't ready to accept his death, not quite yet. But by the time she stopped demanding more pills and doctors and possible new medical advances, he had mere hours to live, and they couldn't arrange hospice in time. He passed away in the night surrounded by his daughters and wife, by a window overlooking the maternity ward.\n\nHe and Joan Lila had four daughters, twenty grandchildren, and forty-four great-grandchildren. Many of us passed through his hospital room, taking turns sitting by the bed and leaning against the walls. We cried and laughed as we had done our whole lives together in the basement of their home two miles from that sterile room. Occasionally, Grandpa Bob would wake and lift his head, startled and sudden, and look slowly and deliberately around the room at each one of us, from behind the oxygen mask he kept yanking off, and I wanted to beg my family to just let him take it off. _Let him be comfortable. He clearly hates that thing. What does it matter now? What are we hoping for? An extra hour?_\n\nThen I realized we were keeping him alive for us, for Joan Lila.\n\nHe would lock eyes with one of us, hold our gaze for a few seconds, and fall back asleep. When he locked eyes with me, I did my best to send him strength, to see the part of him that knew he was stepping into the great journey and didn't want to go. I wished something could soothe him.\n\nGrandma Joan refused to leave his side. She rubbed his arm where there were no IVs and fixed the tape around their entry points. She brushed wisps of hair from his forehead and said, \"Oh Bob, we had a good life together, didn't we?\" She told him story after story, of their friends and daughters, and boating on Clearlake, and he watched and dozed and nodded in recognition. His eyes held hers desperately. Once, he pulled his oxygen mask off and they had one big, last smooch, and it made a nurse kneeling next to them drop her head and cry. Their hands entwined and he pressed himself against the side of the bed, his face as close as he could get to hers. To watch them felt like watching the perfect end to the love story we all wish we could have, the piercing agony we all strive for.\n\nWhen it was bedtime that night, and all of us grandchildren were heading out for sleep, we said, \"We'll see you in the morning, Grandpa,\" but we knew that was unlikely, so we said longer goodbyes than usual. Mostly, though, we relied on the thousand goodbyes we had tossed over our shoulders as we left their home of forty years. _Until next time. Love you._ There was no way we could say enough, so we simply said one more goodbye\u2014lingered longer, grasped his hand, let go, and forced the turn to walk away.\n\nWhen I was standing in the doorway looking into his room, aware that I was probably looking at my living grandfather for the last time, a new nurse came in to help settle him and check his gear. The air hung heavy with nearing death, and my grandfather was restless. So when the nurse walked by the television, she said to nobody in particular, \"We have a special channel for moments just like this,\" and flipped to a station with soothing music and goldfish swimming around against a blue background.\n\nIt was a fake fishbowl television death station.\n\nDuring moments like this I feel like I am on the edge of the world, looking on, a hundred miles from whatever land the rest of you are inhabiting, wondering how nobody sees the tragedy of that gesture, how infinitely weird and empty we are. I studied the scene: my grandmother staring into his face, my mother and aunts bustling or sitting, eighty-seven years of life and love circling to its close in mere hours, and here, on the night before us\u2014the last night\u2014all we have to offer are motherfucking TV goldfish to see him into the abyss.\n\n_Hey man, sorry you're dying. Here are some goldfish._\n\nI took a hard look at his big, calloused hands that he used to sweep over his mouth after he cracked a joke or teased my grandmother, and I walked out the automatic doors.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nFive weeks after we buried my grandfather, on the morning of November 10, 2016, I was pulling out of my children's school parking lot after dropping them off when my phone rang, and I thought, _Oh, good, it's my mom telling me she's forgiven me for being an asshole last night._ Donald Trump had just been elected President, and I had taken my shock out on my mother. But as soon as I clicked \"answer,\" I only heard her screaming.\n\nAt first I thought my mother was getting stabbed because I heard \"knife\" and \"stabbed\" and \"killed,\" so I screamed at her to leave her house. But through more chopped screams I realized it was my grandmother who was being stabbed.\n\nThen I learned she had already been stabbed, and was in fact dead, and my cousin was the one who did it. My own cousin, the one who sat with me in my grandfather's hospital room but registered no emotion, no affect, no nothing. I noticed, and I asked about it. I was told he was suffering from depression. I said I thought he needed help, that he was perhaps suicidal.\n\nI was twenty minutes away from my mother when I picked up the phone, and I knew she was alone in her house, so I drove and wailed and tried to breathe while telling Arlo\u2014our fourth child, two years old, the beautiful completion of our family\u2014that I was okay, even as the air I breathed felt like fire and the air moving out felt like drowning, my terror a thousand shards of glass tearing through me, slamming the outside of my body.\n\nI drove to her while my baby looked at me wide-eyed and silent from his car seat. I called Mac and screamed to him. He thought one of our children had been killed. Hysterics, actual hysterics, are virtually impossible to comprehend. I tried so hard to pull enough air to speak sentences, but all that happened were quick bursts of guttural wails and broken words through burning breath.\n\nWhen I got to the intersection two streets away from my mother, a wooden arm came down in front of me and a huge cargo train rolled in. The train stopped entirely, and I couldn't get to her. I was the first in line in the intersection, and I couldn't get to her, so I yelled \"No no no no\" while immobile in the car and shook my head and sweated and screamed and looked at my boy who sat silent, until I could get to her. When I did, she was half-dressed, doubled over in a chair and shrieking with the shock of a terrified child, \"My beautiful mother! He killed my mother!\" When she said \"mother,\" she rose and spun around and ran across the room, and sat and rose again and cried out again, \"He killed my mother!\"\u2014over and over, while I watched with eyes wide, fighting wild, insane panic and sorrow.\n\nAn old woman murdered by her grandson. My grandmother. My mother's mother. Joan Lila.\n\nMy mother fell against the walls, and I held her up while my little boy stood looking out the front door I had forgotten to shut, holding his monkey lunch box in front of him with both hands, as if he were waiting for a ride on a train that had just departed.\n\nIn those early hours we knew no details of the crime, so I imagined my grandmother suffering, slowly bleeding to death in pain and isolation. But it turns out that after eating Chinese takeout with her and his mother, my thirty-five-year-old cousin went upstairs to the bathroom, and when he came out, went into his bedroom, where he unsheathed a Kershaw hunting knife, stuck it up his shirtsleeve, came downstairs, and stabbed my grandmother in the neck, once, from behind.\n\nThis I found to be a significant relief.\n\nAfter spending a day envisioning her body mutilated and writhing, I felt relief that she hadn't seen him coming. I felt relief that it was instantaneous. I felt relief that her last thought was not, _My grandson is about to kill me_. I felt relief her final moments were not terror and betrayal and the watching of a hand raised to annihilate her, defenseless and yet fighting anyway\u2014the instinctual shriek and cowering\u2014and the subsequent fall, bleeding, and extinguished light, with not even a goldfish to comfort her.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nGrandma Joan and I had not spoken in almost a year before my grandfather's death because I was angry with her, and had convinced myself we need not speak again, ever. She had sent Mac a message online asking why our daughter Georgia was \"shorn like a boy\" and inquiring if her mother was using her as a political project. You know, a sort of \"girls can have short hair\" poster child to further my liberal agenda.\n\nBut when my mother told me my grandfather was dying, I was reminded of the eternal backdrop of impending death, and my charge grew petty and damn near shameful. I left for the hospital immediately. As soon as I turned the corner in the hospital hallway, Grandma Joan came running to me and grabbed my face, saying, \"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Do you forgive me?\" Of course I did, and had for many months, but was still clinging to the self-righteous indignation that always failed me. I took special care to focus mostly on my grandmother, to pat her back, bring her water, and hold her hand. She was dizzy with confusion and exhaustion and helplessness, watching her love travel on without her, and I wanted to fix what I had done, because she was eighty-five and didn't understand little girls with mohawks. Do we hate them for that? Our mothers and grandmothers? Do we hate them for roles they've internalized and been forced to play? Or do we simply love them as they pass into the gray?\n\nJoan Lila was told she couldn't go to college because she was a girl, and my grandfather preferred she not work, but she did anyway, and perhaps she had some ideas and hopes for herself that simply were not viable on account of her gender. So when she came to my house a week before she was slaughtered, and then again two days before she was slaughtered, I felt a rush of joy that I had a grandmother again\u2014to be near, to be with, to maybe wrap presents with. I thought, _Oh,_ _we can do so many things together. I'm going to take her everywhere._ Because there was a part of her that had come alive, maybe the part of her that had wanted to go to college at eighteen, and even though she loved my grandfather with a fantastical-type unicorn love, there was a brightness in her step as she told us of her plans.\n\nOh, her plans. She was going to buy a little place closer to the city, closer to where we lived, and she was going to visit each grandchild to get to know each great-grandchild \"really well.\" On the last day she visited, she wore makeup that matched her blouse and a vibrant red scarf around her neck as we perused the books at Costco\u2014her tiny, wrinkled fingers stretching over the embossed covers\u2014with more places to visit now, at eighty-six, than perhaps in the entirety of her life.\n\nInstead she was eliminated at 7:30 p.m. on Wednesday, November 9, 2016, by a grandchild she loved with the fullness of her heart, a grandchild who had ceased taking medications for a psychiatric condition nobody told us he had.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nWithin a few hours of arriving at my mother's house, after a friend had picked up Arlo, and Mac and my brother had come to help hold my mother's trembling body, I realized she was living the fear that had been pulsing through me since I was a little girl. Somebody had hurt her mother. Somebody had taken her mother. Somebody had caused indescribable suffering to the woman who held her as a newborn, whose existence was a blanket around shivering shoulders. And my mother, my mother got the phone call I was always waiting for, for years, rocking on a couch as a child, wide awake in college, imagining an intruder. _Here it is, Janelle. This is what it looks like. This is the horror you built in your imagination._\n\n\"Maybe she is not actually dead. We haven't heard from anybody who saw her body. Maybe she's just sick at the hospital,\" my mother said, getting up and packing a suitcase. \"I have to be with her.\"\n\nMac rose silently, called the police in the city where the crime occurred, and spoke softly with the detective. We watched him taking notes while my mother ran around the house packing, and I searched for the power to say, \"Mom, she's dead.\"\n\nWhen Mac hung up the phone, my mother cried, \"Where is she?\"\n\nMac looked at her with the same kind brown eyes I knew from that first night sixteen years before, the eyes that caught me in the flurry of my life and held me near him, with him, if only to discover how deep the kindness goes. He nearly whispered, \"She's at the coroner's\" and grabbed her as she collapsed again against him, her legs too weak to support the truth.\n\nThat night, as I slept next to my mother like she had always done for me, as I pulled the blankets up under her chin and tucked her hair behind her ear, I wondered if all the agony and all the terror of my life\u2014of the surety that my mother would die one night in some horrific way, and I would be left motherless and powerless\u2014had been leading only to this very moment.\n\nMaybe I knew. Maybe I knew somewhere in my bones that a mother would die, and that her daughter would mourn, and though it would be my blood, it would not be my body.\n\nMaybe I knew it would be so close I could touch it, but it wouldn't quite be mine.\n\nI rolled toward her and closed my eyes, thinking, _This is it. Here it is._\n\nI felt a silk-spun terror pulled from my body, thirty-seven years of web around my bones, lifted and carried off, as I opened my eyes again to watch her sleep\u2014my motherless mother, my grandmothers gone, and an entire night before us.\n**17**\n\n# **If I Knew the Way**\n\nJanuary 20, 2017\n\n_Did my aunt see him first, and gasp, causing my grandmother to turn? Just in time to see his face before the knife sunk into her neck? And if she was looking forward, no warning at all, was she speaking when the knife went in? What was she saying? Was she looking at her phone? Or doing absolutely nothing? Maybe they were talking about her flight the next day to visit her granddaughter, who was cleaning her house and preparing her guest bed at the very moment a thirty-five-year-old man we all grew up with but suddenly stood a complete stranger buried metal into her tiny neck, wrapped in her mother's pearls._\n\n_Is this how we go? Is this all there is? Is this what we're doing here? Do we live our whole lives in work and service to families only to be slaughtered? And in a kitchen, no less? The kitchen we warmed with our own love? To be slaughtered like a fucking barn animal by the very humans we devoted our lives to?_\n\n_If I could, I would kill him. If I could, I would rip his fucking throat out. But I cannot. Because I am not a murderer. So I remain. We remain. In the blood of our mother._\n\n_We remain in the blood of our mother._\n\n_We remain in the blood of our mother._\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nI wrote the words \"we remain in the blood of our mother\" fifteen times on the page of my journal while sitting alone on a beach in Santa Cruz, and each time I wrote them, the letters were bigger and more jagged and I pressed harder and harder, just as I had my whole life, hoping the torture in me would absorb like ink.\n\nI couldn't save her\u2014nobody could\u2014and nobody could save my other grandmother. That day on the beach I felt it, their absence, and how I simply remain in their blood\u2014my grandmothers, and my mother, who seems different now, who seemed to have a light in her eyes extinguished that day, a wild light that carried her to Yosemite and back home, to me. I understand, though I fear she won't return. I fear she will remain in the blood of her mother, and not a damn one of us will be able to save her.\n\nSo I drove to the ocean as my mother had done with us. I looked to the rage of the water as it sang its roar against the rocks of my heart, and waited to be filled again.\n\nI pulled out a fountain pen and the leather traveler's journal my brother had given me for Christmas, and found myself writing that I wanted to kill somebody. But really, I wanted relief. I felt I was drowning in the blood of my mother and her mother and my father's mother, all the mothers in my life and beyond, whose blood pulsed through me like fire but never like annihilation, until then.\n\nI saw myself in them. I saw myself in their eyes or turn of the head or laughter, and it had always felt like connection, like life. One Christmas after Grandma Bonny died, my aunt walked up to me after I had been writing about motherhood for years, and handed me a thick plastic-bound book. On the cover it said, \" _Between Us Girls_ , by Bonny Jean Hanchett.\"\n\n\"Your grandmother wrote a column to mothers for many years. I collected them for you. Did you know that?\"\n\nI looked at my aunt. \"No, I had no idea,\" I said.\n\nAs I thumbed through the pages, a chill ran up my body, an electric channel that opened to words and a woman who wrote them seventy years before. I understood then why I kept showing up at her house. I was to become her: in words, in rage, in broken, slightly pathetic mothering.\n\nIt was better than a ghost. She was with me. No, she was me.\n\nI am her.\n\n_We remain in the blood of our mother._\n\nSitting on the sand with my journal on my knees, I looked up and saw in the breakwater the shadows of my children as they played on that very beach a few months before, before my grandfather watched goldfish swim into the abyss and my grandmother bled on the linoleum, before I knew such things were even possible. The older children chased waves and explored tide pools while my mother, Mac, and I corralled the younger ones, held their tiny resistant hands, tending to the little minds who don't yet know white water can turn without warning into massive sleeper waves.\n\n\"Never turn your back to the ocean!\" the older children told the younger ones, but they hadn't seen enough to listen yet.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nWe have always visited Santa Cruz a few times a year, but for four years in a row, Rocket wanted to go there for his birthday celebration. We often stayed in a motel in Aptos, a little town a few miles down the coast from Santa Cruz. We'd wake up on Saturday morning and walk a few blocks to the beach, then turn right and head down to the pier with the metal boat at the end, on the other side of a wood fence. It's a famous metal boat. Everybody knows about it, though nobody seems to know why it's there.\n\nOn our second trip to Aptos, we were walking to the beach when a white house with gray trim caught my attention. As we moved closer, I realized I had seen it before, many years earlier. I looked harder as the memory formed in my mind, and I realized I had actually been in that house before.\n\nI had driven there with a boy named Evan when I was sixteen years old. The entire night rushed into my mind: sitting in his Jeep along winding roads, pulling up to the house on the corner, parking across the street, getting beer from a supermarket that sold to underage kids. The joint he smoked while I politely declined.\n\n\"No thanks, weed's not my thing,\" I said. He was older than me and excessively popular, and I was trying to act confident, but I was afraid.\n\nEvan and I drank a lot of alcohol that night, took some ecstasy (which was bunk) and some cocaine, but I remembered that night in particular because it was when I smoked heroin for the first time. He and his friends had to teach me how, though I felt no resistance. I sat on a couch with people I had just met, and somebody brought out the tinfoil, lit it underneath, and showed me how to inhale the smoke through a straw.\n\nAfter that, Evan and I decided to go for a walk, so we went down to the beach, turned right, and walked down to the pier. It was the middle of the night and there was nobody around. I wanted to see the metal boat at the end, but the fence was locked. I tried climbing it but couldn't get a footing on the front of the boards, so I kicked off my shoes and scaled the railing of the pier while Evan yelled at me to stop.\n\nI did it anyway, and he joined me, probably afraid of compromising his masculinity. We were high up, and beneath us was the crashing, freezing ocean. It was two or three a.m. and black below us. The fence extended from the sides of the pier for a few feet, but if I could get around to the other side I could get on the boat. So I tiptoed along the tiny wooden lip beneath the fence, clinging to the top of the boards, all the way to the end, but then I had to swing my body around the last pillar, and that seemed particularly dangerous. Evan was with me until then. He said, \"You're fucking crazy\" and went back onto the pier. I looked at him and smiled, held on tight, and swung my body out over the ocean and around to the other side, not knowing if there was a footing.\n\nI made it. I looked down at the rolling water, and it only looked lovely and soft. By the time I got to the metal boat, whatever drugs I had in my body were wearing off and I got that familiar anxiety and urge for more that made me forget everything I was doing and focus on what mattered. More. So I didn't even sit and enjoy the boat. I just yelled at Evan on the other side of the fence and told him I was there, then climbed the boards on the back of the fence and hopped down. I put on my shoes and walked back, hoping this guy wouldn't try to have sex with me and wondering how much more blow was available.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nThe second time I recognized the Aptos house and recalled the metal boat escapade, I was thirty-five and pushing a three-month-old baby with Mac and our three other children. I felt fat and frumpy with my gray roots showing, and was hit with a blast of shame and sadness because back then I had been young and beautiful and hopeful about what life would become. Life was really going to be something, and when Evan was gone, I thought someday I would find another man who loved me even more, and I would have reached that potential everybody had been talking about since I was a kid in the \"Gifted and Talented\" program.\n\n_This whole cocaine booze sex cigarette jumping-over-fence thing is merely a phase. It's a silly one-time, maybe few-year, young-person phase, and the metal boat is just around the corner, I tell you. The thing I'm risking it all for is just right there._\n\nI believed it.\n\nAs Mac and I walked with our children, we had Styrofoam cups of motel coffee in our hands. It was nowhere near strong or plentiful enough. Georgia was throwing a tantrum because she wanted to push the stroller and we wouldn't let her. Ava was complaining about the flies. I told her it was from the seaweed. Rocket wondered about the driftwood scattered across the sand. Mac told him there must have been storms recently.\n\nI watched the joggers in awe, as usual. _Look at them out here running at nine a.m. on a Saturday._ The fog was perfection. People were already arriving to set up birthday parties in the barbeque areas. I saw them and I saw us and I saw the ocean. And in flashes, when I had a second or two in silence, I saw me\u2014sixteen years old, spinning over oceans and piers and men like straws over heroin.\n\nI wasn't going to fall. I could not. I was holding on and too young to die.\n\nI walked along this road at sixteen, high. I walked it again at thirty-five. I walked it at thirty-one, too, but somehow failed to notice.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nPerhaps it took a few years for my mind to accept the memory of that white and gray house. Perhaps the brain blocks us from what's too strong, too soon. After eight years of sobriety, I've grown better at it, better at encountering places that bump me into history, into living for a moment a tiny irreconcilable truth.\n\nAt first, I couldn't look at the places at all. I couldn't look the first time I drove by the motel where Mac and I stayed because there were \"people\" in our house. When I think about that time in the motel, the pier and metal boat seem less appealing, and even though I'm older and more tired now, I am freer, because I don't need to throw myself over a cold dark ocean to get to where I'm going.\n\nAt first, I couldn't look at the craft store in my town either, because I once drove Ava to preschool after taking drugs, and I couldn't make it back in time because those lines wear off quickly, so I stopped behind that craft store and did another line, right there in the car off the back of a binder. Many years after that, I bought material there for the Harry Potter costume my mother was sewing for Ava. Now, I buy felt and poster board there for school projects, and clay for Ava to shape into little animals for gifts at Christmastime, and mini hay bales to decorate our porch in the fall.\n\nThe liquor store down the road was _my liquor store_ , where they knew me by name, and I was sure nobody from my family would see me. I could hide there. I could buy my bottles in peace. Once, Mac saw me driving out of that liquor store parking lot and followed me in his car. He was irate and wanted to know who I was with. I couldn't stop because I was drunk and thought he would kill me, though that was my imagination. Mac is a gentle man, but it was a dangerous time for both of us. I was absent and loose, insane and drunk, and he was sober but miserable and insane, and losing his wife.\n\nI wanted to be as good as him but I didn't know how. I wanted to be his wife but could not. I felt sorry for myself and ordered another whiskey. But after that run-in, I was very particular about where I went. I found a new liquor store. Now I buy milk at that liquor store when I don't have time to make it to the market.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nI don't shake my head anymore to get rid of the memories. I take a deep breath, look at each line of the picture in my mind, and get as close as I possibly can to the image and the pain it causes. I say \"thank you\" sometimes, in moments when I'm sitting at some horribly boring back-to-school night or student pick-up line, or working at my child's preschool, or doing some other motherly thing. Because on the surface, I fit in now.\n\nBut I have a secret that's not really a secret, and I hang out with many alcoholic mothers, trying to make those years worth living. When they tell me the horrendous and disgusting things they've done, I flinch and think, _What kind of fucking dirtbag...,_ but then I remember my own damn story, and that I, in fact, was that dirtbag. So I nod, and tell what I did, and how I recovered, because I want them to see that the water they need to wash themselves clean flows always and immediately to the lowest possible places. And I know that God, to me, is that kind of love.\n\nI always thought I had to get holy before some Power would help me, if there was one. Now I see that it is when we are our most vile that help comes pouring in, meeting us where we are at the bottom, where all the humans refuse to go anymore, because it's dark and reeks of the dying. Maybe they've forgotten that from their sunlit vistas, that some of us are broken enough to believe we need rebuilding, and that lifting us is worth their time. Or maybe they never knew.\n\nI know, though, and I'm here with them still, though I'm walking around a life that isn't my life or wasn't my life once, and the two seem wholly incompatible, impossible even, and yet this is the same body that inhaled and spun around the pillar over the ocean, and now I'm making semi-forced small talk with you in your yoga pants and Honda Pilot because we're both mothers picking up our kids and it's hard and thankless and perfect. The only indicator of those years are my ill-timed swear words and the slash marks on my arm, which you probably can't see now anyway, as the years have faded them into almost nothing. (You can see them if you really look.)\n\nYou can't even get to the metal boat anymore. It sank down farther into the ocean and now it's completely removed from the fence. Even if you jump the fence you can't get to the boat. Now it's only a place for the seagulls to shit and the tourists to wonder what it was like to sit on its hull or walk along its sides. It looks creepy and broken and rusty now, half submerged in murky blue.\n\nI knew it when it still seemed like a boat. I knew it during its better days. It never saw me during mine.\n\n\u2022 \u2022 \u2022\n\nI didn't reread what I wrote on that journal page, not on that January day, though I noticed how my handwriting got big and jagged and crooked as I fought and scribbled \"blood of our mother\" the last few times, my hand growing tired and unhinged from confusion and pressing so hard. I looked up at the waves and remembered one particular birthday trip to Santa Cruz\u2014the worst one. The best one.\n\nMac and I had woken up in the mood preceding a day trip to the beach, chatting for a few minutes while still in bed. I told him a friend was really interested in a woman she'd been dating.\n\n\"Is she down like four flats on a dump truck?\" Mac smirked, cracking a dubious smile.\n\nI raised my eyebrows, \"I have no idea what that means.\"\n\n\"Flats,\" he said, lifting his hand in the air and flipping out his fingers. \"On a dump truck...Wait. Are you serious?\"\n\n\"Of course I'm serious. I do not understand your construction talk.\" I said this in my bitchiest, most pretentious voice, knowing he'd play, knowing we were on the frequency of old friends.\n\n\"This is not construction, Janelle. This is about trucks.\" He tilted his head forward toward me and looked at me side-eyed, as if that face was going to help me understand the simile.\n\nI stared at him.\n\n\"What do you think it means?\" he asked, almost hesitantly.\n\n\"I have no idea,\" I said. \"Something about flatbeds? Flats? The back of trucks?\"\n\nHe shook his head and with a quick flash in his eye, said, \"You know what? The next time you say something about Baldwin or Foucault I'm not even going to try to understand what you're saying. I'm just going to say whatever stupid shit first comes to my mind, like you do.\"\n\nI roared in laughter. It was perfection, because that was exactly what I had done, and he saw it, and knew it, and yet I really had no idea what he was talking about, because so often, the obvious answer is lost on me. It's right in front of my face, but I'm staring left, or right, or over in some dark minuscule corner, where vague metaphor and \"deep meaning\" lie.\n\nI spent the first ten years of our marriage like that, trying to change Mac, trying to mold him into the man I thought he needed to be, the kind of man who could \"fulfill me,\" a better version of himself that only I could see, of course.\n\nBut it never worked. He never got better at organizing linen closets or finishing projects he started. He never got better at budgeting or perfect at anticipating family needs or articulating his deep emotional development. He never talked as I talked at him. He never got better at realizing my vision of \"wedded bliss.\" But during a particularly difficult moment at around marriage year ten, when I was four minutes away from divorce, Good News Jack asked, \"Janelle, where did you get your ideas about marriage?\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\" I asked, frowning through the phone.\n\n\"Where did you get your ideas of romance, of what it's all supposed to be?\"\n\nI traced my concepts of \"marriage\" all the way back to the beginning, all the way back to the magazine wedding dress shoved in my journal, to the yachts in the San Francisco Bay, to the love songs and teenaged daydreams.\n\nI realized then it was Hallmark cards and Meg Ryan movies.\n\nAnd I was wrong again.\n\n\"For people like us,\" Jack said, \"life is a series of discovering all the things we've been wrong about.\"\n\nThat morning, the day we were heading to Santa Cruz, I stood cooking some bacon at the stove, and Mac sat in the dining room adjacent, and for some reason Georgia asked about our wedding photos, which I had burned, one by one, in the little apartment where I had lived alone, desperate and sure I would never need them again. The ones that showed us beneath the trees at the courthouse. The ones with Ava in a carrier on my mother. The ones of Mac and me holding hands and looking at one another with tears in our eyes.\n\nI told Georgia, \"Well, we don't have any because your dad got upset one day and destroyed them all.\"\n\nI threw Mac a knowing smile.\n\nGeorgia asked, \"Why did you do that, Daddy?\"\n\nI was about to own up to my lie, but before I could, Mac answered, \"Because I was very sad, and I thought getting rid of those photos would make me feel better.\"\n\nAfter he said it, he looked up at me straight into my shame, with a love and compassion and forgiveness that now, sixteen years after that courthouse wedding, takes my breath away, as if I were standing in a white gown in a castle in France, or on a yacht in the San Francisco Bay. I held his eyes again, as I had done the night we met, and I couldn't believe that love was mine.\n\nBut I had no evidence of the things to come back then. I wish I could elbow myself as I stood there. I'd say, \"Hey, Janelle. Just wait. There's some big love coming your way. The wedding doesn't matter, kid.\"\n\nI never would have believed me, though. That's for sure.\n\nWe were friends. We were always good friends. And mine were tears of joy after all.\n\nAs soon as we pulled into our parking spot at the Boardwalk in Santa Cruz, a beachfront amusement park, Mac jumped out through the passenger door and vomited on the asphalt. I figured that was an ominous sign. He spent the next five hours in the car, green-faced and sweating, while I tried not to lose four kids in the endless crowds and sweltering heat that is Santa Cruz in September. It was Rocket's tenth birthday, after all, and I tried to make it great. I never forgot his first one, and I'll never give up trying to repair it.\n\nI was convinced Mac's sickness was my fault on account of my bad behavior at Starbucks a couple of hours before. I had been flippant and rude to one of the baristas because they charged us extra for a dash of soy milk as cream, even though I explained that Mac can't drink milk and \"nobody ever charges us for a little bit for his coffee.\" I was thus convinced they had poisoned him with spoiled soymilk. I vowed once again never to snap at the people preparing my food.\n\nBy the end of the day, it was clear Mac wouldn't make the three-hour drive home, so we paid $300 for a last-minute motel room that should have cost $100, and piled our children into the tiny rectangle. After dinner, Ava started feeling sick. And then Rocket. I began to think perhaps my bad behavior had not caused the illness. By two a.m., everyone was sick except me, so I passed the night rotating around the bathroom and beds, and I thought, _Well, obviously I am in hell._ As the only well person, I cleaned vomit and changed Arlo's diarrhea diapers, unpacked the car and helped the kids wash their faces and sip water and change out of puke clothes.\n\nI woke up the next morning after one hour of sleep, facing a three-hour car ride over winding roads with four sick children and a barely recovering husband. We had to get home. Mac had to work the next day, and staying would cost too much money anyway. I loaded everyone into the car and drove straight to a liquor store, where I knew they'd sell those red party cups, which would be perfect vomit cups.\n\nIt was a beautiful day, but my eyes ached in the sun, my bones heavy from exhaustion. I had spent the whole day before in the relentless heat, and in crowds, _my God, the fucking crowds_. _And now I'm standing here in a liquor store buying bottles of water and red party cups_. I gathered it all into my arms and walked to the checkout line, where I saw a woman who swept my mind immediately, erasing every thought and filling every crevice.\n\nIt was twelve p.m. on a Sunday. She stood in front of me in a ruffled skirt and combat boots and tights. It was too hot for such a get-up, and she'd probably been wearing it since Friday, when things were better. Her hair was sticking out and frizzy around a few-day-old braid. When she turned, I saw tattoos along the side of her face, which was swollen and pale with bloodshot eyes. The alcohol radiated off her body, and the smell smacked me into eight, nine, ten years ago.\n\nThat sweet-stale reek. Cigarettes and sweat.\n\n\"Can you give me a deal on a pint?\" she asked the cashier.\n\nHe had already put her pint on the counter, grabbing it before she asked. He knew what she wanted. I looked down at the bottle. Rot-gut whiskey.\n\n_My kind of girl_.\n\n\"No, sorry,\" he said, offering a vague smile. He didn't have to say it, though. We both knew what his face meant: \"It's been too many times.\"\n\nI considered setting my stuff down on the counter, because my arms were achy against the cold drinks, but I didn't want her to feel rushed. She had enough stress.\n\n\"It's cool, man, give me a minute,\" she said. \"You know I'm good for it, though.\" She set some change and a couple of dollar bills on the counter.\n\n\"How much do I owe you?\" she asked, and her feigned cheerfulness made my heart damn near crack.\n\n_One dollar and seven cents more for the rot-gut pint._\n\nShe dug in her bag and in the folds of her green canvas jacket, pulling a nickel or two from the plastic penny holder on the left.\n\n_I used to do that. Saved me a few times, too._\n\nShe remained seven cents short. I opened my purse to grab a dime when she said, \"Hold on!\" and ran to the back of the store, where I watched her grab a dime off the floor. She placed it on the counter triumphantly.\n\n\"We're good today, man!\"\n\nI was happy she didn't have to take money from me. I was happy she got her pint without a front or a handout, and I was happy she could kill the shakes. I knew she was thinking, _I'll be okay today,_ and I was glad that moment was happening for her, though it wouldn't be enough.\n\nIt will never be enough.\n\nThere will never be enough.\n\nShe grabbed her whiskey and turned around, wafting that smell again, but as she faced me, she stopped, and looked me right in the eyes. She paused, and looked harder with her chin high and proud.\n\n\"Any day now I'll be back to my normal self,\" she said.\n\nI held her gaze. I couldn't speak. Her words seemed to knock the breath out of me. I smiled a little and nodded, seeing her as best I could. She probably didn't notice my nod, or my smile, but I watched her walk outside and get on her bike. I watched her ride away in the clear sunlight.\n\n_God dammit, why did you say that to me? Why? Of all the people and things and moments in the world, I stood behind you on just another alcoholic day in a liquor store and smelled your smell, my old smell, and you spoke the saddest words maybe I've ever heard in my life, and your watery eyes were mine again, yet they were not. Because I'm free now._\n\n_Why?_\n\n_I'm a stranger to you. A nobody. A nothing._\n\n_When I was you I would have turned away from a woman like me, all clear-eyed in the midday with kids and shit._\n\n_\"Oh, fuck you, lady. Fuck you and your decent life.\" That's what I would have thought._\n\n_(And then, in the throes of the morning, I would have begged God to join you.)_\n\nI knew her. The pain. The hope. The energy in the unopened bottle. The strength pulsing through the walls of the glass in my hand. _Just this last pint. Just this one. I'm okay today. It's okay._\n\n_Tomorrow I'll pull it together._\n\n_And tomorrow, tomorrow I'll be me again._\n\n_Any day now. Any day now I'll be back to my normal self._\n\nI wanted to stare at where she last stood, to stay with her. I wanted to chase after her. I wanted to say something. Instead I met eyes with the man behind the counter. It was time to pay, time to go on. It felt weird, once again, to be on this side of normalcy.\n\n_Me and this dude at work at the liquor store. Me, buying water and red cups because my kids are sick and we have to drive home. Me, tired from being up all night in a motel room during a trip gone awry. Me, frustrated with the day, but, well, lost in the web of the normal life._\n\n_You buying a pint with scavenged change at noon, looking to tomorrow. You telling me you're okay while you stink and waste away. You riding away in hope, until the shakes come again._\n\n_Me pulling out my debit card and spending nine dollars._\n\nI used to grab pennies out of the plastic container to buy pints. Ancient Age whiskey, a pack of Pall Malls, and a Coke if I had extra money. If I think really hard, maybe I can remember the exact amount of those three items. The cost of okay. The cost of the day. I'd dig in the folds of my car, under rugs and in deeper and deeper spots as if I hadn't looked there already.\n\nSometimes he'd give me a pint on credit. But never the Pall Malls. He knew I'd be fine without those. I always paid him back as soon as I could because I knew I'd need his help again. After the first pull hit my gut I'd feel hope, and the shakes would quiet, and I'd know just like her that tomorrow would be different.\n\n_Tomorrow I'll call my mom and get sober. I'll get with Ava and Rocket and work. I'll call my dad. I'll tell him everything. I'll eat some good food and clean my car and above all I'll never drink again._\n\n_Any day now I'll be back to my normal self._\n\n_Any moment. Maybe this moment._\n\nI wanted to tell that lady that the most important word in that strange sentence was \"self.\" The word she can't forget. The word she can't let go of. She has one. It's there. Buried beneath a few thousand years of separation and pain, or so it feels, but it's still intact, on fire, alive, pulsing through the reek of shame and humiliation, the part of her who looked at the woman behind her in line and knew they were the same.\n\nI was still thinking of her as I got in my car and passed out the red cups. _I wish I would have bought you the pint. I wish I would have handed it to you and said, before you could speak, \"I see you.\"_\n\nI wished I had told her I saw God in her cracked eyes\u2014that it's been years, but I still love her.\n\nInstead, I got in the car and threw it in reverse and turned on \"Ripple\" because I needed to hear Jerry sing it: \"If I knew the way, I would take you home\"\u2014because that's what I wanted to tell that lady, really, and that's where I was headed.\n\nHome.\n\nAva saw me staring, and asked me what was wrong.\n\n\"Nothing, baby,\" I said, and squeezed her wrist, so just for a moment I could feel our pulse.\n\n# Acknowledgments\n\nA massive thank you to my manager, Jermaine Johnson, for seeing something in my work that was worth pursuing, for that eight p.m. email that changed my life, and for the direction and brilliance and humor of our every call. And to my agent, Richard Abate, for teaching me what the hell a book proposal is and giving me more essential writing guidance in five-minute phone calls than I got in the entirety of my college career. Working with 3 Arts is probably the greatest honor of my life. Don't tell my kids.\n\nTo Lauren Hummel at Hachette, thank you for your editorial clarity, insight, and tireless work, and for seeing this book always as what I hoped it would be. You know how I feel about \"magic,\" but the intersection of our lives was, well, you know.\n\nMichael Barrs and Michelle Aielli, thank you for your incredible work on marketing and publicity. Thank you also to Mauro DiPreta, Mike Olivo, Sean Ford, and Marisol Salaman. The Hachette team was better than I ever could have imagined.\n\nTo the readers of Renegade Mothering, where do I fucking begin? Thank you for reading all these years, for every comment and email, for not getting too angry when I crossed that line, or maybe for sticking around _because_ I crossed that line. In absolutely unequivocal terms: THIS BOOK IS BECAUSE OF YOU. You became my people when I was sure I had no people.\n\nTo the Sauce Tank for handling my exquisite insecurity, my Pescadero renegades for writing anyway, and to you, Dave E., for sticking around and delivering the truth, thank you.\n\nSarah, my dear friend, from that bastard red tree to you in my kitchen after Joan died, you live the art I'm trying to write.\n\nSkyler Paul, I could not have written a single sentence as clean as a bone without you, soul friend. Let's hum those radio songs.\n\nDad, thank you for watching kids and supporting cabin trips, for our conversations and the pride in your voice, but mostly for teaching me how to spot bullshit from a very young age. And Neena, thank you for loving me even when you didn't have to, and for giving me Jerry.\n\nAnd, you, mama, whom I couldn't possibly thank sufficiently, I'll just say thank you for the billion moments of help, now and before, for posting my writing on the refrigerator when I was ten, and for always leading me home.\n\nAva, Rocket, Georgia, and Arlo: _You are my best._\n\nMac, you are the reason I kept writing when I was sure it was pointless and you were right, my love. You saw what I could not with those kindest brown eyes. I love you terribly.\n\nAnd finally, to the alcoholic who still suffers, and the children of alcoholics, with every word I typed, you were never far from my mind.\n\n### Thank you for buying this ebook, published by Hachette Digital.\n\nTo receive special offers, bonus content, and news about our latest ebooks and apps, sign up for our newsletters.\n\nSign Up\n\nOr visit us at hachettebookgroup.com\/newsletters\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}