By Michael Patrick O’Brien–
The recipe for a perfect day in Italy? Try a heaping cup full of Assisi, add two large spoonfuls of Saints Francis and Clare, include a dash of driving through the Tuscan countryside, mix in a plateful of toasted bruschetta with fresh virgin olive oil from a nearby grove and mill, and cap it off with a glass of Chianti and an evening stroll in Florence. I know it’s perfect because I sampled it shortly before Easter 2013.
For many years, I hungered to visit Assisi. Its hometown Saint Francis (Francesco di Bernardone, 1181-1226) provided my Catholic confirmation name and is a beloved family saint. Growing up, I heard boyhood tales of his break from a corrupt wealthy society, his mandate to rebuild the church, his bond with nature, and his friendship with his contemporary Saint Clare (Chiara Offreduccio, 1194-1253).
So, on a 2013 bus tour of Italy, my heart skipped a beat when the fortress-like hilltop city appeared on the near horizon. Our bus took us to the foot of an escalator, a modern portal to a medieval place. At the top, we walked through the city’s arched stone gates and strolled to the Piazza Santa Chiara.
Assisi immediately fed our souls with a lovely panoramic view of the green Umbrian countryside, dotted with olive trees. The plaza adjoins a church, built of white and rose colored stones, and dedicated to Saint Clare in the 1260s. She was one of the first followers of Francis and his good friend. A friend once gave us a small relic of her bone. We paid respects to the rest of her mortal remains in the church’s crypt, where she is encased in repose in a porcelain likeness.
To whet my growing appetite for Assisi, we strolled a few blocks away, on the other side of town, to the Basilica dedicated to St. Francis. The humble saint, committed to his vow of poverty, might like that the church is built on land that once was the town’s rubbish dump. The thirteenth century structure includes three main levels—an upper church, a lower church, and a crypt where the saint is buried along with many of his first companions.
My favorite parts of the Gothic upper church are the frescoes telling the life of the saint, especially Giotto’s depiction of Francis preaching to the birds. The Romanesque style lower church is darker and more somber, but leads to the highlight of the basilica visit—the crypt with the saint’s tomb, which seems encased in solid rock.
Jon M. Sweeney’s 2016 book The Enthusiast tells how Brother Elias of Cortona, the saint’s friend and successor, almost destroyed what Francis had started. One intriguing side story involves how Elias hid his friend’s body in the basilica Elias built for him. A Vatican-authorized excavation in the 1800s found it, and placed it in the current tomb. Despite all the past intrigue, descending into and sitting in the crypt is an extraordinarily peaceful and spiritual experience.
We supplemented that fulfilling spiritual meal with a more carnal one. Our bus took us through the exquisite Tuscan countryside–a feast for the eyes as Francis’ Brother Sun cloaked Italian cypress trees in golden hues—to the Antico Frantoio Toscano La Macina. The Old Tuscan Olive Mill, on Via Cavine e Valli in Chianciano Terme, is about halfway between Assisi and Siena, on the road to Florence (Old Tuscan Olive Mill).
A family has run the place, where they also live, for 20 years. They grow six types of olives in a grove adjoining the mill, where their harvested olives are pressed into oil. The mill truly is, as advertised, “an oasis of peace and tranquility where extra virgin olive oil is protagonist.” And, of course, there is a tasting room. I must confess that this is where I shamelessly forgot the Franciscan lesson of self-abnegation I should have learned in Assisi.
The tasting room displays a couple of ancient olive presses and all the mill’s products, but that is not what tripped me up. Our hosts fired up their wood-burning stone hearth, toasted bruschetta, brushed it with their extra virgin olive oil, and served it to us on yellow ceramic plates. It was, as the Italians say, deliziosa. I likely ate an entire loaf myself.
Fortunately, our last stop for the day, Florence, included a long evening stroll from our hotel to another restaurant. Once there, I did indulge in a glass of Chianti, but I took a much less aggressive approach to the local bread and olive oil. It was appropriate, for it was the day before Easter, and after gorging myself earlier at the mill, some gastronomical humility was in order to purify me for our Easter Sunday Mass at Florence’s famous Duomo—the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, St. Mary of the Flower. (see: Easter in Firenze).
During three trips to Italy, we cooked up some rather spectacular days and tasted many other wonderful moments—in Rome, the Vatican, Venice, Naples, Pompeii, Sorrento, Capri, the Amalfi Coast, the Strait of Messina, Sicily, Verona, the Cinque Terre, Pisa, and Taormina. If I could order but one dish, however, from the delectable menu that is Italia, I am quite certain my mouth and my heart would water for Assisi and olive oil.
*Mike O’Brien is a writer and attorney living in Salt Lake City, Utah. His book about growing up with the monks at the old Trappist monastery in Huntsville, Utah will be published in the Spring of 2021.
