Once the dinner menu had been discussed and our snack gobbled, Giovanna took me out to the garden. Mature apple, pear, quince, fig, walnut, pine, pomegranate, and almond trees were planted there. So were sivigliano olive trees (the Spanish sevillano), which produces large, sweet fruit that the Chessas harvest and take to the town press to be turned into their own green, fruity oil. We hopped over a maze of pipes and ditches in the vegetable garden, a series of haphazard-looking patches filled with nascent cabbages, tomatoes, zucchini and their delicate yellow flowers, fennel, carrots, and a host of other vegetables and fruits, including green melons and grapevines of cannonau (Spain's garnacha, France's grenache), from which Francesco makes about 100 bottles of wine every year, and moscato, which can be eaten at the table as well as turned into a sweet wine. Snails clung to the foliage everywhere; often, as happened that night, they end up on the table. The land had not always been this fertile, said Giovanna. She and her husband cleared their rock-strewn plot over the years, with the help of all seven children, and then worked hard to make it yield. As she gathered rosemary from a phenomenally large bush, Giovanna pointed out the coop where the ducks and chickens were kept and explained that because they eat all the fallen apples, pears, and figs, their flesh has a distinctive fruity taste. The Chessas raise their own pig every year, too, but it had already been slaughtered by the time I arrived and reincarnated in the form of salamis and other sausages, including sanguinaccio, made of fresh pig's blood, raisins, milk, pepper, fennel seed, walnuts, and grated chocolate.