Free In Maremma by David Leavitt Page A

chocolate in Pitigliano.’ The names on the headstones were the same in both towns.”
    That neither of us had ever been to Hershey surprised some of the older residents of Semproniano, for whom Hershey was “America.” At first the Sempronianini had gone to work in the city’s quarries; later, these immigrants built the chocolate factory that would employ more immigrants. Soon Hershey became known in Tuscany as the Perugia of America. And the Hershey connection persisted. Rosaria recalled that her grand-mother,
who worked at the chocolate factory, used to return every few years bearing an umbrella filled with Hershey’s Kisses. It was the shape of the sweet that impressed Rosaria when she was a girl, not the taste; at Signora Idia’s gelateria, after all, you could get chocolate ice cream made with unpasteurized sheep’s milk. “So rich! Of course you can’t make it now. The law.” As a doctor, she had to approve of such regulations—and yet: “You should have tasted it. So cremoso . Really, you haven’t tasted ice cream at all until you’ve tasted ice cream made from unpasteurized sheep’s milk.”
    Â 

    Sempronianino in Hershey, Pennsylvania
(from Samprugnano 1900—1963: Storie e Figure )

    One year Alfred Pellegrini, the son of Maremman immigrants and the owner of Alfred’s Victorian Restaurant in Middletown, Pennsylvania, led a tour of Hersheyites to Semproniano. They took cooking lessons at the Locanda la Pieve and ate every night at a different restaurant. The tour concluded with a dinner at Pina’s, which we witnessed from our usual table by the fireplace. As each course was brought to the table, Pina would describe it to Mr. Pellegrini, who would then translate, for although most of their parents and grandparents came from Tuscany, few of them spoke Italian.
    When the acqua cotta arrived, Mr. Pellegrini entered into a reverie about his grandmother, who had become angry at him when he had written in his cookbook that as a child he had always hated acqua cotta. The memory of his grandmother evidently touched Mr. Pellegrini deeply, for as he spoke of her his eyes grew moist. Pina, meanwhile, not realizing that his speech had long since moved beyond matters of gastronomy, kept interrupting to remind him that the spinach was organic.
    Another incident stays with us. Although Giampaolo’s father was the concertmaster of one of the orchestras of RAI (Radio Audizioni Italiane), his and Pina’s own musical tastes ran to jazz and sometimes reggae. After a couple of hours of Bud Powell, the people from Hershey indicated that they wanted Italian music for their last night. “Dean Martin!” an older member of the group shouted hopefully, which led Giampaolo to pull out the olive crate in which he kept his cassettes. With assistance from a few of the women, he sifted through them.
    â€œAny Caruso?”
    â€œâ€˜O Sole Mio’?”
    â€œHow about ‘That’s Amore’?”

    â€œWho’s Bob Marley?” one of the women asked, picking up a cassette.
    â€œA rap singer,” answered her friend, who was wearing a brown cloche.
    Giampaolo continued to sift. Maurizio Pollini playing the Chopin études, Victor de Sabata, Buddy Holly . . . It turned out that he did not own a single tape of Italian songs.

    That same weekend—it was the beginning of porcini mushroom season—we went back to Il Mulino for Sunday lunch. At a nearby table sat four American men who, as it turned out, were also from Hershey, although not affiliated with the group from two nights before. After we helped translate Pina’s recitation of her menu, we got to talking with them: they were on a tour of Italy in search of relatives. Only after lunch was over did we exchange names. “Scott Reese;” one of them said, holding out his hand.
    â€œReese as in the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup?” we queried.
    His