The Buzz

JUNE 2026

A Note Before We Begin

We weren't able to make a video this week. Between trying to buy a new car the Sicilian way and working on a new project for a subscriber the time just got away from us. Instead you get a lousy newsletter!

But in all seriousness we've been wanting to do this for a long time.

Not the newsletter specifically — just this. A quieter place to talk to you. YouTube is wonderful and we are not going anywhere, but there is something about a video that keeps you at arm's length. The camera is always there. The edit is always there. This feels different. This feels like sitting down at the kitchen table.

So here we are. Two Americans on an abandoned Sicilian farmhouse, six chickens who are currently not speaking to us, 165 vines that are doing whatever they want, and a Hefeweizen fermenting in the corner of the kitchen. Every month we will tell you what is actually happening — the good, the funny, and the occasionally humbling.

Thank you for being here. Genuinely. Whether you found us last week or have been with us since the beginning, the fact that you showed up for this means more than we know how to say.

Let's get into it.

-Beth and Brian

The Chickens Are Running This Place (And They Know It) – Beth

Let me just say upfront: I spent years managing classrooms full of twelve and thirteen year olds. I have seen tantrums, standoffs, and elaborate attempts to avoid doing what they were told. None of that prepared me for six chickens and a rooster.

It started with brooding — Mama, then Molly, then Gerty and Prissy. I broke the first two and felt pretty good about myself. Prissy was not interested in being broken. I tried the ice pack trick. I waited her out. The nesting box is back in the coop, but now everyone is on strike. We were getting one egg per hen per day. We are now getting one egg. Total. Per day. They are aware of this leverage.

Then came Friday. We were heading into town to meet friends and I needed everyone back in the run. Three went in. Reggie went in. Prissy, Mama, and Abigail looked at me and said: no.

For forty-five minutes I chased three chickens around the yard in the Sicilian evening. We tried grubs. A long bamboo cane. We tried reason. We eventually gave up, left the run open, and went to dinner. I checked the camera from the restaurant. By the time we got home, all three were on the roosting bar, perfectly settled, not a care in the world.

They spent the weekend in time out, locked up in the run.

Most of them will still come sit on our laps. After our chase around the yard, however, Prissy walks to the farthest corner of the run when I enter and refuses to make eye contact. But she sits with Brian.

That tells you everything you need to know about Prissy.

The Vineyard – Brian

One hundred and sixty-five vines went in last year. Every single one survived. One hundred Nero d'Avola and sixty-five Syrah, planted in the traditional alberello style — the ancient free-standing method you see across Sicily, each vine its own small tree. They are doing exactly what they are supposed to do, which around here feels like a minor miracle.

Every two days I am out there cutting growth shoots, keeping them in line. They have no interest in being kept in line. The trunks are getting woodier, the arms stronger — no longer groaning under the weight of new growth. Most vines have two arms now, a few have three. It will take a couple more years before they look truly classic but the direction is right.

We have had temperatures around 30 degrees the last couple of weeks and I have not watered once. This is intentional. Stress the roots early and they go deep looking for water. Deep roots are everything in viticulture. So far so good.

The vines keep pushing grape clusters — I find new ones every time I go out. I cut every one of them. It feels wrong, almost cruel, but the energy needs to go back into the trunk and arms, not fruit. Not yet. Next year we harvest.

Whether we make a Rosato or a natural red is still being debated. Loudly.

Beth's Granola

Every morning, almost without exception, Brian and I start the day with a bowl of this. Greek yogurt, whatever fruit is in season, and a handful of granola I make in big batches every couple of weeks. It is one of the small things that makes daily life here feel deliberately good.

The nuts come from our property — almonds and walnuts — which makes it feel more like a farm recipe than a kitchen one. The honey is local. I tried making it once with our own olive oil and the flavor took over completely. Some things are better left to their purpose.

The spice mix is mine and it changes depending on my mood — nutmeg, cloves, cardamom, cinnamon, ginger. It leans warmer and more complex than a standard granola and people always notice.

I always make extra. Here you share — it's simply what you do. You never arrive at a neighbor's empty handed, and you never leave that way either. This is my something to give.

You'll need: 4 cups oats, 1½ cups mixed nuts (we use almonds and walnuts), ½ cup unsweetened dried coconut, ⅔ cup chopped dried fruit, 1 tsp sea salt, ½ cup coconut oil, ½ cup honey, 1 tsp vanilla

Spices: ¼ tsp nutmeg, ¼ tsp cloves, 1 tsp cardamom, 1½ tsp cinnamon, 1½ tsp ginger

Mix all dry ingredients together. Melt the coconut oil and honey, combine with the dry mix. Spread across two parchment-lined baking sheets and press down firmly to compact it. Bake at 300°F (150°C) for 20-25 minutes, flipping and pressing down again halfway through. It should be golden on top — sometimes it needs a few extra minutes. Cool completely before storing. This is important. Don't rush it.

Makes enough to share.

The Honest Part — Brian's Great Hefeweizen Disaster

I bought a Grainfather brewing system during Covid. It has been sitting in our shed in Sicily for two years, still in the box, full of ambition and good intentions. This was finally the month.

First stop was the shed to gather equipment. The mice got there first. They had eaten through every silicone seal on the system — methodically, thoroughly, as if they knew exactly what they were doing. I spent an afternoon tracking down replacements. Found them for 9 euros. Shipping was 24. The mice owed me 33 euros.

Brew day arrived. I loaded the water, fired up the machine, and waited for it to boil. And waited. And waited. Two hours later I discovered there is a small on/off switch at the bottom of the unit. It is not mentioned in the instructions. It is not mentioned in the app. It exists purely, I believe, to humble people like me.

I started again at 3pm. The water heated. The grain boiled. Then the sparging — the final rinse of the grain — took two full hours. Something about sticky wheat. I am not a scientist. By 9pm the beer was finally brewed, everything was cleaned, and I was finished in every sense of the word.

Then I almost forgot to add the yeast.

Without yeast there is no beer. There is just expensive, grain-flavored water. Beth caught it. I will not be thanking her publicly.

The Hefeweizen is currently fermenting in the corner of the kitchen, blissfully unaware of the suffering it caused. We will report back in a few weeks. Assuming the mice don't get to it first.

Coming Up

Hopefully construction starts on our courtyard gate — something we have been waiting on for a long time. And this month we made our first paid member village visit. She knows who she is and her video is coming!