In the autumn of 1976, two dear friends and I traveled through Italy for several weeks, spending as much time in small country towns as we did in cities. We explored, excavated, devoured.

Every day we’d pile disheveled out of our car and into a trattoria for lunch. As we were being welcomed and led to a table, I’d notice a shallow ceramic dish of whole baked pears, stems on. Everywhere we’d see them, skins crinkled and shiny in a pool of amber syrup, and I’d wonder how they could be