Sometimes life is a romcom. This was an "Under the Tuscan Sun" year for me. I had plumbing problems. In her charming but ramshackle villa in Tuscany, Diane Lane confronted an ornate, centuries-old, bone-dry spigot. In my case, my well was becoming more unreliable with each shower. And no one seemed to know the well’s location. Each day new theories emerged as friends, tradesmen and neighbors called upon their collective memory for clues to the well’s whereabouts. Naturally, I found my life revolving around these relationships. Folks stopped by for coffee while I was still in pajamas. They wandered over around dinner time, working up an appetite digging in likely locations. But I couldn’t eat. I was too depressed. I couldn’t cook. I was conserving water. Then, one day, they found it. (Queue Paolo Conte’s "Via Con Me” — "it’s wonderful, it’s wonderful, it’s wonderful good luck!”)

Suddenly, I am craving Italian, so I head to the bar at Ports of Italy in search of Kathleen Sheehan. Regulars are greeted by Jeff Teel as we blow in from all directions, slightly disheveled and ready to wind down. At the bar, Kathleen is perfection, dressed head to toe in vibrant red, mixing cocktails.  Sinatra sets the mood. For me, it’s always the same existential crisis at Ports. I crave the Pasta Alla Norma, but the special of the day tempts me. Outside it’s cold and dark, so I order a Cosmopolitan instead.

There’s no such thing as dining alone at Ports. You can arrive solo, but soon you are warming to the party. I meet Emily Cleveland, who has followed her compass to Boothbay for the winter, quickly joining the ebb and flow — flusso e riflusso — at Ports. Her story includes a dog named George, a wooden boat, and words of encouragement from Kurt Vonnegut. Here she sits across from Kathleen, whose own journey led her in search of a place to settle down and figure things out. Kathleen rolled into town in 2011 in her beloved Volvo, Tina Turner on the radio. She got a job at McSeagulls and never left. She met and married Pete at his childhood home, the garden perfumed by hollyhocks and delphinium. Kathleen’s father walked her down the aisle but could not persuade her to indulge in a pre-wedding lunch at Dunton’s Doghouse. Wedding guests and friends turned into regulars at Ports, each with a favorite aperitivo. For one, Kathleen now keeps on hand the ingredients for a Basil Simple — Thai basil, fresh lemon juice, silver tequila, and limoncello. Another will drop by as it gets colder for a hot toddy of whiskey, fresh lemon juice, honey, and cinnamon stick topped with hot water.

Tonight there are still appetizers to come — a great Affettato, a plate of creamy Burrata. There will be Pasta Alla Norma. (It was always going to be Pasta Alla Norma.) Before we close the tab, Kathleen will offer shots of Limoncello and Grappa. We look up recipes for homemade Limoncello. We share contacts. Some of us flirt with the idea of celebrating New Year’s Eve at Ports with champagne and Pappardelle with Duck. Reluctantly, we head out into the night.

Outside, my breath smokes in the air. A man walks his dog across the footbridge in the light of the moon. I think of greeting him "Che bella luna!” Instead I say “Cold.” He nods. At the bar, Kathleen will switch the playlist to Tina Turner. Then she will head home to share a plate of gnocchi with Pete. I will turn on the tap for a hot bath, thinking how like Italians we are living here on the coast of Maine.

Homemade Limoncello

Peel some lemons creating long strips of peel.  Introduce the peels to vodka in a quart jar. Let them get acquainted undisturbed for at least four days and up to a month.  Strain in a glass container.  Mix one cup water and one cup sugar in a saucepan and simmer until sugar dissolves.  Cool the simple syrup and combine with infused vodka.  Adjust to taste and chill before serving.