I booked a tour of a hazelnut farm, based on a blog tip I read. After all, the region is known for its hazelnuts. Supposedly, Fererro Rocher only uses hazelnuts from the area for their famous chocolates. (Nutella, on the other hand, comes from their lesser hazelnut cousins.) Unfortunately, the tour was not quite what we expected.

For one, the agency had assured us that the tour guide spoke English; this was not the case. She knew the word ‘harvest,’ and maybe a handful of other words, which is only 40 words fewer than I know in Italian. Moreover, the tour had been billed as a look at hazelnut growing, harvesting, processing, preparation, and consumption. In fact, the processing and preparation were implied, and the consumption came first, which was unexpected. And, it was a private tour, which would normally be good, but perhaps not when there is such a language barrier.

We had allocated extra time to drive over, because the path was motion-sickness-inducing. So, we found ourselves there early. Their house was small enough that our presence in the front gravel lot was immediately noticed, so someone came out towards us shortly after arrival. We stumbled out of the car, and I inanely proclaimed in Italian, ‘We are early.’ (Yes, I do actually know how to apologize, but this was after hours of trying to understand Italian and an on-the-spot wracking of my brain for the word ‘early.’ Cut me a little slack.) She nodded at this ridiculous statement of fact and introduced herself: her name was the Italians’ very pretty version of Melanie. Then, she told us to come with her. (Assume all communication on her part was in Italian.)

We followed her into an industrial kitchen and, at her urging, put on synthetic white aprons. On the counter were bowls of pre-measured ingredients. She placed a small white paper with an ingredient list written in English onto the counter for us. In a naive attempt to make her feel better about her English, I tried to translate the ingredients in Italian: ‘farina’ for flour, ‘uova’ for eggs, ‘zucchero’ for sugar, ‘cacao’ for ‘cocoa.’ Difficult work, I know.

She indicated that we should measure out the ingredients into a large bowl, using a food scale. This was fairly silly, since the amounts in each ingredient bowl were just barely more than the needed amount, but we persevered. Even the food scale could be reset before each new ingredient, so mental math was unnecessary. B complained that this eliminated the primary reason for his presence. I figured that no one’s presence was necessary for the entire baking process, but I kept my mouth shut. This was further supported by the industrial mixer which did the work of blending the ingredients. Finally, we put the mix into four cake pans, and B licked clean the big bowl.

During all of this, we were attempting to keep up some level of conversation in Italian to ease the awkwardness. ‘Does the order in which the ingredients are added matter?,’ I inquired, though I knew full well that it did not. B is the better baker, I tried to explain, because baking requires precision, and I prefer estimation. B tried to explain that he is responsible for dish-washing, not food preparation, at home. When the sugar was added, B tried to joke that it wasn’t very much, so I shouldn’t even worry about it affecting my waistline. After his attempt to explain fell flat, I tried, with slightly different words. I think that she managed to understand some of it, though I fear she assumed the worrying in question was of a more sexist nature: B putting in less sugar, so that I don’t get fat. I asked about her little, white dog; she had a name that sounded like ah-puttanesca to me, though I’m certain that wasn’t it. I described how we had been staying in Barbaresco previously, and listed each wine type we had tried (which is as boring as it sounds). I found out that she is studying to be a pastry chef, and I pointedly avoided asking about her baby bump, just in case.

While the cakes were in the oven, we tasted some hazelnut pastry concoctions: little balls of cake with Nutella in the middle, nut clusters, nut clusters which seemed more meringue-like, roasted hazelnuts, salted hazelnuts, and the hazelnut cake we were baking. She even gave us plastic flutes with a few sips of Moscato – a sweet, sparkling wine.

We then took the cakes out and piled into her Jeep – dog and all – to drive the 1/4 mile to the hazelnut fields. The harvest was in full swing, with a man who could have been her father riding around on a big tractor thing that suctions up hazelnuts. He went row-by-row, and several other men used leaf blowers to move the hazelnuts in his wake. To me, they seemed to be blowing them out of the way, which did not seem effective, but what do I know? When the tractor container was full, they loaded it onto the multiple-ton truck and continued on.

Our guide’s mother was out there too, covered in hazelnut dust, though I couldn’t figure out what from. One of the men was either our guide’s brother or her boyfriend; the dissimilarity of relationships is not lost on me, but she was using confusing wording. After another confusing conversation about how long the harvest lasts, we proceeded back to the house. Conversation was much diminished, since I had pretty much run out of Italian words that were of any use. (I’m still looking for an opportunity to use the words dusk, drink coaster, mosquito, and citrusy – all of which I have somehow managed to learn.) Back at the house, she wrapped up one of the four cakes for us and wished us well, sending us on our way: more confused rather than less. The cake was decent though.