When the mercury soars and the heat sears my clothes to my skin, my mind starts to wander farther than it usually does. This week I’m in southern Italy — mentally, at least. The family budget doesn’t allow for a Mediterranean journey this summer, but with a corkscrew in one hand, a good guidebook in the other and a swimming pool to sub for the sea, I can drink my way from the Amalfi Coast down the heel and toe of the boot, across the slopes of Mount Etna and the rugged hillsides of Sardinia.
For more on this, with my recommendations of southern Italian wines (including a killer Primitivo!), see my column this week in The Washington Post.