Someone once called me “the bad Italian” because I love to cook, but I have little interest in eating much of the food I prepare. In my culture, eating goes far beyond sustenance. It is food that brings together family and friends after a long day. Italians will spend long hours together at meal time, taking their time to enjoy not just the food, but each other’s company as well.
Unlike the drive-through, order-in world we Americans have grown accustomed to and treat as the norm, in Italy it’s recognized as a time to kick back and relax. Here, it’s viewed as a time saver to order in Chinese food and check the food box off our check list, and then pat ourselves on the back for having saved a few precious minutes from the prep time, cooking and cleaning up. Conversely, these people literally forget the world around them and are in no hurry to choke down their food. Rather, they use the time to bond, connect and share. Discussion can start in the kitchen during the cooking process, and then linger over their delicious meals. In our chaotic lives, or at least in mine, I believe there is something to be learned from that.
I was thinking of this recently. I grew up with this as the norm, with my mom cooking every night, and my dad coming home to have dinner with the family. We sat at the table and talked about our days. At the time I often found it annoying, but in retrospect, I am grateful from having grown up that way. I learned so much from this model. I come home almost every night to sit down with my daughters, and this is the time we connect, and share information about our days. It’s amazing what I find out about their lives with this simple sharing of stories, rather than just the cursory, “how was your day,” that frankly would often be so much easier to do. Even if I am exhausted, I cherish this time with them.
I learned how to cook from my mom. She taught me how to make the basics, and that food was an expression of love. As I got older, my fearless nature entwined with her classic techniques. It can be witnessed in my attempts to cook without measuring anything. I tend to like to challenge myself by figuring out what tastes go together and then wing it without tasting it throughout the cooking process to see how it’s coming together. Most of the time, it pays off. Most of the time.
I miss this routine in my life. I used to cook for my husband often, though once we had kids and I was working full time it became harder to do the kind of real cooking I enjoyed except for on weekends. I loved hosting dinner parties because it gave me a chance to go all out. To challenge myself to create innovative menus and meals that I thought would say to my guests, “I’m so glad you are here in my home sharing this time with me.” I would always leave some final work to be done once my guests arrived, because I love how my kitchen is a central gathering place. I cook, and others stand and nibble, drink, and chat.
My dining room is an extension of the kitchen, painted the color of a Tuscan roof. There is a giant mural sized photograph on one wall; a scene from the feast after the Palio held in Siena. On the surface, it features row after row of people dining together, sharing a meal after this grand event. Below the surface, it really shows community, and the heart of the Italian food culture. It’s one of my favorite things in my home.
So, yes, I don’t have a complex palate. I would be really happy eating a yogurt or a good bowl of strawberries and be pretty happy for the rest of my life. But the actual art of cooking, and the creative outlet it provides me, that I fully embrace. And the ability to share that “art” with people I care about, and share time with them catching up on life and laughs - I cherish that.
So if the fact that I don’t love all the food that I make makes me a “bad Italian,” then maybe I should be sleeping with the fishes like Luca Brasi. But while I’m down there, I’ll probably be searching for some shrimp to scampi.
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