Roots and Panini

Bologna: Yup, That's the Italian Dictionary

I’m Italian. By most standards I’m actually a mutt – a quarter Italian, a quarter Russian, and a half mixture of German, Dutch, English, and a bit of hazy after that.  But of all the wonderful cultures that grafted themselves together to yield my family tree, I'm convinced that my Italian roots have a direct sap-line to my heart. Growing up my sisters often remarked about my olive insta-tan skin and my inclination to communicate through food. In college I enrolled in Italian 101 and studied in Bologna for a five-week language intensive program. Five years later, my mother (who is half Italian), took our family on a two-week trip to Tuscany in a splurge of generous exuberance. I soaked up every ounce of it like a dry sponge thrown into the ocean. Even now, seven years since, I catch myself deciphering how to say something in Italian. It doesn't sound as pretty from my lips as it once did…but I want to make sure it can still be done. The older I am, the stronger the kinship I feel to the homeland of my great-grandparents. But it’s more than the country itself that enraptures me. It’s the mindset, the values, the nuances of BE-ing Italian. In many ways, my homestead way of life echoes and encourages similar points of view. And, of course, there’s the food...which is much more a way of life than merely a source of nourishment. To which I say, “Exactly!”

Lately, I've been reading the book Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. I know it’s a Hollywood hit, but the book came highly recommended (and very dog-eared with use) from my mom. In this true story turned bestseller, the author is seeking inner healing and self-discovery during a year-long journey to three countries. Thus far in my reading she’s made it to her first destination -- Italy. I’m fully aware there are two more countries to explore, but I’m so sucked into these pages that I’m not sure I want to turn the next page and leave this country! In a eureka moment for me, Gilbert mentions the Italian philosophy l’arte d’arrangarsi. The literal translation would be something like, “the art of arranging things”. But Gilbert’s cultural definition reads, “the art of turning a few simple ingredients into a feast, or a few gathered friends into a festival. Anyone with a talent for happiness can do this, not just the rich...” As I read these words, it was as if my Italian roots drank them in and I blurted out,
“Yes! That is me!”

“To turn a few simple ingredients into a feast” has been my unofficial lifelong creed. I was constantly in the fridge or pantry as a kid. My mom to this day tells people that when I was growing up I would put a crust of bread, some ketchup, and a pickle together and create a gourmet sandwich. She may be a bit biased, but she's certainly not a liar. The truth is I wasn't trying to do anything novel or grandiose, I just loved food. As odd as it sounds, food made sense to me…and I got special satisfaction in sharing it with others. Looking back I see the writing on the wall, but at the time I never thought much about it. I never considered a food-related career nor even talked much about my affinity for the kitchen or for gatherings around the table. But the "friends into a festival” thing was very much in there, as well. The fact that today I attempt to raise most of my food, to eat local REAL ingredients, to savor even the simplest of concoctions, to find pleasure in the little things, and try to make people eat whenever they come to my house has GOT to go back to my heritage.

And so…as I sat on my living room carpet for lunch on Saturday afternoon, I had before me a panini so delicious that I stopped. I thought a second about this simple meal. A home-raised, home-processed pastured juicy chicken breast -- simply cooked with salt, pepper, and garlic powder. A generous smear of homemade pesto from last year’s garden and a dollop of slightly sweet yellow tomato chutney canned by my husband’s aunt from her garden’s bounty. All this was topped with local Kenny’s Farmhouse Colby cheese and melted to a perfect cohesion with crusty organic bread baked by local friends of ours at Au Naturel Farm. Even the dill pickle on the side was from our canning pantry. I only paused long enough to snap a photo between mouthfuls. I looked at Weldon with a lumpy-cheeked grin and said, “l’arte d’arrangarsi”.

Bellisima...Siena

So if I talk with my hands a little too much, hug you a little too often, emote a little too openly, stand a little too close, or shove food in front of you as soon as you walk in my door, just chalk it up and say to yourself, “She’s Italian.” (And then mangia, of course!)