Food equals love

Getting cell service in La Citta del Ricordi is impossible. I should have guessed since it’s such a small town. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve crumbled up the map and lost its creases. 

Three days ago I would have been embarrassed running up and down the streets, swerving past residents and climbing a statue of Galileo in the city square just for a single bar of AT&T, but I was desperate.

Finding dad’s old school was all that mattered.

My frustration removed my interest in the charming butcher shops. My senses were dulled. 

I didn’t care about the red-colored vespas that encircled the city’s roundabout. I didn't care about the store window that had scripted stenciled glass saying “all day cobbler services." 

I didn't care about the floral shops that had husbands buy their wives flowers on the way home from work. I didn't care about the 14th century architecture that attested to the city’s history. I didn't care about the aroma of freshly baked bread that filled the city square just in time for breakfas—

 BANG!!

A collision with a pot belly man resulted in a flash of mustard and salami that was cast into the air, and painted his white shirt with speckles of yellow. His wool cap fell off his head, not before I hit the ground and felt a shock to my tailbone. And my phone screen shattered after a quick kiss on the sidewalk.

Both of us took a beat. Then I was hit with “colorful words of expressions” which all agreed were unspoken around children. 

"I am so sorry.” I muttered over and over again as if every time I said it converted English into Italian. The man's shouts drew in a crowd until a neighbor came to my defense.

His tone resembled a sheep as he attempted to calm the inconsolable man with a “slow down” motion with his hands to defuse the situation. 

“Is that a way to treat our guest?,” he said in English for my ears to hear. He whispered to the man and palmed him some cash, “prendi questo and get a new shirt, paisano.”

The money melted away the tension, and I thanked him profusely.

“Why you rushing? You going somewhere?” he asked.

“I’m lost and have been wandering around town looking for a school and I need directions.”

“Show me,” I pulled a picture out of my pocket, faced it down to hide its image, making sure he could read the words of a school I couldn’t pronounce, hoping he would know the way. “I know. I take you there.”

“No, no, I can find my way.” I didn’t want to impose, but my desperation was barely masked and my inner voice was begging him to insist on taking me again. If he were to oblige, I would be eternally grateful.

“Please, you are my guest. I insist.” He held out his hand to guarantee a gesture of goodwill and adventure. “My name is Ignazio.”

The prospect of an adventure made Ignazio happy as a boy finding a gold coin in a river. The shine reflects through the water and glitters from the sun which lures the boy to pick it up. Only after the boy plunges into the cold water does he regret his decision to walk on the slippery, mossy rocks just to pick up a lira. 

Now, that I think about it. Is the boy Ignazio or me?

*

The road through the Italian hills was a painting that continuedly changed every time you glanced the side of your eye. On the side of the road, little rivers trickled down the lush green grass from last night’s rain as the sun heightened the blue hue in the sky.

I rolled the window down and the kiss from the wind’s breeze seemed to offer me sleep after three days of stress. Only Ignazio’s biography kept me awake. He spoke about his town, his history, and misplaced infatuation with a monster named Maria. 

“But father always say: ‘Food equal love.’ No matter trouble or sadness. Food make everything better. Maybe sad later but good food eaten now, give trouble a break. ”

Ignazio tells me his father takes in strays and nurses them back to health. Whether it was animals or humans he didn't say but as I listened, it was clear he mended hearts more than broken bones. 

“Why come to La Citta del Ricordi?” he asked. “Most come to see Italy for Firenze, Rome or Venezia, not La Citta del Ricordi.”

I would have said everything, but something was stopping me. I didn’t feel ready to share my father’s memories. 

“I guess I like small towns.”

We turned the corner, on to a dirt road that led to a closed gate. I got out of the car to take a closer look. My heart dropped at the sight.

The school was a mess. Taggers spray painted its stone wall with purple “artistic” phalac images pissing on the name of the school. Words with letters I couldn’t recognize and dare not ask Ignazio to interpret. The stained glass windows had been shattered with bricks. Papers, which I assume were names of students' and A-plus grades had littered the grounds of the school. The papers caught in the wind, rolled like trash tumbleweeds and embedded in the unkempt bushes. 

I pulled the picture label 1965 on the back. It was dad’s first day of school. He was happy as he stood up straight with his pressed pants, held up by his elastic suspenders. I held up the picture over the school sign like a past and present reflection with 60 years between them.

No one knew 60 years later, this neatly etched entrance carved by a master stonemason would later be defaced like a rat infested homeless shelter in an abandoned town.

It was a memory that was tarnished. 

“Ah, I understand,” Ignazio had seen the picture over my shoulder. “That boy someone special?”

I didn’t want to say, and felt myself holding my breath. The air that was my breath would become words that would reveal the truth and invite another to explore my father’s memories, but standing on that spot and the beats that followed, I couldn’t lie.

“It was my father, and this city was his home.” I buried the picture into my pocket along with the hopes of reconciliation and relief from the grief that I wasn’t there when he died of cancer.

 “It was a mistake to come here. I’d like to go home.”

 Ignazio didn’t say a word, but nodded to acknowledge he understood where I was coming from. 

*

The ride back to town was silent, until Ignazio knew just what to ask.

“Tell me about your father.” 

There was no use hiding. I needed to tell my friend.

“Father said he was always the 'injured gazelle in the jungle of the schoolyard.' The “limping buffalo of the herd” that attracted bullies. He said the meanest, toughest bully at school had a missing finger after trying to hide a lit fire cracker from a parent who came around the corner at his home. Glancing at the hand would be met with a strike to the face.

“Dad had enough and responded with the voracity of a 'maned young lion' that would devour the four-fingered elephant. The school was in a uproar as both exchanged blows. Bloodied, bruised, black-eyed boys took out their frustrations on each other.

“The headmaster pushed away the school children who were cheering on the match like Roman dignitaries at the colosseum and dragged the two boys to his office.

“They sat arms crossed, bleeding, and couldn’t even look at each other. The headmaster’s sentence: a day alone in the classroom while the other students went on a school field trip.

“While the students were counting the zebra’s stripes at the zoo. They were counting tiles on the ceiling. 

"Dad found comfort in the sandwich grandma packed for him. Unrolling the wax paper bag crisped like a Christmas present and the aroma of fresh bread masked the smell of paint that coated the classroom's walls. But it didn’t mask the sound of a rumbling stomach. The bully had no food or anyone to pack his lunch. Father broke a piece of bread and handed it to the bully. After that, the boys were inseparable.”

Who knew breaking bread would be the most defining moment in his life?

“It’s funny, most men would never get the chance to be the best man at their childhood bully’s wedding and witness the wedding band discolor his middle finger because it was too small.”

Without a word, Ignazio drove on to the shoulder of the road and pealed back toward the opposite way of town.

“Come, I take you to my home. You will have the best food in the world. Mama's food so good,” Ignazio closed his eyes and kissed his fingers. “You kill somebody.”

“Do you mean ‘it's to die for?’”

“Yes, to die for.” 

“It was meant to be figuratively, not literally.” My shouts were drowned by the sound of honking horns of oncoming traffic. The inertia plastered my face to the window, which singed from the heat of the sun.

The paved road from the highway rumbled from a smoothness to violent vibrations of a dirt path that led to elsewhere. 

I was baffled when I saw the houses we passed in the neighborhood. They looked familiar until I remembered I had another picture in my pocket. 

The picture had a little boy standing under an olive tree in an orchard. From his perspective, the tree was a regal, majestic tower for birds to perch and a comfortable shady place for a small Italian boy who would one day immigrae to America when he became 19. The tree had bark missing and was etched with childrens’ names and images of hearts. 

“Come. Let me show you my mama and papa.” Before I could respond, he opened the door and pulled me out. He called out to his mama and papa. Mama rushed out from the kitchen, grabbed my face with both hands and kissed my cheeks. 

The back and forth chatter of a language I didn’t know was silenced by the sound of a cane tapping the hardwood floor.

“Buongiorno,” said an old man as he extended his arms to embrace me.

Mama ran into the kitchen as papa called us to the table. I could see the steam rise from the dish as she placed the risotto before me.

The risotto had a creamy color from the bone broth that infused with the cooked rice and bound it together into a silky taste. 

Everything grew from their garden except the black truffles that were imported from France. 

Mama minced the onions and garlic and cooked them into a translucent light crisp. The heat of the pan simmered the white wine into a reduction that converted the alcohol kick into a kiss and layered the risotto with snow flakes of parmesan cheese. 

Mama leaned over and graded a black dusting of truffles, which speckled the white risotto.

I took a moment to look at the people who knew my father and shared his experiences. 

Papa looked on as I tasted the risotto with just the tip of the spoon. Surrendering to a dish is like love. Live in the now, embrace it and experience every moment as if your problems have gone away. 

The initial bursts of herbal and earthy flavors came as it touched your tongue. It was subdued by hints of sweetness from the white wine. It over came you like a blue wave and settled with a sweet aftertaste like the ocean seeping into the sand. Every spoon was like the sea.

All I could do was smile and chuckle. I would consider this a universal action that was capable of transcending words. Papa patted me on the shoulder with his left hand, having only four fingers. “Bene. Molto bene.”

A smile for thank you.

A chuckle for closure.

And food for love.