Home grown in Verona!

After making a pit stop for my first aperitivo in a small inoteca at the foot of the hill of Soave’s medieval castle, we finally arrived at my friend’s house in Verona around 10pm. Before we were fully parked, the door to his house flew open and voice that preceded the shadow in the door way nearly shouted “Ciao! Ciao! Benvenuti! Benvenuti!” A woman with big pearly white smile, who a few seconds later introduced herself to me as “La Mama”, stood at the doorway and instinctively asked if we were hungry. Exhausted from the long journey and still full from the bar food that I greedily stuffed myself with at aperitivo, I couldn’t imagine putting anything else into my body but before I could think of how to politely say “no, thank you” to my host, it was already too late. Two plates full of homemade fettuccini with ragu sauce topped with fluffy fresh Parmesan cheese landed on the dining table. “Vino?”, La Mama, whose real name is Marisa, quickly asked after she had already started pouring unlabeled red wine into a glass.

I quickly realized that the only way I would be able to get to bed that night was if I were to surrender and let Mama Marisa feed us. Not a bad decision to make because Marisa’s ragu was the best I have ever had and my appetite quickly returned. Marisa sat across the dinner table grinning as she watched us enjoying her late night creation. I must admit that it was a bit awkward to be watched while I ate, and especially by a stranger.  But at the same time, without a single word spoken between us, she managed to make me feel nurtured, at ease and welcomed.

Over the next few weeks I spent quite a bit of time helping Marisa prepare our meals. Every morning Marisa gets up at sunrise to have her first cup of coffee before going out to tend her crops. I never actually got up early enough to see what it was that she would do out in the fields but no matter what time I would come down from my room, a hot mocha full of coffee would be ready and waiting for me on the kitchen stove with a small plate of biscotti or toast. Sometimes Marisa would be out digging and pruning in her vegetable garden all morning before she would come back with a basket full of fruits and vegetables, in time to prepare lunch. It was interesting how occupied her time was and yet I never saw her rush, frown or struggle in a hurry to do anything. She smiled and laughed a lot and although I couldn’t tell her age by looking at her, as her skin was smooth and her body was lean and firm.

She loved to talk to me about her fruits and vegetables. And as the Italians use their hands as their main form of communication, they naturally throw their arms around and make various gestures with their hands.  Too they have certain shrugs and make non-verbal sounds when they speak.  That was a good thing, since Marisa spoke to me mostly in dialect.  Little by little, we exchanged stories and had long conversations with help from my Italian-English dictionary and the very Italian hand and arm movements I was quickly learning to mimick. I also learned that Marisa never had to buy vegetables or fruits to feed her family, something that she was extremely proud of.

I could see that she and her husband were happy and passionate people who were proud of their simple and fulfilled life and that they raised their two children with that same passion and contentment. I will turn 36 years old in a month and I still have never met anyone more uncomplicated than Alessandro and Marissa. I feel lucky to have been invited to experience that purity.

JS