Our little troop has found itself in Italy this week for the Toussaint holiday – delightful Florence and tantalizing Venice – and both are feasts for the senses.
Italy is a place that hasn’t dangled in my imagination as much as other places but it’s hard to deny its romanticism. We took our honeymoon in Positano and Rome twenty years ago and became lost in Italy’s beauty and charm.
When we asked our sons where they wanted to go on their holiday break, each answered, “Anywhere we can eat pizza and pasta”. So here we are, 500 km from Mougins flitting about the countryside on a TrenItalia high speed train.
I will be the first to admit, this country is simply gorgeous – steep jagged mountains along the border with Switzerland, breathtaking canals with ornate bridges and grand palaces rising overhead, the immense Duomo in Florence. The art, the culture, the history. It’s all even better than I remembered.
All, but one thing –
I’ve discovered that the Italians – I will speak here of the northern ones as I don’t remember this in the south – don’t seem to salt their country bread.
I know…shocking.
We sat for our first lunch at a trattoria along the Piazza dei Pitti, the once palatial home of the Medici family. We were giddy with hunger – it was a hot day with full sun and expectedly crowded in Florence. The children had, according to their telling of it, been on a forced march around the historic district (we call it exploring, obviously they don’t agree) and we were all ready to dig in.
The server set down a basket of fluffy white bread and we pounced. How great was this? In Florence, eating Italian food! One bite into that dense blissful thick slice with a touch of fine olive oil and…
Wham! Dead stop, mid bite.
Hmm…there’s not much salt.
Wait, no salt at all?
Ahh…no salt!
I wanted to believe that I was wrong. I desperately tried bites of all the other pieces in the basket. I threw each one back with the rest…a disappointing mass of flour, yeast, and water. No salt!
I felt like a child tricked into taking a spoon full of foul medicine on the auspices of it being sugar. Petulant, defiant I crossed my arms across my chest and slumped in the seat. No salt.
At the next restaurant and the next one. Country bread, no salt. We ordered bruschetta and I quickly scraped off all of the tomato tartare to get to the bread. Small bite…no salt! Unfathomable.
I have struggled with the question of no salt now for almost a week. With some relief I have found salt in some of the Venetian focaccia and small loaves. Luckly salt in the challah and fresh pita in the Jewish Ghetto. But still…the country bread? No salt.
No salt is a mistake I have made before. Patiently, I labor coaxing the dough along for hours, or in the case of sourdough for days. Proudly, I take these warm colorful loaves out of the oven appreciating their decadent scent. Impatiently I wait for them to cool and then one disappointing taste – no salt! – and I throw it all away. Not having salt is a fatal error…not a recipe.
My son finally pointed out an acceptable rationale for these Italian bread-like imposters.
“Momma,” he said, “I think it’s because in France the bread is the star. It stands alone. In Italy the bread is the vessel, the backdrop.”
His wisdom was spot on and consoled me in my weary quest to understand.
The vessel stands in the background, patiently escorting the primary flavors to the palate. It needs not the glory of the moment, as much as it proudly powers the ensemble. There is some beauty in that role, some honor and dignity to be sure.
It made me stop and appreciate where I choose to be the vessel in my own life – unsalted, patient, behind-the-scenes for all the brilliant flavors of the people I love. It is a role that as a mother and wife, I wear not infrequently.
Yet, the contrasting role is also critical for a full life. There are times when I enjoy standing distinctly for myself – seasoned to perfection…sometimes spicy, sometimes sensuous – but steady and commanding.
Neither is better or worse, really. Just different phases of the lives we lead. We trade each role as we move through the course of our days, and often don’t even see it happening.
Sometimes I shame one role or the other: I criticize myself when I am too invisible or small and feel embarrassed if I am too dominant. The key, as always, is balance. Being comfortable with both the yin and the yang, honoring whichever shows up.
But for now, exploring this country of beauty, romance, art, and food – I think I’ll just stick with the pasta.
Baci,
Hanna
40 Weeks in France 