Today it was my kitchen, my clatter, my sounds of sizzling sausage that could be heard down below. On the street, people walking could hear and smell the pranzo prepared in my house!
It was a simple meal, requested by my son who came down from his room at around 12.30. “Mamma? What’s for lunch? “Oh, what a beautiful question, what a beautiful moment. Um, well we have some fresh sausage, maybe some tomatoes? His eyes lit up, as he asked “with olive oil and salt?”
My son is a connoisseur of fresh ripe Italian tomatoes. Won’t touch one in the states. But here, he will eat them all, as if a confection of sugar and spice. “And some bread”, he suggested.
And so, we move together to the kitchen, a bright happy space, with a traditional wooden table down the middle, where we sit, and talk, and eat together.
Cutting fresh bread, slicing tomatoes, making myself a bit of peppery arugula salad, placing some milky “bocconcini” into a bowl, and drizzling the small white orbs with oil.
Sausage browning, then spitting bits of fat, letting us know they’re almost done. The simple, delicious, and satisfying meal is complete. We eat, chat about the latest movie on Netflix, and then my dear son retires to his repose. I am happy to be left in the kitchen, alone with the dog. She curled up sleepily under the table, knows all is well and the time for the household to sleep is approaching.
When I used to visit Italian towns, the lunchtime clatter, heard from the street, was long a closed and private matter. Walking on a lonely street in a small Italian town, I could often hear the hushed lunch talk among family, the buzz of the tv, the smell of whatever the mamma had cooked that day. Brodo? Pasta? Grilled zucchini? I could only imagine.
This was a club only open to the local residents. Not for tourists. Oh yes, a jovial host at a local trattoria can make the unknowing visitor feel like they were at a family meal, but the true family meal is reserved for family. No outsiders. On the rare occasions when I have been invited to share a family meal, I am truly honored and know that I am considered like family. And that is a rare experience, one to be cherished.
Always accompanied by a glass of family-made wine, the family lunchtime meal is simple, delicious, and slowly savored by all. Followed by a quiet and peaceful nap.
But this time, it is me that is on the inside. I can see a few wandering and lonely tourists, dallying along on the street, peering into the windows of shops closed solidly for the lunch and afternoon repose.
They will hear my clatter. They might hear a shared chat or a laugh between me and my son, they might smell the sausage browning on the stove.
Yes, this is our secret lunch club, our private inside story, made only for us, shared between only the family and savored beyond the food itself.
And I savor the cherished moments of my son asking for ripe tomatoes with oil and salt. And the world below our window listening, smelling, and wondering what it’s like to be inside.