How to Eat Like an Italian

First, slow down.

Remember that time is not of the essence. Relationship is of the essence. Flavor is of the essence. Sabbath is of the essence. And, when in Italy, each meal is a Sabbath snack of community, conversation, and cheese. Baskets of cheese.

Furthermore, every meal extends until the conversation has decided to take a nap, perhaps hours after placing the order. Busyness is no longer the business of the day, and sharing life with a loved one over a cup of melted chocolate, or lasagna for breakfast, matters more in those few hours than anything else.

Second, eat with a small spoon.

Bigger is not always better. When inhaling dollops of stracciatella gelato, for instance, the smaller the spoon, the longer the enjoyment. The taste buds will experience flavor despite spoon size. A smaller spoon ensures a decreased dwindle rate of the aforementioned dollop. So, it follows that, to savor is to small spoon. To rush is to big spoon, but to savor is to small spoon.

Third, finish one bite before beginning the next.

Multi-tasking has never been a peaceful activity for me. Consequently, my performance level decreases as the number of activities I undertake increases. I cannot be fully present, nor can I fully enjoy my life when I do not pursue one focus at a time. In the same way, my taste buds cannot be fully present for each individual taste if forkfuls of fusilli are shoveled in my mouth in rapid succession. Each flavor is experienced more deeply when allowed to express herself as an individual (And yes, flavors are female).

And finally, always have dessert.

Always.

***

I jotted these rules down in my mental composition notebook while stranded overnight in Rome’s airport. My first flight out of three had been cancelled due to weather, and therefore I had already missed the next two. I was alone in a foreign country, exhausted, about to be in trouble with Pepperdine for missing too many classes, broke. My computer, the only communication method available to me, was dying, and my charger did not adapt to European outlets. I couldn’t speak Italian, and I couldn’t get home.

So, I cried. I brushed my teeth in the men’s room just for fun, I wrapped myself in several layers of dirty clothes to stay warm, and I cried. Once that didn’t get me home, I prayed.

And then a bottle of Dewar’s scotch-whiskey taught me a lesson I will never forget.

Now, I didn’t drink the stuff. No, but I walked past a case of it in some duty-free shop or other, and the advertisement read, “Some things are just worth doing.”

Some things are just worth doing.

To be honest, I’m not sure such a worthy message deserves to be plastered across a whiskey bottle. However, for me, for that moment, it made sense. Some things, like my spontaneous trip to Italy, are just worth doing – even when they end in rerouted flights and fifteen hour layovers and arriving home five minutes after 8 a.m. mandarin class. I learned to eat (and live) like an Italian, I fell in love with hot chocolate all over again, I swam in the Mediterranean, I scaled the terraces of Cinque Terre and remembered how to rest and play and be in relationship. Furthermore, because I missed my first flight, I was able to see the Coliseum through the window of my taxi as I transferred from train station to plane station. I was able to converse with my taxi driver, who would exclaim “Mamma Mia!” after learning everything China strange. I was able to meet an angel who gave me money when I had none, who said to me, “You tell your mother that there is a mom here looking out for her daughter.” I was able to learn a life lesson from a scotch-whiskey bottle.

Some things are just worth doing.

And so I boarded my new plane from Rome to Paris, Paris to Shanghai, listening to Hot Chelle Rae’s single “I Like it Like That” on repeat. Because, in the end, I wouldn’t have it any other way.