Mamma Mia

 

I finally figured out what I want to be when I grow up.

It only took me four decades, 11 moves, 5 states, 5 years of college, 1 husband, and 2 kids to do it. 

I want to be an Italian grandmother.

I know, I know. No need to state the obvious, since I am not Italian, nor I’m I married to one.  And genealogically speaking, on both sides, I’m as English as English comes; but I still can’t stomach stout filled pints, Prims, or pies with organ meat stuffed into to them.  I don’t like rain, trench coats, royal watching, fog, or those ridiculous fascinator’s English people wear to weddings. 

What I do love are figs, capers, rich cheeses, wine, sundresses and three hour lunches.  I like to move, not with great purpose to get somewhere, but with great curiosity to find the purpose in the commonplace.

            Sometimes, in the evenings, when I am taking a can opener to a 14 ounce of Hunt’s stewed tomatoes and snapping my Winn Dixie brand spaghetti in half so it’ll fit in the pot while listening to the sounds of doors slamming and pre-teen fighting, I can’t help but yearn for the salty taste of paper thin prosciutto, the heady smell of orange blossoms, and the sweet sound of children’s laughter.

            On occasion, I will spend an entire Sunday in the kitchen nurturing my fantasy.  I will simmer my sweated pearl onions in garlic and white wine sauce for an hour before I even toss them into my homemade tomato sauce that’s been slowly bubbling since dawn.  I will cut, with love and military precision, my own tagliolini made from dough of farm fresh eggs, organic flour, and the finest of virgin olive oil. It will not matter when I sit down with family and friends at our outdoor table draped in heirloom linens and lined with tea candles and carafes of Chianti when someone salts the food before they taste it.  I will not be deterred when someone proclaims they hate tomatoes and then asks for ketchup.  And even after one of my angels refuses sauce on top of her pasta then politely declines to eat it because it resembles snot, I will smile over my wine and think of lemon trees, wandering goats, sea salted breezes, and olive groves.

 

I will simply image a time and place where my children will bring their children and their friends and their children over every Sunday.  I will rise early, feed the chickens, pick the tomatoes off the vine, stir my eight hour Ragu and decant the red table wine from an earthen jug outside in the garden.  We will dine for hours under the shade of an old cypress tree on fresh cheeses, mussels, figs and berries.  There will be no iPads, Dsi’s or shouts for extra TV time; only kissed cheeks, salutes, and everyone calling me “Mamma.”  Because we will eat, we will drink, we will tell stories, and we will be grateful for all that we have; the simple pleasures and, of course, each other.

 

An old lady can dream, right? 

           

And it will not bother me aging and weathering in the salty air of the mediterrean sea like an aged grape- nope, not in the slightest, since we cannot all look like Sophia Loren- the deep wrinkles, the course gray hair, the unending aches and the pains of tending to a lifetime of lush gardens because I will have lived la dolce vita- the good life.

            Y’all may be wondering about now why and when I came to this epiphany after all these year?  Why I suddenly figured out what I wanted to be and how I would like to grow old.  Most people fantasize about writing a novel, climbing the world’s largest mountains, traveling to outer space or discovery something unknown and new and life altering- a cure for cancer, the fountain of youth.  But to aspire to become an Italian grandma?  Why in the world-and how, exactly- does someone hope to become that?

            It was simple, really, like any great meal; a few ingredients tended with love.  It just happened to occur one morning over a crock pot where I usually threw them all in and hoped for the best.  And what I got out of this magic post-war invention that saves time, money, and energy, was usually pretty darn good.  And I felt I sense of accomplishment; coming home, removing the lid, and dishing something out. 

But like life, easy isn’t always best.  Simplicity, yes.  But short cuts? No.  Because there is so much you miss in between. 

There is an old saying in Italy that goes something like this: A tavola non si invecchia.  At a table with good friends and family, you do not become old.

Italian grandmother or not, I wholly concur.

Buon Appetito! Let’s all take the time and enjoy the simple pleasures that come from enjoying the meal of life.