Here, There and Back Again

I saw a shooting star the other night; I was standing in front of my grandfather's house, though I have to learn to call it my mother's house now that almost three years have passed since he's been gone. I was standing there, with my neck folded back so I could stare at the Milky Way glimmering above us, hearing the acacia leaves rustle all about when I saw that celestial rush and sparkle past the roof. That very spot is the only place I can still see the Milky Way and every time I stand there in the dark looking up at the heavens I snap right back to when I was a little girl, learning about the universe for the very first time. Decades evaporate before my eyes.

It's been a long time since I wished on shooting stars, or stray eyelashes or any other kind of talismans. I try to make my own luck, don't want to rely on the gods or astronomy for the twists and turns of my life. Lately, I've been trying to focus a little more on living in the moment, zeroing in very closely on how each individual day goes instead of constantly, frantically, looking to the future for the answers. So I remind myself that I am a lucky person: to be alive, to share in the human mystery that is love, to call many places in this world my home, to squirt lemon in my mouth and taste sharp sourness.

I am grateful for the little marinated anchovies my mother and I ate for lunch one day a few weeks ago, especially the ones topped with little cubes of parsleyed carrots. The anchovies were vinegary and sort of sweet, too, and they melted in our mouths.

I am grateful that my mother is happy.

I am grateful that for three to six days a year, I am allowed to lie slothfully on the beach and work on my tan lines and read magazines that proclaim The Return of Fur and revel in the Coolness of Camel Coats, and I'm grateful for borrowed white sandals that make me feel like a little kid again.

I think it's lovely, in this time of instant gratification and international overnight shipping, that I have to go to Italy to eat spaghetti dotted with tiny little clams, so sweet and tender and briny that even the spaghetti tastes infused with the sea. I'll never eat this anywhere else and I like that.

One day I saw a big, beautiful family eating a simple lunch by the beach. I used to be too shy to do anything but stare sort of secretively at this kind of family, hoping no one would notice me looking at them. Now I think life is too fleeting to keep things like that to myself, so I told them how lovely they were and they broke into delighted laughter, all of them. I wish you could have heard it. I wish I could hear it again.

Time goes by slower there than other places. It's good because it leaves lots of room for silly self-portraits, for picking figs, for yelling at the wild deer to scram from the garden, for lavender picking and for finding newborn kittens abandoned in the scrum of foliage across the street.

And then you get impatient and snap at your mother who yells at the cat who slinks away sadly and just like that, the harmony is broken like a guitar string and you feel sort of flushed and awful. Luckily, because that's what I am, lucky, we get over things pretty quickly - we're good at that, we've had to be - and before you know it, I'm back to scratching the cat's chin while I think about what we're having for dinner.

Dinner: melon so sweet it is almost syrup on the plate, and salty slices of prosciutto.
Dinner: arugula from the garden, folded into homemade piadine spread with sour stracchino cheese and eaten with our fingers, oily and hot.
Dinner: grilled tomatoes stuffed with wild fennel-flecked breadcrumbs, charred beneath, juicy and soft within.

I learned how to make ragù di pesce and I promise to teach you how to cook it yourselves very soon, because it is wonderful and you deserve it for being so patient and kind with me while I took August off. I wish I could make it and have you all over for dinner in our garden, with fairy lights strung above us, mosquitoes nipping at our ankles, the crickets keeping us company in the gloaming.

I miss my grandfather and his gnarled knuckles, his dirty t-shirts, his toothy smile. But the house is my mother's now and it is lovely, and her garden has a baby cherry tree growing in it, and this November we are harvesting the olives from the trees he planted so long ago, and she is brave enough to kill the leggy insects that get inside the house herself and I know he's with my grandmother whom he loved more than anything in the whole world, even if they are buried in two different cemeteries, separated by a country road.

My mother taught me to love figs fourteen years ago. We were sitting at the kitchen table in her apartment in Rome and she'd peeled a great big pile of them for me to try, green-skinned ones, and it was hot out and her heart had recently been broken by someone who I'd loved very much. It was a terribly confusing time, but I can still feel the cool fig flesh in my mouth, the surprise of those hundreds of crisp little seeds, the impossible depth of sweetness. She was back in her hometown and I was far away from mine and we were both sad, for the same and such different reasons.

But that was a long time ago and now, when I'm at her house at the right time in August, I can stand below the fig tree, eating fig after fig while looking out into the valley below, planning to teach my children to love figs, too, to eat them only when they're there and not anywhere else so that they stay special.

I hope your summers were corn-filled and sun-kissed, my darling readers. I thought about you a lot this past month, about the faces I know and the many, many more I don't, but whose presence I cherish all the same. I know it seems crazy to say this about thousands of people you've never meant, but you all mean so much to me, more than I can actually put in words and I'm deeply grateful to you, for being here and reading me, year after year.

The next five months are going to be tough ones for me, as I get to the nitty-gritty of writing this book and so I'm going to have to step away more than I would like to. The truth is that writing this blog and writing my book are two sides of the same coin and while I may have once thought, naïvely, that I could do both, the hard truth is that I cannot. I won't be entirely gone: after all, I have ragù di pesce to tell you about and my list of good things to eat in Berlin is almost done, but it will be a little quieter. I hope you understand. I know you will; you all are always far kinder to me than I am to myself.

May your Septembers be full of promise and sliced tomato salads and that special golden light that only comes when the summer ends.

Comments

[Hayley Daen]

I am so happy you are back, if only for a moment. I've missed reading your posts so much that I read every single one of your posts, starting at the very beginning. I'm glad you enjoyed your vacation, and I'm sure you'll enjoy your working journey just as much.

[Tami]

I too was happy to see you have something to share with us! I wish I could say my summer was as magical as yours, but it wasn't. I will hope for next year! And for a magical autumn. I will look forward to future posts whenever you have time for them and will wait patiently. You share so much of yourself, and that is what makes you such a complete joy to come back to over and over again. Happy September! Best of wishes to you as your finish your book!

[charmaine]

Welcome back and thank you for sharing your amazing summer memories with us; I can't wait for the book, so please take all the time you need; yes, I'll miss reading your great posts, but the end result - the book - will be well worth the wait; thank you again for sharing your heavenly month of August with us.

[Lisa]

Best wishes with the writing--I know exactly how you feel. And I look forward to seeing you perhaps in the late winter or early spring, where we'll have to raise a glass to completed manuscripts!

[Vanessa]

Dearest Luisa, I feel lucky to have met you in real life, although a little guilty about not being in touch again or leaving comments. This post touched me in so many different ways, reminding me of how closely linked food, places and memories really are. Thanks for the glimpse into Italian life, so wonderful to discover through your eyes. I have a trip booked for Venice at the end of October and hope to find the same inspiration. Take care and good luck with everything.

[Brian]

i really enjoyed these words + photos, luisa. sounds like a great holiday. welcome back.

[Jen]

You have been missed... Thanks for allowing us to enjoy your little slice of heaven!

[alexandria]

Your words are always so rich, full of life & all the wonder we can come upon especially with food. When you do have time post, it'll be worth the wait I'm sure.

[Caitlin @ Amuse-Bouche]

Welcome back! I've missed you and have eagerly awaited all your wonderful stories and recipes. Good luck in the coming months with writing your book. While you're busy with that, I'll be reading through your archives, anxious to try new recipes in a tiny new kitchen in Manhattan.

[Suzy (foodie in berlin)]

Welcome back! Your post was very moving. Good luck with your book, I am impatient to read it!

[jenny]

ahhhh. even though I was only holed up in boston this summer, somehow your post managed to gather up all the feelings of a beautiful summer anywhere and turn them into something magical. best wishes for the manuscript. I am deep into my own at the moment and I well know the pain and joy and labor of the writing process. you'll be in my thoughts!

[Lara]

Your words convey such generosity of spirit. Thank you for opening a window into la dolce vita and I look forward to the book.

[Raquelita]

Oh, you're back! I've been checking in since September 1st, hoping and hoping to find you well-rested and happy. Welcome back, I'm so glad to hear you are both of the above.

All the very best with the book. We'll miss you while we wait but we'll be waiting eagerly and right beside you through the process. It will be worth it.

[kelly]

We've never met, but I know in my heart of hearts that you are a kindred spirit. Only the best of best wishes to you as you burrow in for the sake of the written word. See you on the other side!

[Heena]

So glad you're back and that you had such a beautiful time.. Your writing is inspiring - it always brings me such pure pleasure to read your stories.

[Lucy]

So glad you had a good summer and break from writing- everyone needs a summer holiday. Your post has really reminded me to follow your example and celebrate the day to day pleasures. I've lamented how 'busy' this summer has been- but you've helped me to see that now as a blessing.

And as Tami said- thank you for sharing so much of yourself. You are so genuine, and such a vivid writer that I'm sure your readers will, like me, just be happy to read whatever you have time to post.

[Ann B]

Welcome back, even briefly. OF COURSE we support you, and the time you'll be investing in your book - we all want to read it!

We are lucky to have you in our lives, whenever you choose to stop by.

[G00blar]

Thanks, Luisa.

[jana]

as always, you put it in words better than anyone else. and the italian photos are beautiful, too. i wish you great luck with your book!

[Claire]

Thank you, once again, for your beautiful and touching words. La vie est belle, malgré tout. All the best

[janet in nc]

a lovely return and ode to summer, your creative juices are restored, thanks for a glimpse of your literary finery, now cook that book! ciao for now

[margie]

Don't feel bad about spending time away - just be happy that you are able to spend your time away doing something so exciting as writing a book!

We're all happy for you - and your holiday in Italia looks beautiful. Nothing says the seaside in Italy like that plate of spaghetti alle vongole - I can taste it just looking at the photo.

[Molly]

I love this post so much, friend. It's full to bursting. It's so you.

Go write that book, and don't worry about us! xoxo

[Siri]

Such a beautiful post. - living in the moment :). thanks for reminding me.

Best,
Siri

[Zoomie]

Welcome back. Glad you had a rest and a change. But I'm sorry your Granddad is gone - he sounds like a lovely man. What did you do with the abandoned kittens?

[Catherine]

Oh my goodness,

I just got back from a stint abroad in Bologna, and when you mentioned the piadine and stracchino, I just melted. Of all the dishes I miss, stracchino melted inside a warm piadina is probably the one that I miss the most. Were you in Romagna? The pictures reminded me a lot of the seaside near Rimini where I used to go.

[Brettnr]

Beautiful post, from a beautiful woman nside and out. I want to try those figs someday...

[Denise McClean]

I'm new to your blog and I love it. beautiful writing and this post was especially wonderful. Tonight's dinner was fresh corn with a salad of New York state tomatoes, a wonderful blue cheese, crispy romaine and leftover bbq brisket. Your blog inspires me!

[SB in SB]

thank you for reminding me how beautiful life is, although so much of the beauty is fleeting. it imprints upon us nonetheless and builds layers of rich memories that shape us into who we are and provide comfort and ground us as we soldier on. i've just hit a particularly tough patch, after a very similar and wondrous holiday in Europe. let me just say that your post allowed me to eat virtually one of those figs in your grandfather's yard and marvel about the sweetness in life, and even recognize that sometimes the sweetness can be found in the sadness too. hearts do heal and your post certainly helped. thank you and good luck to you in the coming months. we'll be here waiting for you and cheering you on.

[carole]

you know, even short posts are much appreciated... it's always exciting to see that there's a new post from the wednesday chef in my rss reader.

[notyet100]

welcome back,..

[Leah]

Oh you write so wonderfully I feel like I'm right there with you. I look forward to reading your book in due course.

[Aline]

I loved this post so much. Not only do I love your photos and your writing, I also have made a lot of the recipes you write about.

You made me want to buy a house in Italy with a fig tree and olive bushes in the garden.

Now - where can I pre-order your book?

[Lorie]

From someone who knows... be kinder to yourself, and trust the proven instincts that are SO evident in your eloquent writing. I'm not sure what the pull of Europe has (having had the pleasure of living there for three short years) but it's definitely a pull that is rich, deep... and flavorful! Much luck with your new book!

[CCP]

What a beautiful post: full of warmth, love, and poetry. You've evidently had a life full of blessings; may you have many, many, more.

[Emily]

Thank you. That was beautiful and inspiring, gastronomically and otherwise.

[Katharine (Meal Muse)]

Not to completely take away from your theme of "gratitude" and "staying in the moment", but...I want your life! Those Bialetti's all in a row remind me of my four months in Firenze. Sigh...where does the time go?

Thanks for being inspiring.

[Nuts about food]

It was great to see you are back. Great to see you had a wonderful summer in Italy (Tuscany? It was so familiar, the pictures and foods of a vacation I spent in Elba a few weeks ago. The photographs on my blog are of raw anchovies and delicious spaghetti alle vongole too...). Great to see the Chinotto one of my dearest friends produces in one of your first pictures! I will send him a link immediately. Of course we will be patient, your book is important. It will just be really nice to discover a new post again every now and then.

[Katharine @ agirlinmadrid]

A beautiful post, thank you. I hope that you make sure, between pages, to also enjoy the special September light.

Katharine
agirlinmadrid.com
gastronomy and everyday life in Spain

[Ariana]

I am somewhat new to your blog, but still feel like I connected deeply with your reflections. I appreciate the eloquent reminder to think of today, this moment. To come out of my shell and share what I enjoy with others, and to tell them how beautiful they are. I love it. Best wishes for fullness and productivity in the upcoming season.

[Jill]

I was so happy to turn on my computer this morning and see you're back! Your post was beautiful. It took me right back to Italy, to long, leisurely meals with friends, laughter and delicious food. I wish you much success in the coming months, as I wait patiently for your posts, each of which is like a bonbon that I can take a moment to enjoy! Ben tornato!

[Aylin]

This post made me teary-eyed. We share having a special summer place that erases the decades, only mine is in Cesme, Turkey. We also have plenty of fig trees! Good luck on your writing journey. xo

[Caitlin]

Such a beautiful, lyrical post. I look forward to your posts over the next 5 months, even if they are far apart, and wish you the best of luck with your book. I eagerly anticipate reading it in the next year.

[Amanda at Enchanted Fig]

Thank you. For all the loveliness, for the talk of figs so perfectly, for reminding us who are attempting to write books that there is only so much creativity, and to work hard, but spend it wisely.

Blessings on your venture.

[Dana]

I am reading this just as I am about to put my oldest on the bus for his first day of kindergarten. It is a terribly rainy and gray day and I am feeling the deepest of melancholy. Thank you for showing so much beauty and for effortlessly expressing your kindness. I have long enjoyed your blog and look forward to hearing more from you, whenever that may be.

[BB]

I just started reading your blog. I really enjoy what you write, recipes, and photos. Thanks so much

[angela Stephens]

that was so beautiful, thank you for sharing.

[Sophie]

Thanks for dragging me away from my office in rainy old England to the sunshine of Italy for a little while!

[Sarah the Bear]

Welcome back precious. That toast was good, but not nearly as satisfying as reading your work.

[Kasey]

What a beautiful post, Luisa! I loved all of the pictures and I can totally relate to your mother's love of figs. Best of luck with the book--stop by here when you can :)