The Inner Workings

The succulent sight of fresh, hand-rolled cannelloni, lightly bathed in authentic Italian marinara, was pressed down upon the platter as my family gathered around the table. The instantaneous smell of any sort of pasta was an immediate sign that dinner was on the table, which also meant that we all had to stop what we were doing, sit down, and “mangia.” This is what I loved about the culture I’d decided to surround myself within. The simple intimacy of it all.

But aside from the culture itself, food was always the main beneficiary as to why I’d chosen to spend my foreign exchange year in Italy, at seventeen years old. The pasta, the pizza – we’ve heard it all. The television commanded that genuine food derived from our forefathers across the waters, and I’d always tactfully wanted to challenge whether or not the rumors were true. And oh, were they true.

From the rich risotto to the temptress that is tiramisu, the Italian mindset is to constantly spread happiness from the depths of a full stomach. I must have gained at least fifteen pounds since my arrival in this strange country, but the fact that I regretted nothing meant that I was very much content eating the food that was blissfully presented to me on a daily basis.

Though, it was not only the food that I was content about. It was the way in which Italians perfected their time at the table. On some occasions, it was the only hour in which the family truly got to spend together due to busy schedules. Yet, on other occasions, it was a lack of communication that was patched through the arrangement of a tiramisu for dessert. Regardless, Italians had this way of mending friendships, and connecting families, through the art of a well-polished meal. And I’d loved that about them.

The fork dipped itself into the pasta, pressing back up against my palate as a wave of flavor and intensity perused my mouth. "Buonissimo!" I'd responded, a simple Italian gesture meaning 'delicious.' And it always was.