Writing about the world through a local lens

I planned this trip for two years - a gift to my mother for her 60th birthday - and was finally standing in a lemon grove in Cortona, breathing in the fresh Tuscan air. Tomorrow we would meet Alessandra Federici, a passionate businesswoman who opened up a cooking school - not in a culinary classroom - but in her kitchen.

She arrived on a Vespa. “An Italian kitchen is a poor kitchen, so make do with what you have,” Alessandra began her lesson over cappuccinos. Taking a few, simple, seasonal ingredients and preparing them with the right techniques was an approach to cooking that would make MacGyver proud.

And what about the ingredients? We were off to find them. First to the alimentari where we picked up fresh eggs, butter, and other staples. Next to a small produce market lined with freshly picked bins of local harvests. Finally, up a steep cobblestone street to the macellaio where the butcher sliced prosciutto, cured in the back of the shop, in to thin, pink slivers.

Alessandra’s kitchen was small and had the markings of a busy and loving mom - pictures on the refrigerator, dishes in the sink, and kitten waiting to be fed. There wasn’t a cookbook or piece of fancy equipment in sight. It was simple and filled with love.

Our meal took all day to prepare. It was a slow and intimate process that required the type of patience most Americans lack, but left you feeling deeply connected to the food. “Be patient,” she advised. “Rushing is never a good thing. These ingredients need time to blend and melt in to each other.” This was lesson number two.

She was right; the food was beyond divine. But with all the day’s culinary learnings, it wasn’t the food that helped me understand Italian culture better. At Alessandra's table we shared family stories and political opinions, and we connected. That is the center of Italian life! “Food is important,” Alessandra proclaimed in her final lesson. “But the essential is to share it with pleasure and mostly with friends.”